I stood up. My thighs brushed together—a whisper of fabric and warmth. I didn’t apologize for it. Not anymore.
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.
I had done this six times before.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the clipboard woman 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. curvy girl auditions 7
I didn’t know if I’d get the part. But for the first time, I realized: I wasn’t auditioning to fit their stage anymore.
“Maya,” I said.
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.