A Place of My Own (Well, Almost)
March 2006, Harlem, New York City
My clothes smelled awful. I hadn’t done any laundry for about six weeks. Actually, more like six months. I sat on my suitcase, using all my weight to shut it, nearly breaking the zipper in the process.
My life was inside that bag.
I had no idea where I would be sleeping later. I had a photo shoot in a few hours and if the photographer turned out to be cool he might let me stay at his place. Failing that I could call a friend and sleep on their floor.
Here I was leaving yet another apartment. I thought back over all the places I had lived in during the few short years since leaving home. Astoria, Brooklyn Heights, the college dorms on 88th and Riverside, Syracuse, those seven months in Miami. And now I was leaving Harlem behind as well.
I had precisely $23 in my pocket.
I checked my suitcase zipper one more time to make sure it was secure. It was. Something had to be.
If you took the contents of that case – three pairs of shoes, my notorious red dress, a few pairs of jeans, some scrappy tops, my journal and the many scraps of paper with names and dates scribbled on them – you pretty much had Isobella Jade.
Not forgetting the most important item of all: my modeling portfolio.
Now that I had finished packing I realized the smell hadn’t gone away. I sniffed at myself and it wasn’t pleasant. I had been wearing the same underwear for three days. I felt gross and disgusting, but there was no time for laundry and I really couldn’t afford the $4.50 anyway.
As I sat there I wondered why I was doing all this. Why I was flitting from place to place with barely enough money to eat. Did I really want to be a model this much? Was it really worth all the doubt, the rejection, the poverty, the sacrifice, the broken relationships?
Hell yeah.
Modeling was my dream and nothing was going to stop me. I would do anything to get what I wanted. I would endure all the hardships my chosen profession could throw at me.
I would even lie to my own mother.
I was en route to the subway with my case dragging behind me when I felt the vibration of my cell phone in my coat pocket, but I ignored it. It was on vibrate for a reason; I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
It kept vibrating.
Annoyed, I looked at the digital display. Shit. It was the worst person to call at that moment. Her voice would kill me.
‘Hello, Mom…can you hear me?’
Boxes of fruit, ketchups, and empanadas lined the street, ready to be shelved at the storefronts I passed. I had to zigzag through the commotion.
‘Mom, are you there?’ I had my mother and an uncertain future in my hands, an awkward mix.
‘Yes, I’m here, Heather, how are you?’ I hated it when she said my real name, especially at this moment.
‘I’m good. I’m going to SoHo, Mom.’ She had only been to New York City once before; I don’t think she actually knew where SoHo was.
‘Oh, that sounds like fun, what else are you doing today?’ Oh great, she sounded talkative.
Answering her with the truth would be like pulling my own teeth; I hated talking to her about