High Life : A WEEKLY FORUM FOR HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS : Portfolio? Smile! Thanks. Next! : A teen model’s life is not all big bucks and glamour. There are auditions, long hours, expenses and disappointments.

My mother drops me off on the corner, next to an old, gray building. It’s on the corner of La Brea Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, but that doesn’t matter because all the buildings look the same.

I take a deep breath and casually saunter in, wearing my standard outfit of jeans, cowboy boots and T-shirt. Into the building and up a set of creaky stairs I go, clutching a pair of sunglasses and my portfolio.

Upstairs, there are about 10 other models, all waiting to see this particular client for this particular job. “Is there a sign-in sheet or anything?” I casually ask.

Most of the girls shrug and look away, but one smiles and says, “Yeah, it’s over in the corner, on the table.” Now that I’ve found it and signed in, it’s time to wait. It looks like it could take anywhere from five minutes to 1 1/2 hours, and it’s a school night.

I wait and I wait as one by one the girls before me enter and then leave from a room at the end of the hall. Finally, it’s my turn, my chance to really make them remember me, to . . . gosh, I hope I don’t trip!

Inside the room are two ordinary, rather tired-looking people--a man and a woman. They’re sitting at an old table drinking cups of something.

“Hi, how’s it going? Nice to meet you,” I chirp brightly, shaking hands.

The woman keeps one hand extended, asking for my portfolio.

Quickly, the two flip through my book, which is a collection of photographs that have been painstakingly chosen by my agency to be viewed for about five seconds each.

As the woman whirls by one picture, I think back to a time two weeks ago when it was taken. I’d spent six hours shooting on the beach--shivering and wet--to get that shot.

The man and woman look me over as I smile and look nonchalantly around the room.

“Thanks,” the man says, handing back my book and running a hand over his eyes. That’s it. I’m dismissed. However, the game isn’t over, for as I walk out the room and past other models waiting their turns, I smile confidently, hoping to make them think the job is mine.

“How did it go?” my mother asks as I slide into the car.

“OK. I couldn’t really tell what they thought of me.”

The ride home is very quiet, but there isn’t much traffic so we should be there in about an hour. Back home to Orange County, back to a world of history tests, math homework and acting like a junior in high school is supposed to act, instead of like a cool, unruffled model.

It’s hard, sometimes, to do both.

Most people think that being a model--and especially a teen model--is always a lot of fun and that you get paid big bucks. Well, the truth is, starting off you end up spending a lot of money, but, yes, it can be fun.

I’ve missed a day of school to be flown to San Francisco, accompanied by my older sister, for a day’s work and $1,200. I shot a Japanese golf catalogue for a day and a half in Palm Springs and received $1,400 in cash.

Modeling is exciting, scary and sometimes exasperating.

My agency called me one Friday to work the next day on a magazine shoot. Although I’ve just turned 16, I was 15 at the time.

The photographer was staying in the ritziest suite at the Biltmore, a distinguished, old hotel in downtown Los Angeles. Dressed in old tennis shoes and overalls, I trudged into this huge suite that had a grand piano and a dining room with chandeliers.

My mom left, and for the next eight hours I was made up, dressed, undressed, dressed again, until--finally--just the right outfit was found. It was a very short, backless dress, hand-beaded in all the colors of the rainbow.

“Smile . . . good, perfect, now think of something really wonderful,” the photographer said as I sashayed around the room. All I could think about at the time was breathing right in that dress.

Afterward, I went into the bathroom to change into my next outfit. I’ve always been a slob, always dumping my clothes on the floor. As I slipped out of the $4,000 dress, I dumped it on the floor, too, just to see if it felt the same as when I drop my sweaty volleyball clothes. It didn’t, so I picked it up and hung it in the closet.

The photographer assured me that the pictures would be used in the magazine, and I excitedly waited for them to appear in the next issue. Unfortunately, they weren’t there. Oh well, it happens. Either something or someone better came along or they just didn’t turn out. But what do I tell my friends, who were also waiting to see them? The moral: Don’t tell anybody anything until you see it in print.

Throughout the ups and downs, I still love modeling. Sometimes I feel perfect; other times I feel fat and ugly. But there’s something about being part of all the action . . . the runways, the photographers, the models and the expensive dresses. I won’t give it up, so wish me luck!