Curvy Girl Auditions 7 <Firefox Safe>

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

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

Not what’s your number . Not thank you, next . She wanted my name. 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,” she said again, like she was tasting the word. “We’ll call you.” The door opened

And something told me—curves and all—it just might be.

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. Not what’s your number

“Maya,” I said.