Name: Hydra Prometheus
Hometown: London, England
Bio: Once upon a time, Hydra was Samantha Black, a pretty, if impossibly geeky, young girl with coke-bottle glasses and her nose always in some fantasy novel. Needless to say, she wasn't popular in her school, where the other girls saw her good looks as a challenge and her personality as something to ridicule. Around the time she was seventeen, she was taken in by the school's tattooed, hair-dyed band of misfits in ripped jeans, who gave her newfound confidence and a whole new look. When she turned eighteen, she even legally changed her name to fit, eager to shed any shred of her old self. Don't call her Samantha. It sets her off- badly. Hydra was scouted on the street by an agent struck by her alternative look and commanding presence and immediately offered to represent her. Not that she's smug about that, or anything. Okay, maybe a little. You can see her now in major magazines or plastered on the side of a bus, or as the face of a well-known anti-bullying website who often travels to high schools to speak on the subject. Too bad that, once she steps off the stage, our little mythologically-named miss isn't all sugar and kindness. She's got a sharp tongue and is trying to claw out a place for herself in the highly competitive world of modeling - and niceness won't get you anywhere there.
Trying to overthrow: Viola Cole
Model: Meghan Collison
"So remember," I muttered to myself as I typed the words on my MacBook, black-polished fingers dancing over the keys, "you never know what someone is going through, so think before you judge them."
I looked over the last paragraph I'd typed. Pretty good, if I said so myself. A lot of platitudes about acceptance and not judging books by their covers. Exactly what the people who ran ABA - the Anti Bullying Alliance, the website and organization that I'd been a spokesperson for going on four months now - would be looking for in a post. I added a hasty "Love to all my readers, Hydra" and fired off the article to the editors. With any luck, it would be proofread and posted on ABA's blog by tomorrow morning.
Before I even had a chance to relax, my phone began buzzing in my pocket. I pulled it out, checking the caller ID-
Reluctant to take the call, I let the Crystal Castles song I'd set as my ring tone get to the chorus before I pressed the "answer" button and brought the phone to my ear.
"Hello, sweetheart!" Chipper as ever, I saw. Or heard. It was like my mother was on a constant supply of uppers, or something. Unless she was angry. You wouldn't like Marissa Black when she's angry; she scares even me. "Patrice just called to tell me, she was in town and saw you in the window of Topshop! Well, not you - your picture - but isn't it amazing?"
"Yeah, really amazing, Mum." I was only half listening. Was I supposed to give a sh!t what my mother or her equally boring friend saw in London or not? Honestly, whenever my mother talked, I just sort of... tuned her out. Her incessant chatter became like the buzz of an insect - irritating, but at least I didn't have to bother listening.
"I just can't believe it, my baby girl in a shop window! I do wish it wasn't with all those tattoos, darling, you know how I feel about them - and the nose piercing - you're so beautiful, you know, your agent must know that to have signed you, you'd be even more dazzling without all the... punk bits. It is called punk, right? Samantha, sweetheart? Are you there?"
When she said my "real" name, a sharp, fiery pang of anger shot through me. I tilted the receiver away from my mouth a bit and made a noise that I hoped would sound like static with my throat. "Ktttchhhhh... Mum, I think you're breaking up on me... khhhhch... bye!" I snapped the phone shut before she could say anything, tossing it across the room onto my bed in annoyance. How on earth was that saccharinely sweet, mind-numbingly dull woman even related to me? God. Sometimes I really did hate her.