The fashion models mocked me, not knowing I was the one hiring them.
The Disastrous Walk
But the best part, they still had to cast in front of me. And that was about to be a whole lot of fun.
I let the silence stretch out for exactly three seconds while the three of them stood there frozen like mannequins in a store window. The casting director started to speak, but I held up my hand and turned to Anna, Christa, and Louise, who were still standing in the exact spots where they had been tormenting me 60 seconds ago.
I picked up the clipboard from the table and clicked my pen open with a sharp snap that made all three of them flinch. “Since you’re already here, you’ll complete your casting walks,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly calm and professional.
Anna’s face went from white to red to white again in the span of two heartbeats. Her hands started shaking so hard she dropped her portfolio, and papers scattered across the floor.
She bent down to grab them, but her fingers wouldn’t work right, and she kept missing the pages. Christa tried to help her, but knocked over her own bag in the process, sending lipsticks and compacts rolling everywhere.
Louise just stood there with her mouth hanging open like she’d forgotten how to close it. The casting director moved toward the door, but I shook my head slightly, and she stopped mid-step.
“Anna, you’re first,” I said, pointing to the runway marks on the floor.
She looked at the straight line she’d mocked me for struggling with, and her leg started trembling so badly I could see it through her skinny jeans. She took one step and her ankle rolled in her heel.
She caught herself but overcorrected and stumbled to the left. The second step wasn’t much better and by the third she was walking like someone had replaced her kneecaps with jello-.
She tried to do the pivot turn at the end but forgot which way to turn and ended up doing this awkward shuffle that looked nothing like the confident strut she’d had five minutes ago. I made notes on my clipboard with the same critical expression she’d worn while filming me writing things like lacks basic coordination and unable to maintain straight line.
She tripped over her own feet twice on the way back, catching herself on the wall the second time. Her face was now the color of a tomato, and sweat was starting to beat on her forehead despite the air conditioning.
“Thank you, Anna. Next,” I said, without looking up from my notes.
Christa stepped forward, but her whole body was shaking like she’d been dunked in ice water. She tried to start her first pose, but her hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and it looked less like modeling and more like she was having some kind of medical episode.
The green juice stain on my dress caught the studio lights every time she glanced my way, which was every two seconds. And each time she looked, she’d lose her concentration and forget what she was doing.
She attempted a hair flip, but her hand got tangled and she spent five seconds trying to pull it free. Her signature pose, the one I’d seen her practice earlier while waiting, completely fell apart when she couldn’t remember which leg went forward.
She tried three different versions, and each one looked worse than the last. By the time she reached the end of the runway, she’d completely forgotten her final pose and just stood there with her arms hanging at her sides like wet noodles.
“Noted,” I said, scribbling more observations about her complete lack of professional composure.
Louise couldn’t even make eye contact when I called her name. She stared at the floor like a kid who’d been caught stealing candy and shuffled forward with her shoulders hunched so far forward, she looked like she was trying to fold herself in half.
The same shoulders she’d pushed mine back with were now curved inward in total defeat. When she tried to state her name and agency for the slate introduction, her voice came out as this tiny mumble that nobody could understand.
She had to repeat it three times, and even then, it sounded like she was talking through a mouthful of cotton. Her walk was more of a shuffle, her feet barely lifting off the ground.
Nothing like the confident stride she’d demonstrated earlier when she was explaining how models who book Eden Lauron are set for life. She made it halfway down the runway before she stopped completely, just standing there like she’d forgotten where she was or what she was supposed to be doing.
After 10 seconds of painful silence, I cleared my throat and she jerked back into motion, practically running to the end and back. They stood there in a line when they finished, looking nothing like the confident, cruel girls who’d spent an hour destroying me.
Anna kept touching her shattered phone screen, cutting her finger on the glass. Christa’s makeup was starting to run from the sweat. Louise was blinking rapidly like she was trying not to cry.
“We’ll be in touch,” I said, using the exact phrase they’d been so desperate to hear just minutes before.
They gathered their bags in complete silence, none of them able to look at each other or me. Anna tried to pick up her phone, but her hands were shaking too badly, and it slipped again, the screen cracking even more.
Christa grabbed three lipsticks off the floor and shoved them in her bag without checking if they were even hers. Louise just clutched her portfolio to her chest like it was a shield.
The second the door closed behind them, the casting director rushed over to me, her face pale and her hands ringing together. She started apologizing immediately, saying she should have been monitoring the waiting area better, that this was completely unacceptable, that she’d never seen anything like this happen before.
I held up my hand to stop her mid-sentence. “This isn’t your fault,” I told her, setting down the clipboard. “But we need to talk about new protocols for model behavior during castings.”
She nodded so fast, I thought her head might fall off and pulled out her tablet to take notes. I asked her to compile a list of every model who’d been kind to the PA today, anyone who treated others with respect during the session.
She scrolled through her notes and started highlighting names, telling me about a girl who’d helped another model with her zipper. Another who’ shared her water bottle when someone forgot theirs.
These were the people I actually wanted to consider for my campaign, not the ones who thought cruelty was the price of success. “Scarlet Dubois,” I said, remembering the newer model who’d offered me tissues to clean the juice stain earlier when everyone else was laughing.
The casting director’s face lit up, and she immediately called Scarlet back in from the hallway where she was waiting. Scarlet walked in looking confused but professional. Her posture perfect but not rigid.
“You’ve made it to call backs,” I told her, watching her eyes widen in genuine surprise based on how you treated someone you thought had no power.
She started to say something but just nodded instead. A real smile spreading across her face. Not the fake model smile but actual happiness.
