Factor

She could not contain her happiness when the news came. Chosen from tens of hopefuls for a single part, she wowed them with her dancing prowess.

They called her Miss Michael Jackson. She was not dark-skinned nor looking Caucasian but her complexion could be considered akin to a Greek goddess: shiny bronze.

Her dreams of becoming a star began to take shape. The media exposure could be not far behind.

“You’ll be in the limelight,” her talent coordinator explained, “people will look up to you.”

“I am ready to be famous.”

She did not suspect anything when told to perfect a robotic routine. No problem, she consoled herself.

The practice went smoothly. Her wardrobe of clothes consisted of designer jeans, in vogue sweatshirts and jogging apparel. Even the expensive rubber shoes matched her ensemble.

“Can you do the moonwalk?” the manager asked, attending the rehearsals for the first time.

For an answer, she effortlessly performed the act.

“Are you sure you want the job?” the manager looked at her impressed, “we’ll sign the contract right now.”

“Where do I sign?” she smiled enthusiastically. “I won’t let this opportunity slipping through my fingers.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Without reading the contents of the two-page document, she affixed her signature, her hands trembled because of the excitement.

The day arrived: she was punctual. The expected crowd she thought of meeting her in the inaugural show was late. But she was more concerned with her performance: nothing but the best.

“The stage is set,” reminded the effeminate coordinator. “Get dressed.”

At first, she was confused. Why the rush?

When she got out of the dressing room, people started to pour in from the newly-opened mall doors. She believed they were there to see her rise to stardom.

“Where are you going?” asked the manager who walked beside her. She was headed to the circular lobby where shows were usually performed.

“There,” she pointed to the elevated structure.

“No,” the coordinator came rushing, “come with me.”

She could not believe it. The 4 feet-by-10 feet glass enclosure in front of the mall was her stage.

“This is a mistake,” she tried to back out. “Why should I go inside?”

“You signed up to be a live mannequin.”

BLOGGING   LIFE/STYLES   MY STORIES   WHISPER   ZONE

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