Paint Me Beautiful Read Free Page A

might actually look at it. In a way, I'm like a detective, searching for clues, putting together the pieces of a puzzle that's much, much bigger than I am. It could be a matter of hours before I find my place; it could be years. But I don't care. I have to do this. This is the one and only thing I've ever wanted.
    After I have a full two weeks of casting calls plugged into my phone, I switch my focus and shut the lid on my laptop, standing in front of the mirror and examining my skin, my eyebrows, my nose, my hair. Right now, it's icy blonde, almost white, and it's been freshly bleached. I have to watch it carefully though or the red might sneak back in, and roots are not appealing on anyone let alone a wannabe model. I poke and prod at my hairline, pick apart the hairs and stare at my scalp. I don't see anything, so I take a deep breath and stand up straight, convinced that I've done all the maintenance I can do for the moment.
    My stomach growls and cramps, reminding me that soon enough, I'm going to be poisoning myself with grease and butter and lard. That's right – lard. My mom thinks that just because she grew up in the South that she has to put animal fat in everything. I think I'm going to become a vegetarian. Maybe that would get her off my back? I roll my eyes as I think about the look on my mother's face were I to swear off meat forever. At best, she'd probably start cooking green beans in bacon fat and calling it vegetarian, and at worst, she'd probably try to have me committed. I sigh and pull out my phone, scanning quickly through messages from friends I haven't talked to in too long and pausing at a text from an unknown number.
    Just wanted to see if this number really belonged to Claire Simone or if this is a movie theater or something. That happened to me once before. Sincerely, Emmett Sinclair.
    I smile, add Emmett to my list of contacts and send him a short message.
    You got me, is all I say, sliding my phone into my back pocket and pausing to listen to the sounds from downstairs. Marlena is definitely here, and it won't be long before she comes looking for me. I catch a side view of myself in the long mirror near my dresser. I usually cover it with a sheet, so I don't have to stare at myself all day, but I needed to make sure I looked presentable this morning. The sight is disturbing, and I know without a doubt why I didn't get chosen at the casting today. I look like a friggin' whale. I grab a jacket from my closet and toss it over my reflection. I don't want to look at it, but I don't want Marlena to think anything is wrong. Once she fixates on something, it's almost impossible to get her to stop. For example, when she found out that my mom's favorite lipstick – a brand she's used for ten years – was tested on animals, Marlena launched this big mouthed campaign about it, taking it far beyond my mother and out into the world. I didn't bother to follow up on what happened, but she doesn't talk about it anymore, so I'm guessing she got her way. Marlena always gets her way.
    When I hear her coming up the stairs, I throw on a baggy pink sweater and trade out my skinny jeans for gray sweatpants. I saw the way my dad looked at me earlier, like something was just not quite right with me. If Marlena sees whatever it was that he saw, I am so screwed.
    I open the door before she has a chance to pick the lock.
    “ What?” I ask as she enters my room without asking and glances around like she's looking for something. She always does that though, no matter where we are. It could be an Olive Garden or PetSmart or a Kohl's; Marlena is always looking for something. My mom says it's because she's so smart, but I think she has a disorder or something. Maybe OCD or whatever?
    “ Mom said you've been kind of down lately. What's going on?”
    “ Straight to the chase, no bullshit, Marlena Morgan Simone, the one and only,” I say as I shake my hands in the air and flop down onto the edge of my bed. “She never beats