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 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 .
And something told me—curves and all—it just might be. curvy girl auditions 7
The door opened. A woman with a clipboard and kind, tired eyes called out, “Number seven.”
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. She wrote it down
I was auditioning to see if their stage was big enough for me.
Now, seven.
Not what’s your number . Not thank you, next . She wanted my name.