The Fitting Room

By Liana Caulfield

The clothes at Brandy Melville never seem to look quite right on me.

I’ve been cramped in the changing room for forty-something minutes now, surrounded by a tangle of wooden hangers and polyester; bright lights and sweatstained air.

The waistline on the jeans hits too high up. The zipper digs into my stomach. Staring into the mirror, I pull at my skin—unfamiliar, foreign.

Nothing I try on looks the way it looks on the mannequins. Nothing reflected back at me even looks like me. I’m not even sure I know what I look like anymore.

My phone buzzes; a text: how’s it going

bad

send a pic

Lifting my phone camera to the mirror, I grimace, pursing my lips together in a tight line. The shutter clicks.

Turning away, I open the photo. The girl on the screen stares back at me.

A wide grin sits across her face.