"My name is Christelle Rhonda Cyrus, and right now, what I need is to go on a diet."

I was standing in my new bedroom, looking at myself in the mirror, the first morning in our new apartment. Our new apartment, MY room. I couldn't believe how good it felt to say that.

After the heated confrontation—I couldn't call it a discussion—with our parents the night before, and after I calmed down enough, James convinced me that we should leave right then instead of waiting for Saturday. So we'd ran past the kitchen doorway, where the family sat eating as if we'd never said anything, and started packing. It hurt, the silence they maintained even as we loaded our suitcases in the back of James' shiny, blood-red pickup, but I hoped James was right. Maybe they needed to blow off some steam before they could accept it.

When we were finished, James started towards the drivers' side door, but I turned to look over the house one last time. The small house I'd lived in for eighteen years.

"Hang on, I need one more thing," I told him, and ran back into the house. I paused in the hallway, looking at the family portrait there. It was then I caught the hushed voice of my little sister from the kitchen.

"Are Chrissy and James coming back?"

My breath held as I waited for the answer myself. No one did. The next thing uttered was from dad, a request for more steak, and just like that all was forgotten. I grabbed the portrait from the wall. I needed it to remind me I was free, never again a captive of overbearing parents and excess food. To remind me of the girl I would never be again.

"Bye everybody," I said under my breath, rushing past the kitchen doorway and outside, hoping no one noticed the large frame tucked under my arm. They could never accuse me of not saying goodbye. placed the portrait in the back, and placed my suitcase over it, then climbed into the passenger side. "Let's go."

James grinned and started the car. Her backed out, honked the horn once, and then we were gone, moving on into our new life.

"Hmm..." I frowned at myself in the mirror. The morning sun caressed the deep blue bedroom carpet. My boxes were behind me, stacked against the wall, by the bed, suitcases in the closet. Everything had a fresh look, but I was the same me. Disgusting old me.

"So, about dieting..." I started aloud, walking towards the kitchen. James was already at the table.

"There's coffee. Help yourself." He was already settles with one of the new mugs we bought the previous night, after moving all out boxes up. We went to Walmart and stocked up on dishes, some food, and a coffee maker, because James needed his coffee.

"Thanks, I guess." I didn't like coffee much, but I got a mug anyway. I spoke as I filled a cup.

"I need a job, James. I want to contribute to the rent; buy a few groceries. You can't carry us alone."

He was quiet at first, then snapped his fingers, pointing at me.

"Our wardrobe manager, Maggie! She's been swamped, and in a terrible mood lately. We've all been avoiding her. She's throwing things, and is clearly overworked; she could use an assistant even though she won't ask for one. Maybe she'll hire you once she's seen your talent for clothes. You're really good at it, you know."

"You really think that could happen?" I ignored the compliment, raised a dubious eyebrow. "I mean, I'd love to help, and get my hands on the latest fashion pieces. It could help with the contest."

James went quiet again, staring at me, and grimaced. "Do you... uh... do you have something else you can wear? I mean you look fine! You do. But dad's t-shirt and those jeans..."

"Gee, I thought this was a good look," I said, voice flat.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone shopping. At 256lbs, my fat self didn't look right in the snazziest of clothes. Even thinking about shopping for something to cover my ample frame sent me into a fear frenzy.

"I'm on a diet. Starting today. No sense spending money I don't have on a new outfit. Take me or leave me but this is what I'm wearing today."

I was neat, at least. My clothes were clean, I was clean, my long braids were pulled back from my face, as always. While I didn't like my face out in the open, I looked like I was trying to be something I wasn't if I kept my hair down. Pretty girls could keep their hair down; I was far from a pretty girl.

"When are you leaving?"

James sighed, and looked at the clock. "In ten minutes. Gotta be in by nine."

"Ok, I'm coming."

I finished my coffee, grabbed a banana, and walked back to my room. After a solid search through my suitcases, I found it: Chapstick.

It's wasn't makeup, but at least my lips wouldn't be dry. "Like it makes a difference either way," I murmured. I applied it and checked my medium brown skin one more time for traces of sleep. There were none, but my brown eyes showed my disgust. I would get rid of the mirror as soon as I got home.

"Let's go, Chris!"

"Deep breath. It's time for the real world," I whispered.

* * * * *

"You have got to be kidding me," I moaned aloud, seeing the breakfast spread. "J, how am I supposed to diet with so much food around?"

We were in the project room. Every morning the models and photographers met there to get instructions and a list of expectations for the day ahead. A table in the center held muffins and donuts, coffee and cream. All the models held a coffee, but no food. I wondered if they put the donuts there to weed the models from the supermodels. Did you get dragged out of the building, fired, if you touched one, or could you really eat them?

I tried to resist. I did. There was a wonderful table of fruits my the window that I hovered near. But my home training kicked in and I was overpowered before I knew what hit me. My legs carried me over to the doughnut table, and I plucked a jelly-filled from the gorgeous pile of death. It was halfway to my mouth when I felt someone staring at me.

I turned slow, sure if was James glaring at me, but instead my eyes met a pair of dark, sensual ones. They weren't glaring at me, mocking me, but smiling at me. With interest. James stood next to him, talking to him, but his eyes were on me. My heart jumped into my throat, and I bit my lip, averting my eyes, which landed instead on the doughnut in my hand. The stupid doughnut I now wanted to hide under my sorry t-shirt.

What on Earth was he looking at? It couldn't have been my alluring intrigue that had his eyes glued to me, as I had none. It had to be because I was the elephant in the room. I took another glance in his direction, pretending to look at James instead, But Mr. Good-Looking was no longer looking at me. Instead, he listened with rapt attention to the instructions being handed out by the woman James pointed out as head photographer, Lilian.

I had my chance to stare at him. Dark, well-groomed hair, brooding eyes that reminded her of the color of the sea at midnight, and pearl-white, flawless skin. He wasn't as tall as James was at six feet, but he had an air of tallness. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

He was beautiful. He'd been staring at ME. So of course, I had to avoid him at all costs.