Let The Show Begin
1957 Words
(Amara's POV)
Some days already feel complicated before they even start.
Today is one of them.
I knew it the second I woke up — that weird mix of hope and dread hanging in the air.
Hope, because today’s the last day to turn in the permission slip for The Face of Cleverly auditions.
Dread, because my mom still thinks “modeling” is just another word for “wasting your future.”
I find her in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove that smells like burnt stew. She doesn’t look up when I say, “Morning.”
“Mhm.”
The tone already says don’t try me.
I hover by the counter, slip in hand. “So… remember that form I showed you?”
“What form?” she asks, but her shoulders stiffen slightly.
“The one for the school competition. It’s not a big deal, it’s just—”
“Modeling,” she finishes, still stirring. “I already said no, Amara.”
I exhale. “Mom, it’s not like I’m running away to Hollywood. It’s just Cleverly. It’s supervised. School-sponsored. I have to at least audition—”
“School-sponsored or not, it’s still modeling. You think I sent you to that expensive school so you can be walking up and down on stage?”
“Walking up and down confidently,” I mutter.
Her head snaps up. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
The silence stretches, thick as palm oil. She turns off the stove and faces me fully now. “Amara, let me tell you something. The world doesn’t give second chances to girls who make the wrong first impression. You hear me?”
I swallow. “I hear you.”
But I don’t agree.
“Good. Now go get ready for school.”
---
Amaka’s voice floats in from the hallway. “You two fighting again or just emotionally scarring each other before breakfast?”
I shoot her a look. “Both.”
She strolls in, holding her iced coffee like she’s above all this. “What’s even the big deal? It’s a school event, Mom. Not Fashion Week.”
“That’s how it starts,” Mom mutters. “Next thing you’ll see your sister on t****k doing nonsense.”
Amaka looks right at me and mouths, You owe me. Then she says out loud, “She deserves to try.”
Mom grabs her keys. “When you become a mother, you’ll understand.” She walks out before I can say anything else.
The door slams. The house goes quiet.
Amaka leans against the counter. “So. Are we breaking the law today or what?”
I blink. “You’re actually gonna sign it?”
She grins. “You think I can let you flop after begging me to help you practice your walk last night? Please.”
I hand her the pen, trying not to smile. “If they find out, I’m blaming you.”
“Good luck proving it,” she says, scribbling her name with the confidence of a seasoned forger.
When she’s done, she hands it back. “There. Signed, sealed, potentially illegal.”
I laugh, tucking the paper into my bag. “I’ll buy you boba tea after school.”
“You’ll need it more than me,” she says. “You look stressed already.”
“Because I am,” I admit. “This means something to me.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Then make it count.”
---
By the time I get to school, the sky’s overcast — that kind of half-bright, half-brooding weather that matches my mood perfectly.
The photography club room smells like coffee and fresh paper. People are scattered around — snapping shots, editing, talking in small circles.
Jordan’s by the window, leaning over a tripod, adjusting the light. His hoodie sleeves are rolled up, camera strap hanging loose around his neck.
He looks up when I walk in. “Hey,” he says. “You look… tired.”
I manage a weak laugh. “That’s one way to say it.”
“You okay?” he asks, softer now.
“Yeah. Just—rough morning.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really,” I say. “But thanks.”
He studies me for a second, then gestures toward the backdrop setup. “Come on. Distract yourself. Let’s see if we can get your headshot to scream ‘winner’ and not ‘I fought with my mom about modeling.’”
That makes me laugh for real this time. “You read minds now?”
“Photographers read faces,” he says, grinning.
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts in from behind me.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I turn, and there’s Malik — hands in his pockets, that lopsided smile that used to mean trouble.
My stomach dips. “You came.”
He shrugs. “You asked.”
The air changes instantly. Jordan straightens, polite smile fading into something cooler.
“Jordan, this is Malik,” I say quickly. “Malik, Jordan.”
They nod, but it’s stiff. The kind of nod that says I’m not sure I like you yet.
And just like that, the room feels smaller.
---
If nerves were an accessory, I’d be dripping in them.
The auditorium hums with low chatter — students filing in, camera flashes already going off, stage lights flickering like they’re nervous too. The Face of Cleverly competition has the entire school acting like it’s the Met Gala. And somehow, I’m one of the main exhibits.
The air backstage smells like hairspray, fabric glue, and too many people breathing too fast. A few girls are stretching, others whispering affirmations into mirrors like they’re summoning confidence from the glass.
Meanwhile, I’m staring at my reflection, wondering if the dress makes me look like I’m trying too hard.
It’s not even mine — the arts and design club made it. They paired each model with a designer, and I got Serena Park, who’s basically a walking Pinterest board. Her piece is this sleek, structured green dress with sharp shoulders and a slit that says don’t mess with me.
“Don’t slouch,” Serena warns as she pins the hem. “This fabric hates bad posture.”
I grin nervously. “Great. So if I mess up, the dress will snitch on me.”
She snorts. “Exactly.”
Behind her, Jordan’s moving around with his camera, documenting the prep for the school’s social page. He pauses at me, lens lowering slightly. “You look… different,” he says.
“Good different?”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Definitely.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten a little. Then he gives a half-smile and moves on to photograph another group.
I exhale. No big deal. Just my calm, too-perceptive friend who doesn’t realize his smile could cause minor emotional damage.
---
The principal starts his speech — blah blah, excellence, teamwork, vision — and I barely hear any of it. My heart’s thumping too loud.
I sneak a glance through the curtain. The auditorium’s packed — teachers, parents, and a few invited guests in the front row. There’s a banner across the stage that reads THE FACE OF CLEVERLY 2025.
I spot Malik almost immediately — second row, black hoodie under a denim jacket, looking out of place but refusing to care. He catches me peeking, grins, and mouths, you got this.
Something steadies inside me.
Then a soft voice says, “Hey.”
I turn. It’s Adela.
She looks unsure — like she had to psych herself up to walk over.
“Hey,” I say cautiously.
She takes a breath. “I just wanted to say… good luck. Seriously. I know things have been—” she hesitates “—weird between us.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Weird?”
“Okay, tense,” she admits, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And that’s mostly on me. I shouldn’t have believed what people said. About you.”
I study her. “What did they say?”
She shakes her head quickly. “Doesn’t matter. Just—forget it. You deserve to enjoy tonight, okay?”
There’s something fragile about her tone, something that makes me want to believe her. So I nod. “Okay.”
She squeezes my arm once, then walks off before I can think too hard about it.
---
When it’s my turn, the MC calls, “Serena Park’s design, modeled by Amara Okoye!”
My stomach flips.
Serena gives me a thumbs-up. Jordan’s by the aisle, camera ready. Malik leans forward.
And then… I walk.
Every step feels like borrowed courage. I remember Jordan’s voice from practice — chin up, eyes forward. I remember Mom’s voice too — the world doesn’t give second chances to girls who make the wrong first impression.
So I walk like I belong here.
The dress catches the light perfectly. I hear a few whispers — not mocking, just curious. I keep my focus, breathing steady, pretending this moment doesn’t decide my entire reputation.
Halfway down the runway, I catch Malik’s eyes again — he’s serious now, jaw tight. And behind him, Jordan lifts his camera. Flash.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
Then the song ends. Applause erupts.
Serena meets me backstage, beaming. “You killed it!”
“Thanks,” I breathe, heart still racing.
---
We wait as the judges deliberate. Everyone’s buzzing — nervous laughter, pacing, the smell of sweat and perfume mixing in the air.
Serena’s scrolling on her phone. “This year’s prize is huge,” she murmurs. “The winner gets a mentorship with a legit agency in Atlanta. That’s career-changing.”
I nod, only half-listening.
Then the MC says something that yanks my attention back.
“…and finally, our guest panel includes alumni and industry professionals. Please welcome Ms. Adela Robinson.”
My blood runs cold.
I push the curtain slightly.
There she is — Jayla. Sitting pretty at the center of the judges’ table, hair slicked, red lipstick flawless.
Jayla Robinson. Ethan’s "somewhat friend".
Jayla Robinson, who I never physically bothered to meet.
The same girl who, according to Adela, was telling people I was involved in that useless pathetic photo .
Now judging this competition.
“What the f**k,” I whisper.
Serena looks up. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say too fast. “Stage lights are just… bright.”
But my eyes stay on Jayla. She’s laughing at something one of the other judges said, looking every bit like she’s already decided something about me.
---
They finally announce the results. Serena and I place somewhere near the top — not first, not last.
She’s thrilled. “We actually placed!”
I smile, nod, pretend to care.
But Jayla’s gaze finds me in the crowd. Her expression is unreadable.
No smile. No frown. Just… knowing.
And then she looks away.
---
Later, when everyone’s gone, I sit backstage, the dress pooling around my legs. My phone buzzes.
Ethan: “Saw the event online. You did great.”
I stare at it. My chest feels heavy.
Me: “You knew she’d be there, didn’t you?”
The typing bubble appears… disappears.
No response.
---
The lights on stage fade one by one, and I’m left in the echo of applause and unanswered questions.
For the first time since joining Cleverly, I realize something I’ve been trying not to admit:
Whatever this is between me, Ethan, and Adela—
It’s not coincidence.
It’s a setup.
And I’m right in the f*****g middle of it.
- Writer
