Chapter 5: Chapter 5
The neon thong was in the trash. Sophie had shoved it deep beneath coffee grounds and a broken plastic cup the morning after the party, a particulate of shame buried in last night’s evidence. She took a long, scalding shower, scrubbing until her skin was raw and pink, erasing the ghost of heavy makeup, smoky cologne, and strangers’ hands. She dressed in her old uniform: worn jeans, a loose university sweatshirt, her sensible cotton underwear a comforting hug around her hips. In the mirror, her clean face looked pale, her eyes hollow.
The resolve lasted three days.
Chloe found her in the library stacks, a shadow against the fluorescent lights. “There you are,” she breathed, as if they were conspirators. She looked effortlessly curated in a pleated mini and knee-high boots. “I’ve been texting you. We need to debrief.”
Sophie kept her voice low, hunched over a tome about media ethics. “There’s nothing to debrief, Chloe.”
“Oh, come on. That was historic.” Chloe leaned against the shelf, making it wobble. “You were a goddess. The guys haven’t stopped talking about it. Specifically, about you.” She plucked the ethics book from Sophie’s hands and snapped it shut. “You can’t hide in here forever. It’s pathetic. Live a little. Come get coffee.”
The word ‘pathetic’ landed like a small, sharp stone. Sophie thought of Declan’s pitying smile. Trying to talk about vendor receipts. Hiding. Was that what she was doing? “I have work,” she muttered, but the protest was thin.
“Work later. Friend now.” Chloe’s smile was relentless. “My treat.”
The coffee was less a drink and more a tutorial. Chloe critiqued Sophie’s order—“A latte? So many empty calories, Soph.”—and pushed a black coffee across the table. “Start here. It’s cleaner.” She then produced a slim makeup bag. “Look, I get it. The full face was a lot for a first time. Let’s try a daytime version. Just a little… enhancement.”
Sophie watched, a strange numbness in her fingers, as Chloe demonstrated a “natural” look that involved three layers of foundation, contouring to “carve out” her cheekbones, and a lip stain that plumped and tinted. “See? You still look like you, just the best possible version. The version that gets noticed.” When Sophie attempted a weak joke about looking like a news anchor, Chloe’s laugh was short. “News anchors are old, Soph. You want to look current. Desirable.”
Declan texted her that evening. A simple, smooth question mark. When she didn’t immediately reply, another message appeared: Hope you’re not overthinking. Fun is just fun. C.U. soon. The memory of the spray’s warmth, of his rational, calming voice, seeped through her. He understood compartmentalization. Smart people understood. She looked at her clean, product-free face in her phone’s dark screen. Desirable.
The next time Chloe suggested shopping, Sophie went.
It started with underwear. “These are your foundation,” Chloe declared in the fluorescent buzz of a boutique, holding up a wisp of black lace. “Everything else is built on this. If you feel hot underneath, you’ll project it.” Sophie bought three: black, a provocative crimson, and the baby pink she’d sworn she’d thrown away. Slipping them on each morning became a silent ritual, a secret she carried against her skin. The vulnerable feeling never quite left, but it began to twist, morphing into a sense of being armed with a knowledge others didn’t have.
The makeup tutorials became a Tuesday and Thursday evening fixture in Chloe’s dorm room. Sophie’s own face became a canvas for lessons in “apex placement” and “winged liner.” The goal, Chloe explained, was not beauty but communication. “The eyeliner says ‘look here.’ The highlighter here,” she’d say, tapping Sophie’s cheekbone, “says ‘I have structure.’ The glossy lip says ‘touch me.’ It’s a language. You’re just learning to speak it.” Sophie would stare at the final product—the wide, defined eyes, the artificially pouted lips—and the reflection slowly stopped being a stranger. It was a more interesting version of herself. A version that held power in a glance.
The clothes were a logical, brutal progression. Chloe vetoed anything with a relaxed fit. “Drowning your frame is a crime,” she’d sneer, tossing Sophie’s beloved hoodie back onto the pile. “You have a killer waist-to-hip ratio. Right now, it’s just… polite. We need to shout about it.”
She introduced Sophie to the world of bandage skirts that ended mid-thigh, to crop tops that showed a precise sliver of torso, to blouses with strategic buttons meant to gape. “It’s not about showing everything,” Chloe instructed, adjusting a top so the neckline dipped lower. “It’s about hinting. Making them look where you want them to look. And we always want them looking at your ass. That’s your weapon.”
Sophie would protest, faintly. “It’s so tight. It’s so… small.”
“Exactly,” Chloe would say, her eyes gleaming. “Small is the point. Petite. Approachable. Fun-sized.” The word ‘fun’ echoed Declan’s lexicon. “Besides,” Chloe added one afternoon, her fingers pinching a fraction of fabric at Sophie’s waist, “you’ve got maybe half an inch to lose here before you really pop in an XS. Just lay off the lattes. Black coffee, remember? A girl’s best friend.”
The comment nestled in deep, a quiet burr of inadequacy. Sophie began noticing the fabric strain differently. She saw the size S tags as accusations. She switched to salads, chewing listlessly while Chloe discoursed on alkaline water and carb cycling. The hunger felt like progress.
The final piece was the walk. “You’re shuffling,” Chloe critiqued as they crossed campus. Sophie was in a new, butter-soft skirt that clung to every curve and a pair of kitten heels that made her calves ache. “You own the sidewalk. You own the air around you. Strut. Shoulders back, hips forward. Think: ‘I know you’re looking, and you’re welcome.’” It felt absurd, theatrical. Then a group of guys from the Sigma Chi house passed, their conversation dying mid-sentence, their eyes syncing to the rhythm of her hips. One whistled, low and appreciative. Heat flushed Sophie’s face—not from shame, but from a jolt of pure, electrifying validation. Chloe squeezed her arm. “See? They speak the language.”
Weeks bled. Ethan frowned at her over coffee, his kind eyes confused. “You look… different. Tired.” He reached for her hand, but her nails were now long, almond-shaped acrylics in a shade called “Barely Blushing.” She pulled away to fuss with her tiny, bejeweled crossbody bag. “Just busy,” she said, her voice higher, lighter than she remembered it being. “You know. Projects.”
She was always “busy” now. Busy with Chloe, busy learning the language.
One night, pre-gaming in Chloe’s room before a mixer, the transformation achieved a chilling cohesion. Sophie stood before the full-length mirror in the uniform: the pink lace thong, a matching flimsy bralette, sheer thigh-highs, and a pair of towering stiletto heels. Her makeup was immaculate, severe in its perfection—smoky eyes, contoured cheeks, lips a glossy, wet pink. Her hair, freshly highlighted with streaks of champagne blonde, fell in voluminous waves.
Chloe stood behind her, a proud sculptor. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Look at you. You’re a fantasy.” She pointed at the mirror. “See that waist? Tiny. And the way those heels make your legs and ass look? That’s not an accident. That’s engineering.”
Sophie stared. The woman in the glass was a man’s dream little skank. The thought didn’t revolt her. It felt like a final, correct translation. This was the current, desirable version. This was the version that got noticed, that held power, that was fun. She practiced a giggle, the sound tinkling and empty.
Her old self, the one who investigated fundraisers and wore cotton underwear and talked about ethics with her boyfriend, was a faint, faded watermark beneath the glossy new text. She barely remembered her.
Chloe handed her a tiny shot of vodka. “To the new you,” she grinned.
Sophie took it, threw it back, and licked her glossy lips. She didn’t need the spray anymore. The reflection was its own intoxicant. She giggled again, the pitch perfect and practiced, and turned on her heel, the stiletto clicking like a definitive period on the end of a sentence.