Chapter 3: Mirror, Mirror
The blue walls felt colder than usual. Daphne stood rigid in the center of her small dorm room, the patchwork quilt on her bed seeming suddenly childish under Lacey’s appraising gaze. A stack of brightly colored fabric squares – crop tops Lacey had produced from her overflowing bag – lay on Daphne's desk, obscuring her open physics textbook. The posters of Virginia Woolf and Mary Shelley watched silently.
"Alright, Cole," Lacey chirped, snapping her gum. "Time for the big reveal. Toss the security blanket." She gestured dismissively at Daphne’s oversized grey sweater.
Daphne’s fingers trembled slightly as she grasped the hem. The citrus-metallic ghost of Jake’s spray flickered in her sinuses, a faint echo. Trust her. She understands. She pulled the sweater over her head. The cool air hit her bare arms, her ribcage. She crossed her arms instinctively over the thin cotton of her regular t-shirt. Her sanctuary felt exposed, invaded.
"Uh-uh," Lacey tutted, stepping forward. "The undershirt too. Totally defeats the purpose. Can't assess the canvas." Her smile was sharp. "Don't be shy. We're girls."
Hesitating, Daphne peeled off the t-shirt. She stood in her bra and jeans, skin prickling. The posters seemed to look away. Lacey’s eyes raked over her, clinically.
"Okay. Starting point." Lacey picked up the top layer of the stack. It was tiny, a scrap of electric blue spandex. "This is mine. XXS. The holy grail. Let’s see the damage before we fix it." She thrust it towards Daphne.
Daphne pulled the XXS top on. It barely stretched over her shoulders. The fabric strained taut across her ribs, stopping a full three inches above the waistband of her jeans. Her entire midriff was exposed, the soft curve of her lower stomach starkly visible. The neckline cut uncomfortably high. She felt like an overstuffed sausage. Vulnerable. Under-lit by the harsh dorm ceiling light.
Lacey tilted her head. A slow whistle escaped her lips, low and mocking. "Whoa. Okay. See how the light catches here?" She stepped close, her cold fingertip poking at the soft flesh spilling slightly over Daphne's jeans. "Kind of gives it a... doughy look under the fluorescents, right? Like uncooked bread." She chuckled, a brittle sound. "Yeah, that XXS is a pipe dream for now, hon. That's the goal, though. Burn it into your retinas."
Humiliation washed over Daphne, hot and prickling. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror tacked to the back of her door. The small roll of flesh Lacey had pointed out seemed monstrous. Unmissable. She looked away.
"Don't worry," Lacey said, her voice dripping with false reassurance. She rummaged through the pile. "We work with what we have." She pulled out a slightly larger top, still small, in a sickly sweet pastel pink. "Here. Try this S. Should be... manageable."
Daphne peeled off the suffocating XXS, the fabric snapping back with an audible thwack. The S-size top slid on easier, but still ended high, exposing her entire stomach. Less constricted, but just as bare. The waistband of her jeans dug in, emphasizing the softness Lacey had mocked.
"See?" Lacey circled her. "Still shows the goods. All day. Every day." She stopped directly behind Daphne, meeting her eyes in the mirror. Her expression was suddenly serious, almost grim. "Let me tell you something, Daph. Honestly? If I ever let myself slide into a Size S," she spat the words like something foul, "I wouldn't leave my room. I couldn't bear the shame of people seeing this," she gestured vaguely at Daphne's exposed midsection, "just... hanging out. Knowing I'd let myself go. It's motivation, see? Constant, in-your-face accountability."
Daphne flinched. Lacey’s words burrowed deep, finding the fear Jake’s spray had already loosened. The pink fabric felt like a brand. The cool air on her skin felt accusatory.
"So," Lacey declared, clapping her hands once, the sound jarring. "These," she scooped up half the pile, mostly the S-sized crop tops, and dumped them onto Daphne’s bed, scattering notebooks, "are your new uniform. Starting now."
Daphne’s eyes flew to her beloved sweaters, neatly folded on a shelf. "But... my sweaters..."
Lacey cut her off with a sharp laugh. "Sweaters? Are you kidding? That cozy crap is over. Done." She strode to the shelf, grabbed an armful of soft, oversized knits, and shoved them unceremoniously into Daphne’s half-empty laundry hamper. "Hot girls don’t get cold, Daph. They generate heat." She winked, but her eyes were flinty. "The chill? That's part of the motivation too. Feel it. Remember why you're skipping lunch. Remember the goal." She patted the pile of crop tops. "XXS. Anything else is failure."
She picked the electric blue XXS top off the floor where Daphne had dropped it. Dangled it from her finger like a trophy. "Keep this one. Hang it where you see it. Every morning." She tossed it onto the bed with the others. "Now, the jeans gotta go too, but one battle at a time. At least they're black. Slimming." She checked her phone, its screen flashing brightly. "Gotta run. Jake’s waiting. Remember: crop tops. No sweaters. Constant exposure. Hot girls stay vigilant."
The door clicked shut behind her. The silence rushed in, thick and heavy. Daphne stood alone in the center of her stripped sanctuary. The crop tops lay like colorful accusations on her quilt. Her arms instinctively wrapped around her exposed midsection, fingers digging into the soft flesh Lacey had scorned. She shivered. The room was cold. She looked at the hamper, her sweaters buried. She looked at the mirror. The girl staring back, pale, glasses slightly askew, stomach bare and vulnerable in the garish pink top, looked nothing like the fierce student who used to live here. The XXS scrap of blue seemed to pulse on the bed. A tiny, impossible flag of conquest.