My hands were sweating.
Today was the day: the Casting. The damn day that would decide whether I'd be chosen for the brand's fashion show.
I ate as quickly as possible as soon as I woke up, so there'd be no chance of obstacles or unforeseen events. As stated in the leader's message and recommended by Zarah, I put on a simple outfit.
Jeans, white shoes, and a t-shirt that wasn't too tight, but not baggy either. I affectionately nicknamed this look "Mannequin," in reference to the ordeal I was about to face.
I still had no idea what I would do. Zarah had said there was still "me" while I walked, but she said nothing about what to do with that "me."
Should I change the narrative? Was I acting too much?
In the end, none of the people present knew the dread that clouded my mind more and more. At 1:00 p.m., I arrived at the confirmed location.
The journey was filled with near-give-ups, but my world would end if I did that. I wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully. My mind would enter a doomsday state.
Being in that spot brought back a memory—when I went to the "interview" at Kappy. The excitement, uncertainty... it was almost all the same.
But this time, the situation felt even heavier. Before, there had been the possibility that it was all a mistake that would be easily resolved the moment I got there.
Here, I know I was chosen for sure. There was no room for mistakes here.
The weight of failure on my shoulders was getting worse and worse to bear.
Even so, I squared my shoulders and put a neutral expression on my face. I know that in places like this, there are evaluators everywhere. Even the guy at the front desk could be someone hired for that purpose.
And for that reason, I approached the counter with the paper containing my information—I had printed it after Zarah left her house the day before—and quickly caught the clerk's attention.
"Oy."
Just like that, he looked at me, then at the paper in my hand. Clear understanding dawned in his gaze.
"You're here for the test, right? You can hand that over to me." He stretched his hand out over the counter.
I handed it over without another word. That paper didn't actually contain anything important about me, just details like height, weight, and age.
"Noah Allison..." he murmured while slowly typing something on the keyboard.
When I looked around, I noticed there weren't that many people there. Not as many as I'd expected.
I had anticipated finding several men ready to take the test upon arrival, but there were about five or six—all seated on a bench to my left.
One in particular caught my attention, a scar above his eye was his most striking feature. Doesn't that hurt his career? I wanted to ask, but the man's gaze met mine, and his expression hardened even more.
It was as if he was asking, 'What are u looking at?'
I broke eye contact as if it burned. I had absolutely no intention of starting a fight in that place.
"All set, buddy," the clerk said when my attention turned back to him. A wide smile appearing on his face, friendly. "You can wait over there for a few minutes? I believe the evaluators will arrive very soon."
He pointed innocently to the right side of the man I had just exchanged glances with, which made my expression and the man's close off even more.
When I turned to the clerk again, his attention was already elsewhere, which made me walk tensely to the bench that had been assigned to me.
The silence that cut between the benches was nothing short of threatening. All of us there knew that only one would be chosen. Some of us were more experienced, others, newcomers.
"Hm."
That was the only thing the man with the scar did to acknowledge my presence. Beyond that, his gaze focused completely on me, as if sizing me up. I felt uncomfortable but didn't show it. I just sat down, staring in a completely different direction.
Of course, the model wouldn't let me get off that easily.
"Luke. Luke Cross. You?"
His voice was hoarse and carried a very strong accent, to the point it was hard to understand if he had said "Luke" or "Ruke," the "r" was extremely drawn out in his last name.
"Noah. Noah Allison."
"Huh, a little girl's name, yes?"
My head whipped around so fast I thought it would snap. What did he say?
When his expression came into view, I only felt even more offended. He was smiling. The bastard was smiling.
"Hah... Noah," he whispered slowly, pronouncing it mockingly. His smile was still there.
"We'll see if you're still like that when I get chosen. It's kinda sad..." I don't know where so much courage and audacity came from, but I liked this part of myself.
"If. You forgot the key point, yeah? If you get chosen. But so, little Aly, you think you can win?"
"I don't think anything. I know I will."
"Oh-ho... interesting."
Our eyes intertwined in a cold war, and neither of us looked away.
"What do you find interesting?"
"The fact that I also know I'm going to win."
***
As if also awaiting the challenge, when evaluators Mitchel and Sabine appeared about three minutes later, everyone's expressions darkened. Both had a strange, obscure aura, and their true personalities were the biggest mystery of the afternoon.
They wore neutral expressions; their indifference toward us was palpable.
"This way," Sabine directed. Her figure was slender, blonde hair, and an enviable posture. When she walked, the elegant trousers she wore hugged her legs perfectly.
We arrived at the evaluation room with a bang, as Mitchel—who was in front—slammed the door open.
We all jumped, including Sabine, who shot a warning look at her coworker, Mitchel. The coworker in question couldn't have cared less. Pretending he hadn't seen anything, he entered the room and walked directly to his spot on the left side of the room.
It was obvious something was going on between the two of them, and it wasn't recent.
As soon as I entered the space, my vision was dazzled by the white walls and the dark wooden floor—the perfect contrast.
There were two opposing lines separated by about two meters on the floor; they traveled in a straight line.
When Sabine sat down in her place, she explained.
"We're free today, so we'll handle this evaluation differently. Normally, you would all go together, one after another on the runway. However, because there are few applicants, you'll go one at a time. Please stand opposite us, and stay far enough away from the 'runway.' Models need space."
The explanations and orders were quite direct, so it didn't take long before all of us—models—did as we were told.
"Without further ado, let's begin."
The door opened again, and an unknown employee entered, his hand full of some papers. He listened silently to what Sabine had to say before turning to us.
They were the papers.
He handed one of them to each of us, leaving shortly after.
"These papers given to you," Sabine began to explain, "each feature a different theme. We need to know if you are capable of improvising when necessary. Although I'm sure some of you have done extensive research on all the themes our brand has showcased before."
I noticed expressions of nervousness on some of the other applicants.
"I will begin calling names."
The air became suffocating; anxiety no longer allowed me to breathe normally.
"William Coulfon."
The first name was called, and a young man slightly older than me stood up. He was one of the few people who didn't have a nervous expression; he managed to walk to the start of the runway with the lightness of the wind and the calmness of the sea on a sunny day.
When the music started playing, I knew immediately how screwed I was.