Night falls on Manhattan. The potholes smoke. The models...smoke. A title from the cinematic canon of Andy Garcia is mentioned in print for the first time in nearly a decade. Outside of the loft that houses Tyra's Tykes (it's kind of like a Ronald McDonald House thing, but at this one, their security and food are removed rather than supplied), Jenascia sits (or maybe she stands...people, she's short and she wants you to know that she knows) smoking. We kick to a confessional in which she tells us, "Last week I was almost cut." Hey, hey, hey. Do me a favor and keep it to the "previously"s that I refuse to recap, if you know what's good for you. "I don't want to do that again," Jenascia adds. "It wasn't fun." That scene was really short. What it needs to do is learn to walk like it's taller.
A car makes its way down Broadway, montaging between Times Square and Penn Station for maximum, Mapquesting confusion. I'm guessing it's on its way to carry the girls to a calorie-shedding, detoxifying steam in the giant Cup of Noodles cup in the middle of 42nd Street. Sitting next to Breastany and Lara Klingon Boyle, Camille sounds like she's in the middle of a public reading of her Artist's Way morning pages, rambling on without the pesky deterrent of implied verbal punctuation, "The model industry it's not it's not it's not easy trust me you're getting there early in the morning you're waiting all day into night even at Howard University when we do a fashion show and you're confined in like y'know the auditorium...see that right there I worked on that ad campaign see that that is my campaign right there!" Whoa! Who had a second slice of Pop Rocks Pie with dinner back at the loft? That's right! Nobody! Because dessert is a disease, and you can't spell "disease" without "dessert." Or something. What I mean is that at least eight of those eleven girls probably aren't real adept at spelling either of those words.
Breastany groans in response to the morning pages ("Worst artist's date ever," her eyes seem to say), and we cut to her confessional, in which she cackles out of sheer fury, "Camille...where do you start with this one? She's very high-maintenance and she says that she's not, but she is." Cut back to Camille pointing and gesturing at the window, showing the girls the countless fruits of her solo efforts in the Howard University advertising department. And while we never learn exactly which accounts Camille has vaunted to their midtown glory, I have a feeling that if she had as much control over the content of the ads as she said she did, there would be countless life-size advertisements splashed all over Times Square heralding the brilliant craftsmanship, fine sculpting, and durable handling...of Camille. And you can't spell "Camille" without "m" and "e." That's a spelling lesson, girls. You actually can't.