Paint Me Beautiful Read Free

favorite armchair, a big, green, holey piece of work that's been in this house since before I was born. He glances up at me and smiles.
    “ How did it go?” he asks as he pries himself away from his newest murder/mystery novel and focuses his brown eyes on mine. I don't catch his gaze; I can't. My dad has this horrible habit of being able to read people. It's almost like he can sense honesty by looking into a person's eyes. He's caught me in dozens of lies over the years. From big to small, Big Bob sees it all. It's one of his favorite sayings and cheesy as it is, it's true.
    “ They'll call me,” I say as I let my own gaze swing up the stones of the fireplace, travel to the vaulted ceilings and the knotty pine. My parents have a thing for country twang as my mom calls it. Lots of exposed wood, brown leather, and animal heads. The elk that hangs over the mantel stares at me even now, as if to say, I see you, Claire. I shiver. “The line took four hours; the audition took all of five minutes.” I shrug as if I don't care, but in reality, I want to cry. A little bit of rejection is healthy; too much can kill you.
    “ Claire?” my mom repeats, and I turn my head to look at her. She's standing behind the counter island and gazing at me with her head tilted to one side. She's got on a gingham apron and matching oven mitts, and she can't hear me over the roiling grease. “How did it go?”
    I turn away from my dad and pause when he reaches out and grabs me by the wrist. His hand looks big and meaty wrapped around my skinny limb, and I can see that he sees it, too. I pull away.
    “ It'll happen, Kiddo,” he says to me as he drops my hand and a crease appears between his shaggy, red eyebrows. I don't like the way he's looking at me, so I walk away from him quick as I can and smile at my mom.
    “ It was fine,” I say, and that's it. Already, I'm heading for the hall and the stairs that will take me up to my room.
    “ Fine?” she asks as I disappear from sight and put my hand on the smooth wood of the banister. “Well, what did they say?” My mom always wants to talk about my auditions, soothe me with words and hugs and cookies, tell me that it's okay and that I am beautiful. She's been doing it since the moment I missed the lead in the school play to the moment I didn't make the cheerleading squad; she continues to do it now, but it never helps. It just makes me irritated with her. Why can't she see that I just need some time alone to process?
    “ They'll call me,” I say, and then I'm moving up the stairs and into my bedroom. I close and lock the door behind me and toss my portfolio onto my desk, running my hands down my face as I try to catch my breath. It's one thing to be judged by the folks at the agencies, the gatekeepers who decide if you're good enough; it's another to be judged by your parents, even if they mean well. I sigh and plop down into my computer chair. I may have escaped them for the moment, but I won't escape Marlena. She knows how to pick the lock on my bedroom door. Once she gets here, I can kiss my privacy goodbye.
    I get online, and I check my email, just to see if I've got any responses to the inquiries I've been sending out. When there's nothing, I swallow my disappointment down to a churning stomach and move on, desperately searching the web for more casting calls. If I have a couple lined up, then I won't feel so bad about the ones I fail. Like, there's always a chance, an opportunity waiting on the horizon. I have to maintain that level of thinking, or I won't make it.
    I scour the web for awhile. After all, there's no shortage of opportunities listed. The Internet is a vast and exciting place, one that leaves no stone unturned. I have access to every country, every agency, every campaign in the world from this spot on my pink chair. It's just a matter of finding the right place to be at the right time, sending out the right set of photos and the best application to the one agency that