Exposed

The website had stayed open in her browser among the other tabs for weeks – watching, waiting, taunting. She’d accidentally click on it while trying to find that sale for such-and-such or that article about so-and-so, and she’d linger on it for a while before dismissing the idea and moving on, careful not to actually hit the little X, though. Her friend had sent her the link in an email. Subject line: “YES! THIS!! NOW!!!” The link took her to an online writers’ community called Platform, specifically, to a page for a challenge. The grand prize was $10,000, and the task was to write 2,000 words on the ways in which she’d struggled to love her body and how, even if the pace was two steps forward and one back, she was moving toward a positive body image.

Jordan had struggled with her weight since elementary school, back when every third or fourth day would see her walking home in tears, toting her Lisa Frank lunch box and a crushed spirit. Her mom would sit with her on the porch, rub her back and tell her that the other kids were just jealous of all her great qualities, while assuring her that, as she grew taller, her “baby fat” would stretch out and settle in. It’s true that when puberty hit and her boobs filled in, and hips and a butt sprouted, she wasn’t the blobiest. Sure, she had an hourglass figure of sorts, but it was less slender board game piece and more clunky antique.

As she’d gotten older, though, she developed a complicated appreciation for her body, something like the respect that rival gangsters have for one another in shoot-‘em-up movies. Still, all it took was a photo taken at the wrong angle or a third slice of pizza when she swore to stop at two to send her into a dizzying, deprecating tailspin. When the doctor clocked her cholesterol levels in the higher-than-ideal range, she vowed to quit playing the fluctuation game and finally get her weight down to where she (and her PCP) would be happy. She committed to 45 minutes of cardio, five days a week and salad with raspberry vinaigrette for lunch on those same days. She dropped 18 pounds fairly quickly, and that was great but still far from her goal, and by the time that email came through from her bestie, Jordan had plateaued – and lost a lot of her initial gusto.

She couldn’t possibly share all that with a bunch of strangers, could she? Checking out the Platform website, she stumbled upon a past challenge, and scrolled the pages and pages of submissions, her chest tightening each time she clicked the “Load More Stories” button. How many people were a part of this thing? Thousands? Tens of thousands of real writers? Even if she could muster up the moxie, did she even have the chops? She wouldn’t dare call herself a writer, but she was an avid reader and would pen poetry and the occasional short story which she would share among her closest friends. She knew how cruel people could be right to your face (or behind your back but in whispers purposely loud enough to be heard), never mind the cesspool that was the internet.

But after a morning weigh-in that produced the same number for the 11th day in the row, and two glasses of cabernet in the evening that made that less painful, she plopped into her desk chair, flipped open her laptop, clicked on that tab and started writing. The middle school crush that called her fat, the dusty and depressing “plus size” section she’d too often been forced to shop, the scoops of low-cal ice cream that went into measuring cups before they went into a bowl – she got it all out. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. The words flowed like water from a spigot, and by the time she looked up, it was 3 a.m. She didn’t even bother proofreading. She hit “Submit,” shut her laptop and went to bed. Passed that, Jordan hadn’t really thought of the challenge again.

It was business as usual for several days until she found an email from the site waiting in her inbox one afternoon. The first line was readable. It started: “Congratulations, Jordan! Your submission has been selected as…” She sucked in a gulp of air and held it. Her finger danced and wiggled over the mousepad for a few seconds before she clicked it open. “…the first-place winner in our Beautiful Bodies challenge.” She screamed, scared her dog who uncurled and rose from his spot on the rug, tucked his tail and trundled out of the room.

She kept reading, her leg bouncing up and down anxiously. Then she froze. It would seem that in her frustrated, wine-induced haste, she failed to read the fine print. Apparently, as outlined in terrifyingly vivid details, a part of her win was a photo feature in an up-and-coming, edgy arts and culture magazine. Yes, she and her fellow winners could choose between three different themed locales, “all meant to celebrate fun, fashion and body positivity.” And, yes, the photo shoot was mandatory or else she’d be forced to forfeit the $10,000 prize. In between jobs, she certainly wouldn’t be doing that, and so, here she was in this old, run-down barn an hour and a half outside of the city. The theme was Crazy Sexy Rural, so said subsequent emails from the magazine’s creative director.

After miles of nothing but wheat fields, she saw a large custard-colored house against the blue sky off in the distance. “In a quarter of a mile, turn left,” the Google Maps lady demanded. Jordan pulled onto a private road and drove toward the house, deep breathing to steady her nerves. Set back a bit about 50 yards from the house she spotted the barn to where she was supposed to report. A small van and a couple cars were parked in the grass nearby. She parked next to the van and hopped out. Standing next to her little Ford Focus, she looked up at the barn, using her hand to block out the sun. It was really cool, actually. It had to have been at least 100 years old.

She walked closer, admiring the grain of the weather-worn wood. As she reached out to touch it, the barn door swung open, kicking up a cloud of dust. A 20-something woman appeared, a cell phone in one hand. “Hi! Jordan? We saw you drive up. Come on in,” she said smiling. To someone inside she said, “Mike, this door can stay open for now.” Back to Jordan: “I’m Natasha, managing editor. We spoke on the phone.” As Jordan followed Natasha inside the barn, a guy stepped out and started fumbling with the door.

“Hi! Yes, nice to meet you,” Jordan said.

“Did you find the place OK?”

“I did. This is so cool.”

“Isn’t it? This is my uncle Barry’s land; been in the family since 1897. Actual farming happens here most days. Here, let me introduce you to everyone.”

Jordan looked around at the setup in the two-story barn. Among bales of hay, a woman with fire red hair was fastening lights and those umbrella things she’d seen in movies to metal stands, a guy in skinny jeans and a beaded shawl was arranging clothes on a rack, shoes all around him like kindergarteners in a reading circle. One woman was laying out what looked like makeup brushes on a table in the far corner. A few others were floating around in general action. Natasha stopped a woman walking past. “This is our subject, the lovely and talented Jordan.”

“Ah, Jordan!” The woman pulled her into a hug. “I work at Platform. I was one of the judges on the Beautiful Bodies panel. We love, love, loved your story.” She put her hands over her heart as she said this. “I mean obviously, but seriously, when we got to yours, all the women in the office gushed. We laughed, we cried, we just … it was really beautiful. I can’t stay for the whole shoot, but I wanted to come and congratulate you in person.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I wish I could say it was fun to write.” They laughed. “But, it was … therapeutic. I’m so glad you liked it.”

“Loved it!”

“Well, thank you again.”

Natasha introduced her to the red-haired woman, the photographer, and then led her to the clothes rack. “This is our stylist, Neil.”

“Your photo didn’t do you justice. She’s gorgeous. This skin!” He touched her cheek lightly.

Jordan blushed. “Thank you.”

“Natasha sent me your measurements, and we’ve got a bunch to choose from – all farm fabulous.” Neil shuffled through the pieces at double speed, the metal hangers gliding across the rack like blades on ice. “Leather, denim, fringe, tulle, Dolly Parton sequins. I’m feeling this for your first look.” He pulled a couple hangers from the bunch. In one hand he held up a pair of black, leather shorts, and in the other a patchworked blouse of gingham and denim.

“Grandma’s quilt but make it fashion. I love it!” Jordan said, grabbing one of the sleeves.

“She gets it,” Neil gave Natasha a little nod.

“You two have fun,” Natasha said before strolling over to the photographer.

“Don’t you love these shorts, too?” He asked.

“They’re great.”

Neil sensed the trepidation in Jordan’s voice. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“They’re a little short. I don’t love my thighs,” Jordan said.

“Who does?” She laughed a little at this. “Look, you might not love your thighs, but your thighs are going to love this butter leather. You’re going to look amazing. I promise. And if you absolutely hate them, we’ve got a million other options. But you’ll at least try them on, yes? Deal?” Neil held out his pinky.

Jordan hooked it with her own. “Deal.”

“OK let’s get you into hair and makeup, and then we’ll start playing dress up.”

After being contoured and blown out, Jordan was alone in the makeshift dressing room they’d set up behind a haystack. She stripped down to her bra and panties and stared at her body in the mirror, willing it to cooperate. She turned away from the mirror and slipped her arms into the blouse. She buttoned it. She stepped into the shorts and pulled them over her hips, zipped and buttoned those. Then she turned around to survey the damage. She flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder as she scanned her body. Sure, she spotted the roll of belly fat bellowing the leather in the front. She checked out the view from behind, and, yeah, the dimples in her thighs were still there. But, you know what, she said to herself, that was what it was. She unbuttoned the top button on the shirt revealing a bit more cleavage and eyed her butt again. It sat round and high. Dare she say it? She looked pretty hot.

She smiled to herself and stepped into the boots Neil had given her and walked out. She was fawned over as she walked toward where the photographer was set up, which was nice albeit a little awkward.

“You look great! We’ll have you start there, between the beams,” the photographer said, her wild hair tangled in the camera strap around her neck.

As Jordan took her mark, she heard Natasha’s voice. “We’ve got a little surprise for you, if you’re comfortable.” She was walking through the barn doors, backlit by the sunlight and leading a jet-black horse. “This is Salem.” She ran her hand over the animal’s glossy coat. “He’ll be your co-star for some shots.”

“Oh my God! He’s so beautiful. Yes! I’m in,” Jordan said.

“You want music?” Natasha asked. “Mike, turn something on.” Nicki Minaj started blaring from a speaker somewhere.

“You ready, Jordan?” The photographer asked.

“I’m ready.”