The last thing I ever expected was to have a modeling career, in this life or my last.
It certainly wouldn’t have been my first choice to pose for a children’s clothing catalog. However, it was a rare opportunity for an eleven-year-old like myself to actually earn money, so it was worth exploring. If I was to undertake any of my plans in the Butterfly Manifesto, I would need more capital. Besides, it was a break from the monotony of middle school life, and that was always worth the time.
Two weeks ago, Mom’s friend Marie invited us to a preliminary audition at her office, where she and several of the members of the staff met with me. They snapped some photos, had me pose in a couple of outfits, and apparently I passed. I think I would have gotten in no matter what, seeing as Marie loved fawning over her friend’s daughter and they were short on models for this season.
The shoot took place on a Saturday in early April. Because of child labor laws, minors were only allowed a restricted number of hours of work, so it was a flurry of activity on shooting day to make sure there were enough images for their quota. Mom and I arrived at the studio, which was in a warehouse west of Minneapolis. There were dozens of busy adults running around with spotlights, bundles of clothing, and clipboards. There were many white backdrops set up, as well as scenes of gardens and pools. The sounds of clicking cameras and construction echoed in the space, and the smell of hairspray filled my nostrils.
There were about eight subjects, including myself, who were being photographed that day. The general idea was that we would be switching between outfits for the majority of the day to get a good variety of shots. I saw the other models with their respective stage moms fussing with their hair and already practicing their poses. None of them struck me as particularly friendly, so I kept my distance. I did, however, quietly calculate how I was going to navigate my presentation for the day, and was thankful Mom wasn’t as fickle as the other mothers.
The modeling process was overwhelming, yet incredibly mind-numbing. There were stylists that intricately worked my hair, and a small team that was responsible for getting my outfits lined up. They would dress me and send me to the photographer. “Look at the camera,” they would instruct. “Tilt your head to the right. Laugh at the camera. Sit up straight.” It was rather efficient, and once they had their shots I was sent back to the costumers and switched into a new outfit. I wore a pair of overalls, a summer dress, a rain coat; I lost track of what they were putting me in and eventually I started operating on autopilot. Mom occasionally would grab me a water as I ran the gauntlet of clothes.
I couldn’t help but reflect on the artificial nature of everything. The sets, the emotions, even the participants were trying to position themselves to be authentic. I couldn’t help but compare it to the markets, and how I was just a component in a well-oiled machine. I felt like a doll, being dressed and passed around to be played with, and if I had done this a year ago I probably would have been humiliated. As it was, I was just participating in a transaction. No one would question it unless I didn’t smile or pose for the camera.
During the lunch break, all of the kids were seated together and they served us sandwiches. All of us looked a bit tired, despite being only halfway through the day. I sat next to a blonde girl named Brittney with a frizzled perm as I devoured my ham and swiss.
“I haven’t seen you before,” said Brittney as she regarded me with an unimpressed look.
“Yeah, this is my first day. I didn’t expect it to be so crazy.”
Brittney huffed. “Well, that’s just how the job is. I’m a professional, you know. I’ve been doing this since I was six.”
I nodded absently. “How nice for you.”
“I have an agent, too. My mom and I will probably be going to New York or Los Angeles next year. I’m very high in demand.”
I took another bite of my sandwich. “Mm hmm.”
Brittney continued. “You know, when you’re on set, you shouldn’t look so bored.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Brittney straightened up. “You have to have energy when you’re posing. That’s what makes a model stick out. Like I do.”
I smirked in spite of myself. “Well, I sort of figured since it’s a ‘back to school’ catalog that they’d want me to look bored.”
“Well, that’s the attitude that separates the professionals from the amateurs,’ she scoffed.
After lunch, there was another flurry of camera shots. This time they did some group photos, having us wear different versions of the same outfit. I sat next to Brittney and another girl, with me in a blue dress, Brittney in red, and the other girl in yellow. We were in front of a set up that made us look like we were in a back yard.
“Okay girls,” said the photographer, "pretend that you’re all best friends and you’re having a party. Big smiles!”
To her credit, Brittney fired off a laugh that would swear was authentic if I didn’t know any better. I had to admit, this girl had the enthusiasm. I decided to take her advice and match her energy, making my smile as big as hers, as we acted as if we were having the time of our lives. We stopped and reset several times, but I merely stood in place as well as Brittney and the other girl did. They would touch up our hair or add a light application of makeup, and we would patiently wait until they started snapping photos.
The afternoon led on like that, and I was asked to pose with pretty much all of the other kids at one point or another. As soon as I was done with one shot, I was hustled away to put on the next. It was tough trying to look happy and smiling for so many hours, but I managed to push through. Eventually we reached the end of the day, and Mom was waiting for me to help me out of the party dress I had just posed in and to get me into my regular clothes.
“So, how do you feel, sweetie?”
“Blegh,” I croaked dramatically. “It was a lot harder than I thought it was. I feel like I’ve been running all day.”
Mom looked a bit weary as. “I think you managed it very well. But those other mothers are a little too into all of this. What did you think?”
I blankly considered it for a moment. “It was certainly…an experience. I wasn’t into it either.”
Mom wrinkled her nose with a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. I’m definitely not a stage-mom. But you don't have to do it again if you don’t want to.”
I pulled my sweat shirt over my head. The entire day felt ridiculous, though I wasn’t embarrassed. I wasn’t given a moment to remember to be embarrassed.
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
Once I was dressed, Marie found us and ran over to speak to us. She seemed a little frazzled over the bustle of the day, but still as energetic as ever. “Maya, you were excellent today! Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure,” I responded.
“Annette, this is quite a girl you have here. We have a session about once or twice a month, and I for one would love to see both of you again.”
“I don’t know how you manage all this, Marie! I told Maya it’s up to her if she wants to do it again.”
“Oh, before I forget,” Marie said, shifting through her papers, “I’ll give you the check for today directly to save some time. I think I might be able to throw in a little extra if you decide to come back,” she winked at me. “Ah, here we are!”
Marie handed my mother the check, and when Mom took a look at it her eyes bulged. “This is for just today?”
Marie smiled as Mom faltered a bit. She passed the check over to me, and my eyes ran over the amount. It was my turn to stare like I had an electric shock. I don’t think I had ever had this much money when I was a kid, let alone after one day. My mind spun. Is this why stage-moms go so nuts for all of this?
“So, what do you think?” asked Marie with a twinkle in her eye.
I met her gaze. “I’ll see you next time, Aunt Marie.”
***
It was about a week after my twelfth birthday, and the trio of checks I had received so far were sitting in the bag on my lap. I had had a couple of modeling sessions since the first one, and thought they were tiring and a little debasing, I would do what I had to do in order to earn some starting capital. Mom wanted to open a savings account to deposit my earnings, but I had spent the last week convincing Dad of an alternative. This was why he was in the driver’s seat of his blue Ford Bronco as we drove downtown.
“I’m still not sure what a ‘custodial brokerage account’ is, kiddo,” he said for at least the hundredth time. “Is it from one of those books you’re always reading?”
“It’s just different than a savings,” I patiently explained. “It can actually earn more interest than a savings account, and it would let me try those stocks trades that…I learned about in class.”
Dad puffed out his cheeks. “I’m still on the fence about that sort of stuff. I don’t want you losing the money you’re making before you can put it towards college, like we planned.”
“You’d be in charge of the account, Dad,” I said quietly. “As the custodian, you’d be there to manage everything.”
He exhaled. “Well, it’s what you asked for on your birthday. And it sounds like you know what you’re doing, kiddo.”
“Besides,” I offered, “it’ll be educational. I want to try out all of this financial stuff I’ve been learning about. In school,” I added quickly.
“I tell ya,” muttered Dad as we pulled into the parking lot, “when I was in school we just did long division.”
I had specifically chosen this particular brokerage firm after scouting around. I had made several phone inquiries around the Twin Cities by speaking with my best ‘adult’ voice. I needed to make sure that not only would they have shares and brokers with the connections I needed, but that they were able to handle the types of orders I would require remotely. Technologically, trades in 1993 were going to be painfully slow, and coming downtown to place orders in person wouldn’t be possible. I was really looking forward to the internet being invented in a few years.
After a few minutes sitting in the lobby, Dad and I were called into one of the offices with an accounts clerk. He was a younger guy, perhaps a few years out of college, and he shook hands firmly with Dad and was only slightly patronizing to me.
“Well, Mr. Brown, a custodial account would certainly be a good way for young Maya here to learn about investing. And I can assure you that we will take good care of her earnings.”
“I appreciate that,” replied Dad. “Though to be fair, I have never heard of a – what was it called again, sweetie?”
“A money market sweep account. And since it’s in my name, it means that the first six hundred dollars is tax-free.”
Dad glanced at the clerk, as he blinked. “She’s not wrong, Mr. Brown.”
“I was also told that Dad would be able to oversee and initiate any trades on my behalf over the phone?”
“Um, yes, that would be completely fine,” the clerk answered, still a bit confused. “Now, I can take your checks and process them as initial deposits for the account while you fill in your information in the application packet. It should be about five to eight days before they clear.”
The joys of 1990s efficiency. “Could I get some pre-addressed envelopes to mail future checks directly to your firm?” I asked.
He nodded. “We can do that. Let me prepare some while we finalize the credit check and let your father fill in the paperwork.”
He stepped out for a moment, as I sat next to Dad who was filling out our information.
“Ah, shoot,” Dad said as looked up from his form. “I didn’t bring your social security card.”
“It’s fine,” I replied, as I recited my number to him.
He raised his eyebrow at me. “You know your social by heart?”
“Yeah, don’t you?”
He gave a blank response, and uncomfortably glanced at his paperwork.
I sighed, reaching into my folder. “It’s fine. I brought your card.”
The clerk eventually returned with a stack of pre-marked deposit envelopes as he and Dad reviewed the paperwork. With a rundown of the account information, and a final signature from Dad, we were good to go. I finally had my toehold in finance. It wasn't much, but it was something.
“Alright,” said the clerk as he looked ready to escort us out, “is there anything else I can do for you today?”
"Since the paperwork is finalized and the checks are for deposit, while we’re here I would like to initiate a GTC Sell Limit Order for our first position. Go ahead, Dad.”
Dad’s eyes glazed over, before he noticed me staring at him expectantly. With a start, he pulled out the paper that I had given him to read. He recited it, just like I had coached him.
“Right. We want to short sell fifty shares of IBM. Ticker I-B-M. A limit of fifty-six dollars even. Please mark this as a 'Pending-on-Settlement' instruction. Once the funds are cleared and the margin agreement is coded, I want this order to hit the floor immediately at that price. Also, please call your Stock Loan desk and make sure you have the 'locate' on those fifty shares reserved so we don't lose the borrow the order triggers."
He glanced at me for a moment, before turning to Dad. “Okay, Mr. Brown. We’ll just need to add margin privileges.” He scribbled the orders onto the pad, with yet another quizzical look in my direction.
Some time later, after Dad signed a form he had the barest knowledge of, I got to my feet before the two men in the room could. “Excellent,” I said. “We’ll be in touch by phone next month. If we could have the contact information?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, quickly scribbling a number onto a business card and passing it to me. “We’ll be looking forward to seeing how you operate, Miss Brown. Mr. Brown.” I could still feel him appraising me as we exited his office.
Dad escorted me back to the car. “Sweetheart, I think you’re going to have to explain to your poor dad what exactly happened in there.”
I was silent for a moment before answering. “I wanted to make sure I got the price on IBM while we wait for the checks to be cleared. I wrote it down for you so you would sound like a stock broker.”
Dad gave an impressed chuckle. “Well, I certainly thought I sounded smart! So, you’re buying stocks of IBM? They’re a pretty famous company. Very good move, kiddo.”
“Actually,” I said as I strapped on my seatbelt, “They’re going to have a rough summer, so I’m betting against them. It’s called a ‘short sell’ and it’s what you do if you think a company isn’t going to do well.”
“I’ll be honest. I didn’t even know you could do that,” he admitted.
“It’s not really a big deal. It’s so easy that a twelve-year-old could do it.”
“But how do you know that a company like IBM is going to go bad?”
I took a moment to think about my response.
“I’ve seen it happen before, and it’ll happen again.”