Mewing

PART ONE

Although Vix had only 30 thousand followers, her latest post of her freshly waxed dewy body in a violet bikini attracted 100 thousand likes—the highest she had ever received. She watched with wide doe eyes as all the little red hearts trickled in, and, with each one, her body felt that much warmer. Soon after came the comments, many of which consisted of compliments from undisciplined horny men or self-shaming teenage girls whining about how ugly they looked in comparison. The brand commented with a series of heart-face emojis, followed by, Thank you Vixxxxx we <3 you! Shortly after, they DM’d her an offer to send her more designer swimsuits, shipped straight from their sweatshop factory in northern Morocco.

She accepted them, of course. She had been eying their one-piece red swimsuit with the plunging neckline for quite a while, but that $175 price tag was too steep for her budget right now. Her pocket-sized studio apartment, high above the streets of DeLongpre Avenue, painfully reminded her of her ever-dwindling bank account. The pathetic strings of LED lights she had hung around the windows and over her kitchen countertop did next to nothing to brighten up the beige space. No matter. There were plenty of places to go—even on a sleepy Wednesday night.

She pushed away her blush-pink sheets and crawled off her queen-sized mattress, then traipsed over to her closet. The doors creaked open, and she inhaled the musty smell from inside. She eyed the speckled black strips that dripped down from the ceiling. They were small and subtle; something too insignificant to worry about but concerning enough to leave a lingering question.

She reached into her closet and removed her best pair of boyfriend jeans, her platform raven-black high tops, and her va-va-voom red corset. Was it appropriate to wear out in the streets of downtown Wichita? Nope, but perfectly acceptable here. Encouraged, in fact. And what her mom and Gran didn’t know would only make her more desirable to the sleazy wretches who offered pretty, vapid girls modeling contracts.

Only Vix wasn’t vapid. She thought of herself, proudly (as in Taylor Swift Reputation-era fashion), as a snake. Capable of molting her skin and personality to conform to whatever situation that arose in her pathway to stardom. What that stardom was, she didn’t know. Singer, actress, or model—maybe all three. Wherever her fame carried her, she would go with it. She had decided that for herself a long time ago, and despite her mother’s desperate pleas to stay in the Midwest, Vix had rejected all desire for a quiet, comfortable life. Come hell or high water, she was going to do what it took to become a star—no matter if she had to beg, borrow, or steal the hearts of thousands of faceless strangers.

She clipped on her silver hoop earrings and examined her look in the mirror. Almost. She turned her head from side to side and applied a fresh shade of lipstick to match her vivacious top. After running her tongue over her teeth, she smiled—devilishly sharp and polished.

She was dressed to kill.

BUBBLES INC. was the boba shop around the corner from where she lived. $15 a cup was a steep price to pay for a drink, but it was worth it for the ‘gram. The shop also made their own custom taiyaki, and when she stepped through the door, the smell of sugar-sweet eggy batter filled her nostrils: a direct assault on the low-cal keto diet she had enacted only two weeks before moving to California. Guiltily, she ordered both the taro-flavored drink and the dessert; the chocolate-drizzled matcha flavor satisfied all her cravings. While awaiting her order, she pulled out her phone and pretended to look busy, but really, she was trying to figure out where the best light was in the room.

Damn. Everything in here made her look washed out. The raccoon circles, courtesy of too many late nights drinking diet rosé from Whole Foods, were distinctive in the stark, white lighting. It made her pores—black and stubbly like the insides of her thighs—look bigger. If she had a magnifying glass, she could see inside herself. Speaking of? She made sure no one was watching, and she tried to rub her legs together to scratch them. Apparently a full-on Brazilian was no match for her Italian genes. She felt the prickly little hairs, deep in the recesses of her body, starting to reform. The tiny, phantom red-hot pains drove her attention to the places that would surely develop ingrown hairs.

There go the new bikini pics, she thought.

When her order was called, she retrieved it and sat down. She snapped a few pics on her phone and fussed with the various filters to bring out the colors. She selected a new one—Mania—and applied it to her photo. It was vibrant and highly saturated, and, after she adjusted the contrast, perfectly balanced. She smiled as she pressed upload but couldn’t move to eat or sip until the first few hundred likes came in. #foodporn. Always a hit.

Midway through her first bite of delectable ice cream, she heard someone call her name—a familiar voice, fried and high pitched. When Vix turned to look in her direction, she fought to keep the bile from rising in her throat. Josslyn Brooks, her ombré lavender hair freshly blown-out and curled, stared at her from across the small store. She stumbled forward in wedges that were so high she nearly tripped head over heels.

What a shame, Vix thought. If she fell, she’d break those stupid legs of hers in two. Long, tan, and not a scar or bruise on them. Sharply chiseled muscles as if carved by Michelangelo himself. No number of hours on a steady bike or lunges could ever give Vix legs half as nice. Her thighs were flaccid, jiggly, and round—they often reminded her of a dead baby pig’s torso, if said baby pig had been bleached in the sun for eighteen hours.

Girl, I thought you were on a diet! Josslyn chirped, removing her sunglasses.

For the briefest of moments, her eyes scanned over the boba and taiyaki almost longingly. But then she popped a chunk of spearmint gum in her mouth and pulled out her phone instead. Horrified, Vix stared at Josslyn, wishing she would somehow spontaneously combust or get bored and leave. She set down her ice cream sandwich and smiled at her intrusive frenemy.

How are you, Joss? Still working on getting that payment from the last sponsor?

Joss looked up. You mean BeautyMilk? Oh, no. They paid me. You know how invoicing works.

Vix had only ever been paid to work with brands five times and had never once had to worry about invoicing those companies. They all PayPaled her. Josslyn was a same-day-deposit-in-the-bank-account kind of bitch, evident by her name-brand bag and clothes dripping with logos. Holy shit, was that a new Dolce and Gabbana?

Calm. Vix willed herself to maintain patience. Snake. She smiled warmly at her.

I’m so glad to hear that. I’ve heard some real horror stories.

You got any sponsorships as of yet?

You see the bikini pic I posted earlier today?

Oh, from your trip to Long Beach? Yeah.

They’re going to send me more swimsuits in the mail.

Josslyn blinked. And?

And? They wanted me to model them. It’s their new collection.

A sigh—and a pang in Vix’s chest. Josslyn set her bedazzled phone face down on the table and gently patted her hand. It was so condescending, but her smile was so soft and affectionate. Snake, snake, snake.

Honey. You cannot let these brands take advantage of you. They wanna pimp you out, they gotta pay. She shook her head. You want to be a model, right? How are you going to build a portfolio without photos from a brand account?

Wasn’t her Insta her portfolio? But that stupid smile said otherwise. Vix’s facade faltered. She averted her eyes from Josslyn, and that was when she went in for the kill.

Have you gotten any modeling opportunities since you moved here? It’s been what, three months?

Three months, nearing four. Vix could only nod, ashamed.

What kind of numbers are we doing?

30K on Insta, maybe 10K on TikTok. About 5K on Twitter. Twitter was always challenging, since it was the place where she had to be the most outraged to gain any kind of traction. Negative engagement went farther there, and that conflicted with her carefully curated TikTok and Insta personas that centered on sweetness and sexiness.

Josslyn winced and sucked in air through her teeth. Ooh. Sweetie, there is no reason why you shouldn’t be pulling in those sponsos. You gotta put yourself out there.

Vix caved. It was no use. Josslyn smelled the weakness in her game like blood to a shark. She picked up her sandwich again for comfort. I’ve been trying, but no bites.

Oh honey. And you’re renting that place around the corner from here, right? A series of tongue clicks. Tut, tut, tut. Ramming the shame in even harder. "You’re doing alright for yourself? I mean, I’m assuming you’re living off ramen like we all do when we first move here, but please tell me you’ve at least