“Kayla has that look, she is a natural,” the man said, handing my seventeen-year-old granddaughter a glossy business card with a gold foil edge. Kayla lit up like a Christmas tree, and my daughter, Tracey, was already looking at him like he was our savior.
We were standing right outside the JCPenney entrance at the Great Lakes Mall in Mentor, Ohio. The air smelled of cheap cinnamon pretzels and floor wax. I had driven my old gray Buick LeSabre there because Tracey wanted to look at winter coats, but we had been sidetracked by this slick stranger. He wore a gray suit that looked expensive from a distance, though if you looked closer, the cuffs were slightly frayed and his leather shoes were scuffed at the heels.
He called himself Marcus Vance. He had a smooth, practicing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Every time a mall security guard walked past our group, Marcus would subtly shift his shoulders, turning his back to them. I noticed that. I worked as a dental receptionist for thirty-four years before I retired, sorting paper charts and dealing with insurance companies that did not want to pay. You learn to watch people’s eyes when you spend that long looking at them through a sliding glass window.
“The portfolio fee is eight hundred dollars,” Marcus explained, pointing to the gold-edged card Kayla was twirling between her fingers. Her silver charm bracelet, the one with the little tennis racket and the star charms I bought her for her middle school graduation, made a light clinking sound. “That covers her professional headshots. Then, we do the portfolio weekend in Atlanta. We arrange the hotel, of course. It is a closed-door showcase for major scouts.”
Tracey was already nodding. She works at a local pediatric clinic, and she has struggled with money ever since Kayla’s father left us. She always wanted Kayla to have something bigger than our quiet suburb. Just the month before, Kayla had been rejected from the high school varsity cheer squad, and she had been moping around the house for weeks. This stranger was offering her a dream on a silver platter, and Tracey wanted to believe it so badly. I could smell the faint scent of Tracey’s Elizabeth Arden Lavender spray, which she always wore when she was nervous or excited.
“Eight hundred is a lot of money, Tracey,” I said quietly. My voice was flat. I did not want to start an argument in front of Kayla, but my stomach was already doing that familiar, heavy turn.
“Oh, Mom, please don’t start,” Tracey muttered, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on Marcus, who was smiling at us like a patient uncle. “This is a real opportunity. You heard him. He thinks she has the look.”
