My mom is smiling into her tea at our tiny card table in our kitchen when I swish by in my Saturday clothes. She looks up and smirks. "Birdy, you alright? You look awful peaky." I feel my forehead with my palm. "What, mom? I'm fine. Just going grocery shopping. We have NO Odwalla bars or Red Bull in the house to speak of, and I have two show fittings and a term review this week!" I'm fully aware that I'm close to screeching, which doesn't exactly convey a sense of maturity. Mom swishes her spoon in the dregs in her cup and smiles gently. "All I'm saying is that you look like Angelina Jolie in Girl Interrupted. How much sleep have you been getting?"

I sigh. "What on earth does that have to do with anything? Look, after I go shopping, I also have to drop off my portfolio , so I'll be gone awhile." my Type-A alter also ticks off what I gotta if I'm going to get a scout and graduate school this year. Shit. All this is happening in split seconds, speeding from neuron to neuron in the frenzied dance that is my perpetual to-do list. My mom suddenly snaps to attention. "Which portfolio?Your freshman-year commercial spread or that book of photography that Marcus shot of you in Hell's Kitchen?" I grin. "Both."

"That's my girl." I give her a kiss and run out, my big canvas backpack slapping my ass like a metronome. To Do #607: Go to Gym.

The End

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