Page 19 of Meant to Be

“May I get you something to drink?” Tonya said. “Coffee, tea, soda?”

“Um, do you have Diet Pepsi?” my mom asked in a voice that was a little shaky.

“Yes. We do. And for you, Cate?”

“I’ll take one, too, please,” I said.

Once alone, my mom and I debated which seats to take, talking in whispers. We decided to sit facing the windows. A moment later, Tonya returned with our sodas poured into tall glasses with cubes of ice and skinny straws and told us Barbara would be right with us.

As we waited, I got more and more nervous, questioning myoutfit, my makeup, and especially my high ponytail, which I worried made me look too young. Then again, maybe that was agoodthing. I knew plenty of models got their start earlier than sixteen. For the next five long minutes, as I sipped my soda and tried to block out my mom’s nervous chatter, I kept thinking that there was no way this could be happening. No way it would work out. At some point, though, I gritted my teeth—literally—and told myself that was no way to approach life. I had to stop panicking. If I didn’t calm down and believe in myself, at least a little bit, how could anyone else?

Before I could answer my own question, Barbara walked into the room flanked by two men and made introductions. Everyone shook my hand, then my mom’s, before sitting down at the table and making a bunch of small talk about the weather, and our train ride into the city, and my school year so far. At some point, as I started to calm down a little, Barbara segued to the reason we were here, talking about my appearance, praising my features and figure.

“But you’re more than a pretty face, Cate,” she said. “I watched you on the boardwalk. You have poise and confidence. Anaura. The trademark of Elite models.”

I thanked her, stunned by her compliments. It was the best I’d ever felt about myself.

“We would love for you to join the Elite family,” Barbara said, beaming at me.

“Oh, wow…thank you,” I said, my heart pounding. I was going to be not only a model but part of a family? My mind was blown.

“Is that a yes?”

I nodded, speechless and overwhelmed.

“Wonderful!” Barbara said, quickly turning things over to the men, who began to describe what they called “next steps.” Theytalked about setting up a test shoot to get me headshots and comp cards—basically a portfolio of marketing materials. I would then be assigned a booker at the agency, who would submit my portfolio to various clients and set up castings for me—which were like auditions. From there, I just had to show up to the casting calls and make a good impression. If a client liked what they saw, they would call my booker, send out a contract, and schedule the shoot.

I nodded, but I must have looked uneasy, because Barbara said, “It might sound overwhelming, but that’s what we’re here for. To help you navigate the process.”

One of the men nodded and then chimed in. “Yes. Barbara is right. Elite will be with youeverystep of the way. There is no agency out there who will better protect your interests while also promoting you in this competitive marketplace.”

I smiled and said thank you.

“Do you have any questions?” Barbara asked, looking at me first, then my mom.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“No,” my mom echoed.

“Great! Here’s your contract. It’s standard language that all of our models sign,” Barbara said, sliding me a sheet of paper. “Take your time reviewing it. No pressure. If you need to go home first and talk it over with your father—or perhaps a lawyer—that’s fine, too.”

“No,” I said, cutting her off. There was no way I was going to give Chip the chance to change his mind. “I’m ready to sign. Right now.”

—

Later that week,my mom and I returned to the city for my test shoot. When we arrived at the studio, we were met by a smallcrowd, including a photographer, an art director, a hairstylist, a makeup artist, a fashion designer, and various scurrying assistants. I was told that clothes would be provided for me, and that I should come with no product in my hair and a clean, makeup-free face. I followed instructions, but wasn’t happy about the way I looked, and half expected them to cancel the shoot when they saw my flat hair and the huge zit on my chin. But nobody seemed fazed, and the hairstylist and makeup artist quickly got to work.

Over the next two hours, I was transformed multiple times. In the first shot, I wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt with natural makeup and wavy hair; in the second, I had on a black lace cocktail dress with dramatic, smoky eyes and a straighter but still very full hairdo; and in the third, I wore a white string bikini with hair so curly it looked permed and lots of shimmery gold makeup.

Sitting there in the swivel chair and getting my hair and makeup done was the easy part. The hard part was posing under those bright lights with everyone staring at me as the photographer gave me hundreds of instructions to sit, stand, look up, look down, look to the left, look to the right, lower my chin, raise my chin, smile, smile more, smile less, smile with my eyes, don’t smile. It was exhausting, and I’d never felt so awkward and self-conscious, like I was playing a game of Twister in high heels and being judged on style points. But as the shoot progressed, things got a little easier, and I learned that the key was to try to relax, ignore all the people in the room, and pretend to be somewhere else, preferably somewhere far away. I was good at that; living with Chip had given me plenty of practice.

At the end of the session, after I was back in my own clothes, the art director gave me a little hug and said, “Great job, Cate. You’re a pro.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling more relieved than anything else.Like I’d passed another test and tricked them all into believing I was something I wasn’t.

—

A few dayslater, my mom and I returned to New York for the third time in less than two weeks to meet with my assigned booking agent, a woman named Daisy, who reminded me of Yoko Ono. We chatted for a while, getting to know each other, before Daisy mentioned the test shoot and the great feedback she’d gotten.

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