“I can’t sing,” she confessed.
“Can you dance?”
“Not really.”
They giggled, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Pablo loved the affection Keisha gave him. Maybe she’s my soulmate? he thought. He was in bliss.
In the afternoons, a change of clothes and a shower later, Keisha would be back in the hallways and on the staged runways of Lincoln Center, swishing, a perpetual smile on her face for the best designers and fashionistas in the world. The cameras never stopped flashing. Pablo, himself always smiling now, finally understood why models frown and pout. Smiling used too many muscle groups. It hurt.
By the end of Fashion Week, Pablo and Keisha were an item on Page Six, US Weekly and Women's Wear Daily. Vinny, Keisha’s stockbroker boyfriend, finally showed up for her last standing ovation and together, they attended the big bash ending the season. It was the most grueling fashion week Pablo had ever lived through. With Vinny by her side, he knocked back one too many drinks and slipped away unnoticed. Pablo was dog-tired and just wanted to go home for a change.
An Uber later, he was in his tiny Hell’s Kitchen apartment, happily falling into his very own bed for the first time in six days. He was ecstatic. Sprawling atop the down comforter covering rumpled flannel sheets, he stared up at the ceiling. Musing about his whirlwind friendship with none other than Supermodel Keisha Kash and how it could possibly change the trajectory of his career, he wondered what was in store for him now that fashion week was over. “I had no idea being a celebrity was so exhausting,” he mumbled into his pillow. You’re definitely not the same person you were a week ago. This was the last thought he had before sinking into well-deserved slumber.
3
A SHOW IS BORN
THE ANNOYING BACK-UP beep of the early morning garbage truck shrieked below his window. Hungover and tormented by a dream, Pablo moaned. After the past week’s gypsy lifestyle of sleeping on couches and beds in Keisha’s apartment, it took him a moment to recall where he was.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He threw a pillow over his head and fell back on the bed. His cubby wasn’t the dream apartment Keisha had manifested for herself, but it was his. The second-floor walkup did not offer soundproof walls or a private elevator, but he’d long gotten used to bouncing up the stairs. The reality of life in New York hadn’t entered his mind when he’d begged his parents to let him move to Manhattan. He’d made all sorts of promises to get their support: “No, I won’t do drugs. Yes, I’ll wear a condom. Yes, Mom, always. No, I won’t go home with strangers. Yes, I’ll floss twice a day.” Finally, they had agreed to help with the steep deposit—first and last month’s rent, and the promise of the first-born grandchild required by Manhattan landlords.
“You’d think you’d at least have an elevator for this price,” his mother had said after huffing and puffing up the narrow stairs of the brownstone. She was even more distressed to discover that Pablo had lost a coin toss with his roommate, Malaki, and ended up in the front room of the small, dusty, overheated box he now called home. At least he had the fire escape for a balcony.
Amid the beeping of garbage collection outside, his iPhone was now buzzing around on his nightstand. Pablo fumbled for the device and squinted at the screen. The selfie of Keisha and him illuminated his phone. It was 5:16 a.m. He’d only been asleep for three hours!
“Hello?”
“Ohmigod. I got it. It just came to me, and I couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“Do you know what time it is?” Pablo croaked as he sat up in bed, pulling his comforter over his head.
“This is your destiny wakeup call. You ready?”
Never a morning person, Pablo mumbled something unintelligible.
“What is everyone really obsessed with on Reality TV? Supermodels. Not fashion. The problem with most model competition shows is, they’re looking for the next real Supermodel.
Silence.
“Hello?” She sounded annoyed. “You awake?”
“Uh huh.” He did have eyes open, at least.
“I got the idea last night when I was making Vinny watch that movie we watched.”
“Babes in Arms?”
“That’s the one. You and I are gonna pitch a show that allows real girls–like the ones on Instagram–to have someone like me support their dreams. Do you know how much I wish someone had helped me? Now I can be the guru of Supermodels in the making.”
It didn’t sound at all like the movie they watched, but Pablo didn’t say anything.
“Of course, we’ll push their viral antics all over social. It’ll give us a huge platform.”
“How exactly is that any different from America’s Next Top Model or The Face?”
She chortled so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Hellooo? Keisha Kash!” She reiterated her name, in case he’d forgotten who she was. “I’m the one who’s relevant with the kids today. And I repost potential models on my social accounts all the time. That’s like an endorsement. Plus, I’m constantly being begged for advice and mentoring. I should be paid to do that, and on camera.”
He’d stopped nodding in the dark and was sitting upright. “Well, you’re gonna need some kinda hook.” Pablo was definitely listening now. “Especially if you’re gonna sell this to a network in today’s crowded streaming landscape.” He jumped out of bed and pulled up the blackout blinds covering his window. This idea needed light, and he was getting more and more excited as the conversation continued.
“I knew you were the person to call. What are you doin’ later today?”
Sleeping, he thought. “Meeting you?” he said. He looked out at the grey light of a winter, New York morning. A rat, the size of a small Rottweiler, scurried down an alleyway across the street. The muffled beep of the garbage truck had moved down the block, beckoning like his destiny.
Their first unofficial production meeting was held in Pablo’s second-floor walkup. Keisha arrived with more Chinese takeout. This time, she paid for it, though. Pablo had taken a cocktail of Aspirin, Tylenol and protein to counteract his hangover from the night before. The last thing he needed was more MSG, but Keisha was so excited to work on her new TV idea that he couldn’t tell her he needed another night to recover. When Pablo’s roommate came home from work, he did a double-take at the incognito Supermodel spread sumptuously across their couch. Malaki was so tickled by the whole situation that he popped popcorn and sat crossed-legged on the floor at her feet like an acolyte. They stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, brainstorming format, idea, pitch.
Keisha tossed some popcorn at Pablo’s head. “Why don’t you be on the show?”
“Gee, Judy. I dunno. You’re the one with all the talent.” Pablo tried to sound as much like Mickey Rooney as possible.