Curvy Girl Auditions 7 -

The room was quiet. Then the woman in the middle—the one who hadn’t looked away once—set down her pen.

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. curvy girl auditions 7

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. The room was quiet

“Number seven,” she said. “What’s your name?” The pianist played the first four bars of

My arms opened like a slow tide. My feet pressed into the floor with authority. When I turned, the air moved with me—not fighting my curves, but riding them. A plié became a wave. A reach became a reaching. I let my hips speak in a language they’d always known: round, yes, and full, and also strong.

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