Modelling had never been her idea. The vacuous stares, the hours in front of the mirror. Was it her fault her proportions were perfect for summer dresses? It was a life she escaped the moment she fled her mother's house.
She didn't pick the color of her hair. It didn't come on a shelf, stinking up the bathroom with it's noxious fumes, attracting evil eyes from other women who thought they knew what she was like simply from the glow of her yellow hair and the swing of her hips?
The pitch of her voice wasn't her fault. How did she draw the unhappy lot of sounding so young and naive? Men heard her high tone and were drawn to her like predators to prey; other women cast knowing glances at each other as if to say, "Well, what would you expect from someone that looks like that..."
In the night, she shared the company of men - women too, it's true, but not the way they thought. In bed, beneath cool white sheets, she curled up with more than one good book and dipped her imagination into a sea of words.
The next day, she hid in the back of the class.