At the end, I stopped. The last note of the piano faded.
I had done this six times before.
I didn’t do what I used to do. I didn’t try to make myself smaller. I didn’t suck in my stomach or hold my arms tight to hide the softness underneath. I breathed out, let my shoulders drop, and began . curvy girl auditions 7
“Number seven,” she said. “What’s your name?”
I walked to center floor. The pianist played the first four bars of something slow, something aching—a ballad about wanting and not quite belonging. At the end, I stopped
On the way out, I passed the holding room. The other girls were still waiting, still sharp, still folding themselves into smaller versions of themselves. I unpinned number seven and held it in my palm.
She wrote it down. Then she smiled—not the polite, close-mouthed smile I’d learned to dread. A real one. I didn’t do what I used to do
I stood up. My thighs brushed together—a whisper of fabric and warmth. I didn’t apologize for it. Not anymore.
