6. How to be Messy 101
Cam
The best thing about magazine shoots is you're not expected to pretend you care about anything but your own face.
You just sit there in your assigned chair, letting strangers paint your face for a concept that'll probably get scrapped in post anyway. The energy stays professional-fake: all smiles for the crew, dead eyes for your "collaborators." Everyone knows the drill.
The studio was frigid and intimidating. High ceilings, exposed brick, the kind of space that screams "important art happens here.
" A maze of equipment cases, light stands, and rolling racks stuffed with designer pieces that probably cost more than my car.
The seamless white backdrop stretched fifteen feet high, so clean it made your vision vibrate.
This was for Amplify Magazine's "Women in Rap" issue.
The kind of cover story that looked progressive on paper but usually just pit us against each other for clicks.
They'd booked eight of us total, but we'd be shot in pairs or solo, then Photoshopped together later like we were all besties.
I caught King Ash on her way out, my first time meeting her face to face and it was all love.
Bishop and Skye were playing like they weren't sneaky links.
Painfully obvious, but also none of my business anymore.
Skye laughing too hard at my jokes and using every opportunity to touch my arm.
Everyone cool as a fan—except Romi. Her team made a request for her to be seated alone.
Or else.
The memo hadn't said that explicitly, but you could read between the lines.
Romi Dulce doesn't share frames unless she's getting top billing, and even then, she prefers the solo treatment.
Something about "brand integrity" and "artistic vision," which was corporate speak for "I'm too good to stand next to y'all. "
I was in chair two. Face half done, lips lined but still blank, eyes contoured for max drama.
The makeup artist had a magician's hands.
Never lingered, never dropped a brush. She worked at the speed of a time-lapse, swirling and stamping and tapping things I never saw until they were already part of me.
To my left was Stacks, scrolling through her phone. Skye was two chairs down, pretending to ignore me but tossing the occasional sharp look my way. "You still flinch when they come near your eyebrows, huh?" she teased, loud enough for the whole row to hear.
I just snorted. "At least I still have mine, Akasha."
Stacks—Bree—just shot Skye a dirty look, lip curled like she smelled something off and was trying not to call it out.
Skye either didn't notice or pretended not to.
Next to me sat some new girl in a bubblegum pink wig, face tattoos, eyes everywhere but her own mirror.
She kept angling her phone like she was checking her makeup, but I caught her screen open to her camera more than once.
"Can you make it more editorial but street?
" she kept asking the makeup artist, not even watching for a reaction.
The room felt like a rumor waiting to happen.
The crew was running behind. I could tell by the way the photographer kept checking his phone, and the producer had that manic energy of someone trying to will time to slow down.
Originally, we were supposed to wrap by two, but it was already pushing half past noon and they hadn't finished the first setup.
All because someone felt that call time was a suggestion that didn't apply to them.
Studio shoots are basically controlled chaos disguised as art.
Everyone pretends they know what they're doing until someone with actual authority shows up and undoes everything.
The photographer—some bearded white guy who probably charged five figures for a day rate—kept adjusting and readjusting the same light, like moving it two inches to the left was going to transform the whole concept.
My phone was face-up on my thigh, screen unlocked, the display lighting up every few seconds with a fresh ping until I flicked it on silent. The notifications were going crazy. Apparently some drama had popped off while I was getting my face beat.
I scrolled, half-watching as a makeup sponge tapped at my jaw.
The first couple notifications were the usual: fan edits, reaction GIFs, a tag from the production team.
Then came the shift. The next ten pings all referenced the same thing.
My own @ flooded with tags from stan accounts and the kind of blogs that made money off screenshots and blood.
"WHEW SHES READINGGGG," one captioned a blurry screen grab.
Another said, "not the flop era shade, omfg. "
I arched a brow, which caused the nearest makeup artist to gently push it back down. "Relax your forehead for me, hon?" she murmured.
At the top of the pile was another post from Romi's official, the second one today.
Not a selfie or a product spon, but a black screen with white text, the signature block font she used for "public statements" to address the people she saw as subjects.
She still had stuff she needed to pop off after we saw each other at the festival. We both did. It read:
Some people want to build a legacy. Some just want the streams. If you have to namedrop me for clicks, that's not a comeback, that's a flop era, babes. Do better.
I snorted, but it came out as more of a click in my throat. Did she literally always wake up on ten?
The audacity was almost impressive. Here I was, minding my business at a professional shoot, and Romi was out here dropping subliminals like she was running a public service announcement.
The woman couldn't go twenty-four hours without reminding the world that she existed and everyone else was just borrowing space in her universe.
Stacks was focused on her own phone, probably seeing the same notifications I was.
The pink-haired girl had her eyes closed while someone applied fake lashes.
Everyone in the room was in their own bubble, but I could feel the shift in energy, that electric buzz that comes when drama hits the timeline.
The whole internet was already debating if this was about me, or about Niko, or about someone even less relevant but somehow still on Romi's radar. I knew the drill by now.
What stung wasn't the accusation. It was the assumption that everything was about her.
Romi couldn't post about the weather without her fans tagging me in the comments.
She'd built this whole mythology around herself where every other female rapper was either competition or tribute, never just another artist trying to make music.
But two could play this game.
I never let them see me type.
I waited until the makeup artist moved away to touch up Stacks's criminally high cheekbones, then flicked my phone up, face unlock, two-tap to Chattr. The interface glared back, blank. I let my fingers hover for a second, then started typing under one of my ten million tags:
If it was about me, I'd be flattered. But I don't think I've flopped yet.
The kiss emoji was capital P-petty, but also, like, calculated petty.
It said "I'm unbothered" while also saying "fuck you" in the most passive-aggressive way possible Romi had perfected.
Romi's fans would analyze for hours, and my fans would turn it into a full green-screen breakdown videos of Fizzr, kinda like cable news reporters dropping breaking news. Perfect.
I hit share, then thumbed it straight to my main feed. Phone back in lap, screen black.
Within forty-five seconds, my notifications went supernova.
The beauty of social media beef was how fast it moved.
You could throw a match into gasoline and watch the whole thing explode in real time.
I didn't need to check to know that every gossip blog was already screenshotting my response, probably with headlines like "CAM WOLFE CLAPS BACK" in all caps with flame emojis.
"Cam, you're up first," the photographer called out, checking his camera settings. "We'll do your solo shots, then bring in Stacks for the pair."
I slid off the chair, straightening the designer jacket they'd draped over my shoulders. Navy with exaggerated shoulders, so stiff it felt like wearing origami. The stylist fussed with the fit, pinning the lapel just so.
"Where's the Romi Dulce team?" the producer asked, checking her clipboard with visible stress. "They were supposed to be here an hour ago."
"Traffic!" someone called out. "Her people said thirty more minutes, tops."
Traffic in LA was always the excuse, but everyone knew the real deal. Romi was making an entrance. She probably timed her arrival perfectly. Late enough to keep everyone waiting, but not so late that she looked unprofessional. It was a power move disguised as an inconvenience. Her specialty.
Stacks caught my eye in the mirror. "This gonna be awkward AF," she murmured.
"Only if we make it awkward," I said, but my stomach was already tightening.
The thing about industry events was that everyone pretended beef was business until you were actually in the same room.
Then it became a test of who could act more unbothered while secretly calculating every micro-expression and gesture.
I'd watched other artists navigate these moments.
Some crumbled under the pressure; others turned it into performance art.
The photographer motioned me into place. I slid into position, one hand in the jacket pocket, the other at my side. Lights blared. The air was thick with the smell of heat and hairspray.
"Give me proud. Give me savage," the camera guy said, his voice echoing in the studio.
I gave him something. Chin up, eyes locked.
Between shutter snaps, I let myself drift. I thought about Romi, about whether she'd actually show up or send her team with some excuse about "scheduling conflicts." Part of me hoped she would. Part of me hoped she wouldn't.