Being in fifth grade is the worst thing ever. At home, Dad is always telling me to turn the television down. Then at school, Mrs. Cobb is always yelling at me to get back to my desk, or Jeremy Linder is making fun of me because the sole is coming off my tennis shoe. Well, they're all going to be so jealous when I'm all grown-up, beautiful, and wearing a bikini while I hand out flyers at the auto show.
Everyone in my class wants to be a doctor or a lawyer or something stupid like that. That's because they're boring—or maybe because they know they wouldn't look good in a bikini. Well, I hate school, and there's no way I'm going to go to college for a million years. Ever since my mom and my mom's boyfriend took me to the Bryant County Expo Center, I've known exactly what my dream job is. I want a job where I can have fun, like the women from the Saleen auto-parts booth.
The women in bikinis were laughing and dancing, and everyone was talking to them because they were so glamorous—even people who didn't want a flyer. The woman in the pink bikini was my favorite, because her swimsuit matched her high heels. She gave me my very own Saleen Performance Parts & Accessories catalog to take home. I keep it in my backpack and pull it out during recess when no one will play with me.
When I first saw my older brother Keith's poster of the women wearing the Budweiser bikinis, I knew I wanted to do something glamorous, where there would be people whose only job was to put makeup on me and bring me different bikinis and tell me how great I look.
Why go to college when all I need to make money is a bikini? Of course, I'd want to have a whole lot of bikinis, so I could choose which one was best for the job. I'm sure Dad would get me some to start out with. He always buys me stuff, ever since he and Mom got divorced.
I'm not stupid or anything—I know I have to work my way up to beer posters. I'll probably have to start by wearing cutoffs and a halter top at the county fair and asking people to sign up to win a gas grill. But before you know it, I'll be handing out keychains in stadium parking lots. From there, the sky's the limit.
I'll always have a positive attitude. I'll have my picture taken with tons of guys, and I'll smile really big for all of them. I won't even mind if a guy rubs up against me weird, unless he makes me drop my flyers or undoes my bikini top. I'm totally going to keep in shape and learn how to walk in high heels as soon as I get boobs. And I'll talk to people and make them feel special and stuff. I just know that I can put people at ease and make them forget that they're fully dressed, and I'm in a bikini trying to get them to try Bacardi Silver.
It sucks that I have to be 18 to work in a bar. Keith once dated this girl Tammy who modeled lingerie in nightclubs. Guys were always asking her on dates and telling her how beautiful she was. She even had to be escorted to her car every night, just like a star. I know I'll work really hard and be totally professional. I won't drop a single drink, unless someone pushes me really hard. Even if someone at a boat show grabs my butt, I'll just smile and tell him, "That's not for sale. This outboard motor is, though."
I'm going to live at the beach and take off my top when I'm tanning, like they do in magazines. I'll have a huge beach house with a big stereo and a volleyball net out back. Of course, Jeremy Linder won't be invited. If he shows up, I'll call the cops and tell them I'm a bikini promotional girl and Jeremy is a creep, and they'll put him in jail until he apologizes for putting peanut butter in my hair in the third grade.
I can't wait till I make it big. Everyone in this town will see my poster or my liquor-store standee or my power-tool calendar. Mrs. Cobb will see my picture on the cover of Hot Rod Monthly and think, "I was wrong to doubt that Cindy would become a bikini model." Well, I hope she doesn't expect me to visit her after I make it, because I'll be way too busy doing sports-radio promotions and handing out Alabama Slammer shooters to even remember her name.