Chapter 4: Mirror, Mirror, Part II
The locker room air tasted metallic. Like old pennies and the sharp sting of disinfectant. Daphne stood in front of the long mirror, the cold tile sucking warmth from her bare feet. Her reflection stared back: cheekbones sharper now beneath the heavy contour, collarbones stark ridges above the tight black fabric of her sports bra. Lacey had insisted on it. "Shows off the work," she'd said, her fingers pinching Daphne's waist that morning, a familiar, biting pressure even through the thick sweater she’d tried to wear. The sweater was folded now, abandoned in her locker alongside the thick-rimmed glasses she barely recognized needing anymore. The world looked softer without them. Blurrier. Safer, sometimes.
Lacey appeared beside her reflection, a burst of citrus perfume cutting through the gym stink. Her own reflection was a practiced masterpiece: impossibly blonde hair, lips glossed a wet pink, skin glowing under the harsh fluorescents. The yoga pants she wore were a barely-there gray, but it was the back that commanded attention. A thick, gathered scrunch of fabric dug deep between her buttocks, lifting and rounding each cheek into a separate, exaggerated sphere. "Ready to stretch, Daffy? Gotta keep everything lifted and loose, you know?" Lacey chirped, her voice bright, brittle. She tapped the scrunch detail on her own pants. "The magic is in the seam. Makes the pancake a peach."
Daphne pulled on her own pair. Black, equally tight, the fabric thin enough to feel like a second skin. The scrunch seam dug in as she moved, an unfamiliar, almost intrusive pressure. She remembered her old room, the quiet blue walls, the stack of unopened books on her desk. It felt like someone else’s sanctuary. She sucked in her stomach, mirroring Lacey. The motion was automatic now.
"Good girl," Lacey murmured, eyeing Daphne’s reflection critically. "But suck in. Like you mean it. Imagining Jake’s hand right there." She gave a little laugh, sharp and high. Jake and his spray were a hazy memory, a chemical ghost, but the suggestion alone made Daphne tighten her core further, a faint flutter of unease beneath her ribs. Lacey placed her hands on Daphne’s hips, turning her towards the mirror bank lining the gym wall just outside the locker room door. "Watch. Learn."
The gym floor was a symphony of clanging metal, grunts, and thudding bass from overhead speakers. Mostly men. Lacey scanned the room, a predator assessing prey. She sashayed to a clear space near the weight racks, dropped a towel with a practiced flick, and lowered herself into a deep lunge. Not functional. Performative. One leg stretched back, the other bent at ninety degrees, but her back arched severely, chest thrust forward, shoulders rolled back. The pose thrust her scrunched backside towards the nearest cluster of guys doing deadlifts.
"Stretches the hip flexor," Lacey announced, loud enough to carry. She held the pose, wobbling slightly, her gaze fixed on the mirror, not her body, but the reflection of the men behind her. One glanced over. Lacey beamed, sinking deeper, making the scrunch in her pants pull tighter, the cleavage of her backside more pronounced. "Feel the burn, Daffy! Come on!"
Daphne awkwardly mimicked the pose near her. Her balance was off. The position felt unnatural, exposing. The tight fabric pulled, the scrunch seam digging uncomfortably. She felt eyes. Not just Lacey's critical stare in the mirror, but actual eyes from across the room. A guy setting down dumbbells. Another spotting his friend. Her cheeks flushed. She tried to arch her back like Lacey, pushing her own hips back, feeling the ridiculous lift of the fabric between her cheeks. It felt less like stretching, more like offering.
"Higher on the back arch, honey," Lacey instructed, not looking at her, still smiling at her own reflection – and the audience beyond it. "You want that separation. Makes the booty pop. Think of it like… presentation." She giggled, a sound like breaking glass. "See? Ronnie over there definitely sees." She nodded subtly towards a muscular guy in a tank top, who offered a slow, appreciative nod back.
Daphne strained, trying to contort herself. Her lower back protested. She felt foolish. Exposed. A month ago, she’d have been buried in a textbook, oversized sweater swallowing her whole. Now she was here, bending like a pretzel under fluorescent lights for male attention she didn’t even want. But Lacey’s voice slithered in: See how much better you look now? But we can’t get lazy… you still jiggle…
"Okay, switch!" Lacey sprang up, fluid as a cat, and immediately dropped into the other side. "Now, this one’s key. For the glutes." She placed her hands on the floor, kicking one leg high into the air behind her, toes pointed. Not straight up. Diagonally. Maximizing the profile of her raised, scrunched buttock towards the mirror, and the guys beyond. She wobbled dramatically. "Whoa! Balance, Lace, balance!" she laughed, a high-pitched, attention-grabbing shriek. The wobble made her backside jiggle deliberately. More heads turned. Ronnie chuckled.
"Try it, Daph! Get that leg up! Show off the hard work!" Lacey encouraged, still holding her pose, her face beginning to flush with the effort of maintaining the ridiculous angle and the performance.
Daphne obeyed. She planted her hands, kicked one leg back. It didn’t go as high as Lacey’s. The stretch burned her hamstring, but the pose felt grotesque. Vulnerable. She felt the fabric strain, the cool gym air on the exposed skin above her waistband. Her glasses felt like a phantom weight on her nose. She caught sight of herself in the mirror – the contorted body, the desperate arch, the obscene lift of the black fabric cutting into her. Her face, usually thoughtful, was set in a strained mask beneath the heavy makeup.
"Higher!" Lacey hissed, a sharp command beneath the fake cheer. "Point those toes! Make it look good! Smile, for fuck's sake, you look constipated!"
Daphne forced a smile. Tilted her hips more. Pushed her leg higher, ignoring the stab in her lower back. She saw Ronnie nudge his friend. Saw him look. Saw his eyes linger on the exaggerated curve of her backside, framed and lifted by the scrunch. A hot wave of shame washed over her, mixing strangely with a flicker of something else. Validation? She’d been seen. Noticed. Lacey was right. They were looking.
Lacey finally lowered her leg, breathing heavily, a triumphant glint in her eye. "See? Told you. Works every time." She pulled out her phone. "Quick selfie! Commemorate the gains!" She posed, one hand on her cocked hip, jutting her scrunched backside towards the camera, a pout on her lips. "Come on, Daffy, get in! Ass out! Big smile!"
Daphne moved beside her, mimicking the pose. The phone screen showed two figures: Lacey, a vision of calculated allure, and beside her, a thinner, harder version of herself she barely recognized, face painted, body twisted, wearing pants designed to showcase the most private part of her in the most public way possible. The flash went off.
"Perfect!" Lacey tapped rapidly on her phone, probably posting already. "Okay, next set! Leg press. Gotta keep building. Can't let Ronnie lose interest." She winked, tossing her hair. "Remember, stretch between sets. Gotta keep the goods on display." She strutted towards the machine, a purposeful sway in her step that made the scrunch bounce.
Daphne followed, the ghost of her forced smile fading. The burn in her muscles felt real. The echo of the shutter click sounded loud in her ears. She glanced back at the mirror as she passed it. The girl who stared back wore her face, thinner, harder, framed by the harsh lights. But the eyes behind the carefully applied makeup were hollow, looking into a reflection that felt less like her own and more like a costume she couldn’t quite take off. The girl who loved blue walls and quiet books was buried somewhere deep, muffled by the thumping bass and Lacey’s sharp laugh, her only lifeline a pair of pants that dug deep and lifted her up for strangers to see. She didn't know her anymore.