Curvy Girl Auditions 7 -

At the end, I stopped. The last note of the piano faded.

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.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the clipboard woman said. curvy girl auditions 7

Audition one: “We’re looking for a different silhouette.” Audition two: “You have beautiful feet, but…” Audition three: silence, then a form letter. Audition four: a choreographer pulled me aside and whispered, “You should try commercial work. More forgiving.” Audition five: I cried in my car. Audition six: I didn’t cry. I just sat in the parking lot and stared at the dashboard until the streetlights came on.

Now, seven.

The door opened. A woman with a clipboard and kind, tired eyes called out, “Number seven.”

“Maya,” I said.

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.