Free The Home for Wayward Supermodels by Pamela Redmond Satran

door. The crowd parted for us as if we were radioactive. A flash went off.
    “Look cool,” Tati ordered.
    I had no idea how to do that, especially not with these torture devices strapped to my feet, so I decided that as long as I didn’t visibly sweat or say “Golly” too often, I’d be okay.
    Barely pausing, Tati kissed the cheek of the extremely large man guarding the door. “Hello, Rocco,” she said, gesturing to me. “This is Amanda, new girl.”
    Rocco nodded to me and held the door open, slamming it shut behind us.
    Inside, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Tiny candles flickered everywhere. Everyone, it seemed, was thin. Everyone was young. Everyone and everything was cool.
    “We dance,” Tati said, taking my hand.
    Wasn’t that uncool, dancing with your girlfriend? At Northland Pines, it would get you talked about big-time in the halls the next day. But there was not necessarily a lot of crossover, I was learning, between what was cool at high school in Eagle River and what was cool in Manhattan.
    Things That Are Cooler in Eagle River Than in Manhattan
Having a neck that sticks out wider than your head.
Having tires that stick out wider than your car.
Drinking beer till you pass out.
Snowmobiling.
Wearing a cheese head, drinking milk, tipping cows—basically anything related to cattle or dairy products.
Skinny-dipping, wearing shorts in winter, going barefoot—though I couldn’t extend that to include every kind of nakedness, judging from the amount of bare skin around me in the club.
Lip gloss.
Blow-drying your hair so that it looks like you blow-dried it.
Having a baby and thinking up a name for it that all your friends think is cute but that’s spelled differently than anyone’s ever spelled it before, like Ryeleigh.
    Things That Are Cooler in Manhattan Than in Eagle River
Spending a lot of money on a haircut that looks like you chopped it off yourself with an ax. And without a mirror.
Black clothing. Black anything.
The word “actually.”
Saying you’d love to have a baby but then never actually getting pregnant.
Therapy.
Being alone.
Being gay.
Being French.
Vegetables.
    Tatiana leaned close to me. “Oh, good,” she said into my ear. “Boyfriend is here. Dance closer.”
    She shimmied toward me and bumped her hip against mine, putting her hands above her head and rotating her pelvis like one of those girls who dance in cages. Somebody in the crowd whistled, and Tati ripped open all but one of the snaps on her denim shirt. My own dancing was hobbled by my high shoes, but that didn’t seem to matter to Tati or the enthusiasm of what had turned into our audience. People were clapping and more and more flashes were going off.
    Suddenly a man in a gray suit pushed between us, facing Tati. He looked wealthy, conservative, like a businessman, but he was gorgeous too, dark and muscular, somehow managing to make his gray suit and white shirt look sexy. And the even more remarkable thing was that he also looked nice, his handsome face sincere, his gaze focused adoringly on Tatiana.
    Tatiana kept dancing, her eyes cast down, but he spoke urgently into her ear. She continued to pretend to ignore him, but I could tell she was listening. I continued to dance, but only so I could stay close enough to hear them.
    “Goddamn it, Tati, I love you, you know that,” the man said.
    Tatiana turned determinedly away from him, dancing in a circle so that she was facing in the other direction. I wiggled over so I was facing her, and was astonished to see that she was blinking back tears.
    “Are you okay?” I asked her.
    “He don’t care,” she said.
    I turned to Mr. Billings (that turned out to be his name), who looked at me mournfully with his big chocolate brown eyes.
    “She doesn’t think you care.”
    “Please tell her that I love her,” he said into my ear.
    I danced back to Tati. “He says he loves you.”
    “Tell him I don’t believe him,” she said back.
    “She