They Mocked My Fatness, I’m a Supermodel Now

The day before our high school reunion, Helena, the cheer captain who bullied me nonstop for three years, suddenly dropped an old video into our class group chat. The footage showed my 180-pound high school self locked in a storage closet, a crumpled note taped to the back of my sweatshirt, NO FOOD FOR FAT PIGS. Ping! The chat blew up instantly, messages flying in faster than I could read them. Classmate A: Holy s**t, she's actually coming to the reunion? Classmate B: Think the restaurant chairs are going to hold her weight? Classmate C: It's been so many years, do you think she's going to get stuck at the front door? Helena, the ringleader of all the hell I went through back then, tagged me directly. Helena: Hey, Lucy! Everyone's dying to see you. You have to make it this time, okay? Before long, someone set up a betting pool, taking wagers on whether I'd dare show up at all. Helena threw in a hundred dollars, betting I'd chicken out. Even the football team captain, Dominic, the guy I'd crushed on for three years, tossed in money too. Dominic: If she actually has the guts to come, I'll give her a big hug in front of everyone. Call it my way of making up for all the crap that went down back then. The group chat exploded with laughter. I stared at that video, the same footage that had jolted me awake from nightmares more times than I could count, and squeezed my fists so tight my knuckles went white. No one in that group had a clue. I'd dropped from 180 pounds to 98, my body fat down to a ripped 17%. Vogue had called my runway walk "the sharpest, most icy catwalk of the season." I'd just wrapped shows at all four major fashion weeks in Milan, Paris, New York, and London, landing runway slots for three blue-chip luxury brands. And there was something else no one knew. Elite Model Management, the agency Helena had sent countless applications to and never even scored a single interview with, had already added me, Lucy Marlowe, to their global top model roster. I quietly placed a five-hundred-dollar bet on myself showing up right on time. Then, over the flood of teasing and jeers in the chat, I shot back a single message. Me: A bet's a bet. I'll own the outcome either way. Ping. After that message went through, the chat went completely quiet for a good fifteen seconds. Then all hell broke loose. Classmate A: ??? Classmate B: Wait, did Lucy actually bet five hundred bucks? Classmate C: Where the hell did she get that kind of money? Did she borrow it? Classmate D: Who gets the cash if she bails? Let's make this clear right now, no backing out of the bet! Helena was the first to jump in. Helena: Lucy, don't be impulsive, okay? We're all just messing around here. If you're short on cash, just cancel that bet right now, no hard feelings. She hadn't changed one bit. Every single word she said was laced with poison, but she always wrapped it up in a sickly sweet "I'm just looking out for you" act. She'd pulled the exact same crap for all three years of high school. She'd get her friends to dump my lunch straight in the trash, then cover her mouth and giggle, "Oh, I'm just helping you lose weight! I know you can't control yourself around food." She'd throw my sweatshirt into the boys' locker room, forcing me to wear my clothes caked in filthy water to class. She'd corner me in the girls' bathroom, make me stand on a scale, and yell out my weight for every single person in the hallway to hear. And finally, she taped that note to my back and made the entire class line up to take photos of me. Now, digging up that old video and posting it for everyone to see? She just wanted to rub it in, to remind every single person in that chat that it didn't matter how many years had passed. To her, I was still that sad little joke she could kick around for fun whenever she wanted. I tapped open the rules of their little bet. Helena had put down a hundred dollars that I wouldn't show up, and other people had chipped in scattered bets adding up to another three hundred plus. I was the only one who'd bet five hundred dollars that I'd be there, right on time. I typed slowly, deliberately. Me: Relax. I can afford to lose. Helena fired back immediately. Helena: That's good! I was worried you'd be too reluctant to part with the cash when you lost. Someone else chimed in. Classmate E: C'mon, Helena, you're overthinking it. Maybe she's made it big these years, y'know? Classmate F: Oh, obviously she's doing super well for herself! Skip two meals a month, save for a few years, of course you can scrounge up five hundred bucks hahahaha! I was just about to exit the group chat when a private message popped up from Dominic. I really did have the biggest and dumbest crush on him for three whole years back in high school. I remember how I used to sneak him performance drinks when he had games. I'd pack an extra warm bowl of oatmeal every single morning because I knew he had a weak stomach. Then what did he do when he discovered that I liked him? He taped the love letter I'd written him to the back wall of the classroom, and asked the whole class with a grin, "Yo, if she sat on me, do y'all think I'd survive?" The whole class laughed so hard the desks rattled. Now, his message read: Dominic: You're actually coming? We were all kids back then, we didn't know any better. Don't take it too personally. I stared at the words "didn't know any better" and huffed out a cold laugh. So that's how it works, huh? Abusers get to grow up, and all the cruel garbage they pulled just gets brushed off as dumb teenage drama, no strings attached? Dominic: Also, when I said I'd hug you in the group chat, that was just to lighten the mood. Don't get the wrong idea. I have a girlfriend now. I finally typed back two short words. Me: Relax. Like he was terrified I was still hung up on him, he replied and added something right away. Dominic: She's coming to the reunion too. Watch yourself, okay? Don't make her uncomfortable. I ignored him. Ding-dong. I'd just set my phone down when the doorbell rang. My agent, Megan, hauled two massive garment bags into the apartment. She was Elite Model Management's top agent, having launched three global lingerie angels. She frowned the second she saw me. "Aren't you going to that high school reunion tomorrow?" Megan asked, unzipping the garment bags to reveal a dozen never-before-seen couture gowns, all fresh off the latest Paris Fashion Week runways. "You're acting like you're just popping downstairs to grab a package for crying out loud. What gives?" I glanced over them briefly. "Way too much," I murmured. Megan snort-laughed, half exasperated, half amused. "Hello? Your global 'Muse' beauty endorsement gets officially announced at 8 p.m. tomorrow, and the company's afterparty is on the top floor of that same hotel. You really thought you could show up in a hoodie?" She held up a silver floor-length gown against my frame, then shook her head fast. "Nah, too sweet. Doesn't match that cutthroat runway presence you've got." Next, she pulled out a black velvet gown, unreleased Saint Laurent, current collection. It featured a deep V-neck, an open back, a perfectly cinched waist, and a slit up the side that hit the top of the thigh. "This one," Megan said, her eyes gleaming. "Tomorrow, everyone who ever looked down on you? They're gonna be so blown away they'll straight up question their entire existence." I turned to look at the full-length mirror beside me. The woman staring back at me in the mirror was five foot eleven, with defined, strong shoulders, a tiny cinched waist, and legs that make up two-thirds of her total height. Her collarbones jut out sharp as two clean, polished blades. One hundred and eighty pounds down to ninety-eight. That journey had taken me five whole grueling years. No one had any idea how I'd fought my way through those days, when the taunts cut so deep I couldn't even stand to glance at my own reflection. And that wasn't even the best part. Elite Model Management, the exact same agency whose applicant tracking system had automatically tossed out eight straight applications from Helena without a single human even looking at them, had already put my face front and center on the homepage's "New Faces" rotating banner. Megan shoved a printed itinerary into my hand. "Head to Elite in the morning to shoot your new model comp cards, do a fitting in the afternoon, and show up to the venue at 7 p.m. At 8 o'clock sharp, we announce it across every platform, you're the new global face of Muse Cosmetics." I flipped it over, scanning the printout quickly. The reunion was on the third floor. The company's celebration banquet was on the top floor. One was dead set on dragging me back to the ugly, humiliating past I'd spent five years fighting to leave behind. The other was waiting to launch me onto an even bigger, brighter runway.