The room was quiet. Then the woman in the middle—the one who hadn’t looked away once—set down her pen.
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 .
I stood up. My thighs brushed together—a whisper of fabric and warmth. I didn’t apologize for it. Not anymore. curvy girl auditions 7
I was auditioning to see if their stage was big enough for me.
Not what’s your number . Not thank you, next . She wanted my name. The room was quiet
The audition room was vast and hollow, a dance studio with mirrors that seemed to multiply every inch of me. The panel sat at a long table: three women, two men. One of them, a man in a black turtleneck, looked down at my form, then up at me, then down again. I knew that look. It was the arithmetic of possibility versus expectation.
“Maya,” she said again, like she was tasting the word. “We’ll call you.” I didn’t try to make myself smaller
The holding room smelled like coffee, nerves, and the faint, sweet ghost of someone’s vanilla lotion. Number 7 was pinned to my leotard, just over my heart. I traced the edge of the paper square with my thumb, flattening a crease.