Eighteen-year-old Heather Johnston gets the opportunity of her life when she is signed by a premier New York modeling agency. She leaves her small Virginia hometown behind for dreams of Vogue spreads and a luxurious loft overlooking Central Park. Arriving in Manhattan, she is instead given the key to a cramped one-bedroom downtown apartment furnished with bunk beds and IKEA floor samples. Her roommates are exotically beautiful girls boasting a considerable array of vices, including alcohol, cocaine, backstabbing, and fabulously expensive haute couture. Despite their humble quarters, they form an unlikely family. By day they shuttle between castings and shoots, and at night they come to life in the VIP rooms of New York's hottest clubs. While this world is fast-paced and fun, Heather soon questions whether modeling is the fairy tale she imagined it to be. When she gets a part-time job at a prestigious gallery and discovers a passion for art, Heather realizes she might be ready to say good-bye to her dreams of wealth and celebrity and follow a different path. Fun, campy, and ultimately full of heart, Secrets of the Model Dorm takes readers behind the scenes of the world's most glamorous industry -- exposing all of its dirty little secrets and what it really takes to make it -- or break it -- as a model. "Kerlin and Oh treat readers to plenty of sex, drugs, and stilettos in their splashy debut....Juicy fun." -- Kirkus Reviews "A breezy, beach-ready read that reveals what it's really like to be piss poor, underworked, and gorgeous." -- The Village Voice "Riotously entertaining." -- Nylon magazine Amanda Kerlin first signed to a top international modeling agency at the age of fourteen, and spent most of her teenage years in Paris, Milan, Cape Town, and New York. She has appeared in magazines such as Elle, Glamour, Teen Vogue , and Marie Claire ; been featured in advertisements for Abercrombie & Fitch and Naturalizer Shoes; and modeled for John Galliano and DKNY. She is now an art history major and lives with non-model roommates in Manhattan. Phil Oh graduated from New York University with a degree in history. He now runs a global street fashion website called Street Peeper, occasionally DJs, and spends his time traveling to far-off lands. He met Amanda when he was a guest in the model dorm and now resides in Brooklyn. Secrets of the Model Dorm A Novel By Amanda Kerlin Washington Square Press Copyright © 2007 Amanda Kerlin All right reserved. ISBN: 9780743298278 Prologue Tom Ford yipped from inside the bedroom, his tiny claws scratching against the door. His whining was the last thing I wanted to hear after a long day of castings. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Kylie said, sloshing around a half-drunk martini. "Why?" I asked, turning the handle of the bedroom door. Tom Ford bolted from the room, his little legs carrying him as fast as they could. I immediately regretted not heeding her advice: My sixteen-year-old roommate's long, thin model legs were splayed out to each side of her bed. On top of her was a man, pumping away and shouting in a South American accent. Our poor dog, Tom Ford, had been trapped in the bedroom -- terrified by their cries of pleasure; he'd been desperate to get out. The metal frame bunk bed creaked so loudly that they didn't hear me come in. I stood in the doorway, dumbstruck. Not because I'd walked in on my sixteen-year-old roommate getting drilled by her Latin lover. That in and of itself wasn't so shocking. What did catch my attention was the fact that she was entirely naked -- except for the pair of Dior heels she had strapped to her feet. My Dior heels. The guy quickened his pace, and the heels started banging against the bottom of the top bunk. Shit, that can't be good for the shoes. I debated trying to sneak them off without her noticing, but decided that after her fun I'd just give her a little talk about how we ask before we borrow people's things. I closed the door and left them to finish their business. "I told you not to do that," Kylie said, taking a sip of her drink. On the couch, Lucia was crying again. All six-foot-one of her was laid across the cushions, her face buried in a throw pillow. She peeked her tear-soaked face at me, reached mournfully to the coffee table, and pulled another Kleenex from the box. Tom Ford licked her hand, trying to comfort her, to no avail. After blowing her delicate reddened nose into it, Lucia threw the Kleenex onto the pyramid of other used tissues. She was quiet for about a second, then her skinny body started shaking again as the sobs came. Kylie, who was sitting in pajamas on the chair next to her, looked annoyed. Lucia's crying was distracting her from the television just as her favorite character was getting voted off the Survivor island. "Shut up, Lucia. . . . Shut up! And watch it -- you're getting makeup all over the couch," the redheaded Kylie said in a slurred Australi