“Stop it. You’re what? Thirty-one? That skin! That hair! There aren’t enough working plus-size models. He is going to die.”

There was no harm in calling. The worst thing that could happen was he’d say no thank you, and she’d feel embarrassed for five seconds, and then immensely relieved, and then forget it altogether. She reached for her phone and scrolled through the contacts, looking for the agent’s name. Kramer Lamb. What kind of name was that? Todd and Mary Lamb welcome their new baby, Kramer.

Plus-size model. Plus-size model. Plus-size model. It just sounded so fat. But also maybe kind of cool? Maybe. It wasn’t every day that she met a woman—especially in this not-exactly-edgy Brooklyn neighborhood—who was a plus-size model, or any other kind of model. She wasn’t sure how the other women in the neighborhood occupied themselves, but whatever they did seemed to involve reusable grocery bags, nine-hundred-dollar Canada Goose parkas with real coyote-fur hoods, yoga mats, group walks, skinny jeans and clogs, and fancy Swedish bicycles with enough seating for six children.

If only she could call someone to discuss the pros and cons of contacting the modeling agency. But the only person she ever conferred with was Stu, and Stu would make fun of her. Or maybe he wouldn’t. It was just so embarrassing.

Plus-size model. Plus-size model.

Was she really that fat?

She could call her mom, but she would definitely be mean about it. Her mom was never kind. Nancy Marzulli weighed ninety pounds, smoked a pack of Salems every day, and ate fruit cocktail straight from the can. At night she drank vodka and Crystal Light lemonade and ate sardines straight from the can. She was a single mom, but she had never taken much interest in Mandy, and Mandy had never taken much interest in her. Maybe one day soon her mom would be at the supermarket buying more fruit cocktail and Crystal Light and she’d see Mandy modeling a bathing suit on the cover of Vogue. Then she’d call—to tell Mandy how fat she was.

Stu might actually be impressed. To start a new career with MS was pretty brave. She clicked on Kramer Lamb’s name again, and pressed call.

“Thank you, Madame Jesus,” he said after she’d introduced herself. “Wendy Clarke already sent me a sneaky pic of you in some dark bar. When can you come in? I’ll send a car.”

Mandy still felt sort of hungover from last week. She’d drunk a lot of wine and eaten a lot of Wendy’s game-night snacks and talked to so many people on top of eating pot cookies every single day before and after. She felt like she was still recovering. But what else did she have to do?

“I need to take a shower,” she told him.