Curvy Girl Auditions | 7

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

In the mirror along the wall, I saw the other girls. They were all angles—sharp collarbones, knifelike hip lines, limbs that folded into neat, crisp shapes. Then I saw myself: the soft curve of my shoulder, the swell of my hip that refused to be anything but round, the full slope of my calf inside my dance shoe. curvy girl auditions 7

Now, 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. The door opened

I had done this six times before.

The room was quiet. Then the woman in the middle—the one who hadn’t looked away once—set down her pen. Then I saw myself: the soft curve of