Chapter 8: The Other Side of the Mirror

The email arrived two days after the computer science final, while Violet was lying on her bed staring at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed on her stomach, which rose and fell with her shallow breaths. She picked it up without much interest—probably another notification from a food delivery app Hannah had signed her up for.

It was her university email.

The subject line was clear and brutal: URGENT: DRAMA 101 - Attendance & Final Grade.

A cold trickle, unrelated to the room’s temperature, started at the base of her skull. She opened it.

Miss Sorenson,

This email serves as a formal warning regarding your standing in Drama 101 (Introduction to Performance). Our records indicate you have not attended a single class session this semester. As outlined in the syllabus, which I trust you have reviewed, participation and attendance constitute 70% of the final grade.

Without immediate and consistent attendance starting with our next meeting, you will receive a failing grade for this course. This will impact your academic standing and financial aid eligibility.

The choice is now yours.

Sincerely, Professor Armitage

Violet read it three times. The words didn’t change.

Drama 101. She’d completely forgotten about it. She’d registered for it back in August, thinking a fun, easy elective would balance her STEM load. That was before. Before the voting. Before the first plate of fettuccine. Before her schedule became a series of feeding times punctuated by naps and humiliation.

She hadn’t gone once. Not once. The thought of walking into a room full of strangers, of performing or even just being seen, had been too much. It was easier to stay in the house, where the judgment was at least predictable.

But failing? Failing outright? The computer science final was one thing—a probable failure she could maybe, maybe rationalize as a fluke caused by extenuating circumstances, if she squinted hard enough. This was different. This was administrative. Concrete. A big, red F that would go on her transcript because she simply hadn’t shown up.

A strange, thin panic threaded through her usual fog. Financial aid eligibility. That meant her scholarship. If she lost that… she didn’t even want to think about explaining that to her parents, who were still so proud of their legacy Pig Girl.

She had to go. Obviously. The next class was tomorrow afternoon.

Getting dressed the next day felt like preparing for battle, or maybe surgery. She stood in front of her closet, which was really just a rack of increasingly identical stretch fabrics.

Everything she owned that was meant to be seen in public was either too small or designed to showcase her size—the tight tops Hannah and Susan bought for her, the leggings that were practically sheer now. She needed camouflage.

In the very back, shoved behind a row of sweatshirts she never wore, she found an old gray hoodie from high school. It was a men’s XXL, bought during a phase where she wanted to disappear entirely. She pulled it on. It was massive, swallowing her shoulders and hanging down past her hips. It didn’t fit her stomach so much as drape over it like a loose curtain, obscuring the specific contours.

She paired it with the only sweatpants she had that weren’t technically pajamas—a thick, black pair with a drawstring waist. She cinched the string as tight as it would go, which wasn’t very tight at all, but it created a vague suggestion of a waist under the bulk of the hoodie.

She looked in the mirror. The outfit was shapeless, frumpy, deliberately ugly. Perfect. She looked like a pile of laundry with a head. No one would look twice. No one would see her.

The walk to the Fine Arts building was its own kind of agony, though a quieter one than the sprint to her computer science final. She moved slowly, deliberately, keeping her head down. The hoodie was warm, too warm for the spring day, and she could feel sweat starting to prickle under her arms and along her spine after just a few minutes. But the discomfort was preferable to exposure.

The lecture hall for Drama 101 was in the basement of the building—a wide, shallow room with stadium seating that curved around a small stage. Violet paused at the entrance, her heart doing a nervous little tap-dance against her ribs.

About forty students were already scattered throughout the rows. They chatted in small groups, some laughing loudly. A few were stretching or doing vocal warm-ups, which seemed absurdly performative to Violet.

She took a deep breath that hitched in her throat and slipped inside, keeping close to the wall.

Her plan was simple: back row, far corner. Become part of the architecture.

She chose a seat in the very last row, right next to the emergency exit door. The chair was marginally more forgiving than the ones in the science building—theater kids probably complained more about comfort—but she still had to angle herself carefully to fit between the armrests. The hoodie bunched up around her middle as she sat, but it still provided coverage. Good.

She pulled the hood up over her head, shadowing her face. She kept her backpack on her lap like a shield. She stared straight ahead at the empty stage, trying to make her breathing even and invisible.

Students continued to filter in. No one looked at her. A guy with a beanie sat three seats away, already typing furiously on his laptop. A group of girls wearing what looked like dance clothes took over the front row, their conversation a bright, chirping cloud of sound.

Violet’s panic began to subside into a low-grade hum of anxiety. This was manageable. She could sit here for an hour. She could be a ghost.

Professor Armitage arrived exactly on time—a tall, slender man with salt-and-pepper hair and a scarf draped artfully around his neck. He placed a leather satchel on the lectern and smiled out at the room without really looking at anyone.

“Welcome back,” he said, his voice projecting effortlessly to the back row. “Today we continue our exploration of presence and absence on stage. Specifically, how what is not done can be as powerful as what is.”

Violet let his words wash over her. She didn’t need to understand it; she just needed to be physically present. She focused on staying still, on not drawing attention through any sudden movement or sound.

About twenty minutes into the lecture, as Armitage was discussing some French theorist Violet had never heard of, movement in the middle of the room caught her eye.

Someone was standing up from a center-row seat.

It was a woman—short, maybe five-two or three. She had vibrant ginger hair twisted into two high pigtails tied with shiny black ribbons. Her makeup was elaborate: glittery gold eyeshadow that sparkled under the lecture hall lights, perfectly winged eyeliner, and glossy pink lips.

She wasn’t standing to leave. She was just… adjusting herself. She smoothed down the front of her top—a cropped, sequined sweater in emerald green that ended several inches above the waistband of her plaid skirt. The skirt was tight and short, showcasing thick thighs encased in fishnet tights. She wore chunky platform boots.

And she was fat.

Not just chubby or plus-size in a polite way. She was substantial. As large as Violet, maybe larger. Her body was soft and round everywhere—her arms, her face which was adorably cherubic under all that glitter, the swell of her stomach that pushed against the sequined fabric of her crop top without apology.

The woman settled back into her seat with a slight wriggle, getting comfortable. She pulled out a compact mirror from her tiny purse and checked her lip gloss, completely unconcerned with the lecture or the people around her.

Violet stared, unable to look away.

This woman wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t buried in a hoodie two sizes too big. She was dressed like she was headed to a club, or maybe starring in a music video about being a bratty princess. The glitter, the pigtails, the clothes that clung to and accentuated every curve—it all screamed a confidence Violet couldn’t even fathom.

She sat there in the middle of everything, taking up space not with apology but with declaration.

The woman snapped her compact shut and dropped it back into her purse. She listened to the professor for another minute, then leaned over to whisper something to the girl next to her, who giggled in response. The sound was bright and sharp in the lecture hall.

Violet couldn’t stop watching her. It was like seeing a different species. How did she move like that? How did she sit there, so visible, so decorated, without curling in on herself? The woman’s posture was relaxed, almost lazy, one arm slung over the back of the empty seat beside her. She owned the space she occupied in a way Violet had forgotten was possible.

A hot, confusing knot tightened in Violet’s chest. It wasn’t quite envy. It was more like awe mixed with a deep, aching sense of loss. This woman had the same body—the same soft, heavy, socially inconvenient body—and she wore it like a costume for a role she was thrilled to play. Violet wore hers like a prison uniform, hoping the walls would close in and hide her completely.

Professor Armitage dismissed the class with a reminder about the upcoming scene study workshop. Chairs scraped, backpacks zipped, the chatter rose again to fill the room.

Violet stayed seated, pretending to fuss with something in her backpack, letting the crowd thin. Her eyes stayed locked on the ginger-haired woman.

The woman stood up smoothly, without any of the bracing or heaving Violet had to perform. She slung a small, designer-looking backpack over one shoulder and began walking up the aisle toward the exit. Her walk was a strut, honestly. A confident, hip-swaying stroll on those platform boots. The short skirt swished with each step.

And then, as she reached the doors, something even more astonishing happened.

Three other girls materialized from the dispersing crowd and fell into step behind her. They were all thin, dressed in stylish but more subdued clothes—nice jeans, cute tops. They chattered excitedly, their attention focused entirely on the woman in front of them. One offered to carry her backpack, which the woman handed over with a casual nod. Another said something that made her laugh, a loud, unselfconscious sound that echoed in the hallway.

They weren’t just walking with her. They were following her. Their body language spoke of deference, of admiration. They looked at her like she was fascinating.

Violet’s mouth went dry. She shoved her own backpack onto her shoulder and stood, her movements clumsy by comparison. She had to see where they were going.

She pushed through the lecture hall doors just in time to see the entourage turning a corner at the end of the basement corridor. Violet hurried after them, her sweatpants whispering together with each step. The hoodie was stifling now, trapping the heat from her body and the building’s overactive heating system.

She followed them up a flight of stairs to the main lobby. The woman led her little group through the heavy glass doors and out into the quad, heading east across campus with a clear destination in mind.

Violet hung back, keeping about fifty feet between them, using other students as moving cover. She felt ridiculous, like a spy in a bad movie, but the pull was too strong. She needed to understand this anomaly.

The woman walked without hurry, her posse orbiting her. They passed the library, then cut across the grassy lawn toward the Student Union complex. The main campus mess hall was housed in a newer wing of the Union—a vast, noisy space with multiple food stations and long communal tables.

That’s where they were headed.

Violet paused outside the main entrance, watching through the wall of windows as the group went inside. The automatic doors slid open and closed, swallowing them.

She waited a full minute, her heart thumping against her ribs. This was stupid. She should go back to the house. Hannah would be expecting her for a mid-afternoon snack soon anyway.

But she didn’t move.

Finally, she pushed through the doors herself.

The cacophony of the mess hall hit her first—the clatter of trays, the hum of a hundred conversations, the hiss of steam from the serving lines. The air was thick with the smell of fried food and disinfectant.

She spotted them immediately. The woman had claimed a large circular table near the center of the room. She was already seated, holding court. One of her companions was taking her backpack and jacket. Another was heading toward the pizza station. The third was making a beeline for the burger line.

The woman herself just sat there, pulling out her phone. She didn’t go get her own food.

Violet moved to the far side of the hall, near the salad bar that no one ever used. She found an empty two-person table tucked behind a structural pillar. It gave her a diagonal view of the other table while offering some concealment. She slid into a chair, its metal legs scraping loudly on the tile floor.

She watched.

The first companion returned with two plates stacked high with cheese pizza slices and a large soda. She set them down in front of the woman with a smile. The woman glanced up from her phone, gave a slight nod of approval, and picked up a slice without hesitation. She took a huge bite, cheese stretching.

The second girl arrived with a tray containing two double cheeseburgers, a mountain of fries, and a chocolate milkshake. These were placed beside the pizza.

Within minutes, a small feast covered the table in front of the ginger-haired woman: pizza, burgers, fries, shake, soda. The three companions had fetched smaller plates for themselves—a single slice of pizza each, a salad for one of them—but their focus remained on their friend.

The woman ate with gusto. Not with shame or stealth, not hiding behind a book or a hood. She ate openly, talking between bites to her friends, who laughed and leaned in to listen. She licked cheese grease from her fingers. She took long pulls from the milkshake straw. She demolished one burger and started on the fries, dipping them into a pool of ketchup she’d squirted directly onto her tray.

She ate like someone who enjoyed it. Like it was her right.

Violet sat frozen at her own empty table, her hands clenched in her lap under the table. A strange feeling was blooming inside her, hot and prickly. It wasn’t hunger—she was still digesting the massive lunch Hannah had pressed on her three hours ago. It was something else.

It was recognition.

This wasn’t just a confident fat girl. This was something more specific, more institutional. The way she was served. The way she held court while others fetched for her. The sheer volume of food, presented not as a challenge but as an expectation.

The pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap in Violet’s foggy mind.

This woman wasn’t just eating a big lunch. She was being fed. And the people feeding her weren’t just friends. They were sisters.

She had to be a Pig Girl. For another sorority. Of course. There were other houses competing. Other girls being molded and measured and stuffed. But this one… this one seemed to be enjoying it. No, that wasn’t strong enough. She seemed to be commanding it.

Violet watched as the woman finished the first plate of pizza and gestured for one of her companions to go get more. The girl hopped up immediately, heading back to the food line without complaint.

The woman leaned back in her chair then, patting her stomach over the sequined crop top—a satisfied, proprietary gesture. She said something that made all three of her companions laugh again, their admiration clear and bright on their faces.

Violet couldn’t look away. This was a reflection in a funhouse mirror—her own situation warped into something powerful, almost glamorous. It was terrifying. And it was utterly fascinating

The woman—the other Pig Girl—didn’t just eat the food. She presided over it. She’d take a bite of burger, then push the plate aside to make room for a slice of pizza, then wave a fry in the air to emphasize a point in her story. She drank from the milkshake and the soda interchangeably, as if hydrating were just another part of the consumption process. There was no pause, no moment of regret or discomfort visible on her glitter-dusted face. She was in motion, a machine of cheerful ingestion.

Her companions watched her with rapt attention, chiming in with questions or laughter at all the right moments. They refilled her soda without being asked. When a glob of ketchup fell from a fry onto her skirt, one of them instantly produced a napkin and dabbed at it carefully, while the woman barely glanced down.

Gamma Gamma Pi. The name surfaced from the murk of Violet’s memory. Hannah had mentioned them during one of the house meetings, her voice taking on a particular competitive edge. Their girl is already at three-fifty, she’d said. We can’t let them pull ahead. This had to be her. The three-hundred-and-fifty-pound rival. The benchmark.

Violet had imagined someone miserable, someone broken and bedridden maybe, a cautionary tale of what happened when you really committed to the role. She hadn’t imagined this—this vibrant, commanding creature holding court in the middle of the student union, treating her colossal size as a crown.

The woman finished the second plate of pizza, wiping her hands on a stack of napkins one of her sisters handed her. She took a final, long slurp from the milkshake, making the straw gurgle at the bottom of the cup. Then she leaned back again, one hand resting on the pronounced curve of her full belly. She scanned the mess hall with a lazy, satisfied gaze.

Her eyes passed over the salad bar, over the pillar, and landed directly on Violet.

Violet flinched, her whole body going rigid. She looked down immediately at her own empty table, heat flooding her cheeks. Stupid. She’d been staring too long, too obviously from her hiding spot.

When she dared to glance up a few seconds later, the woman was still looking right at her. Not with anger or annoyance, but with a curious, appraising tilt to her head. A small smile played on her glossy lips.

She leaned over and whispered something to the sister sitting closest to her—a brunette in a striped sweater. The girl nodded, stood up, and started walking directly toward Violet’s table.

Oh god. Oh no.

Violet’s first instinct was to bolt. Just get up and walk very fast in the opposite direction. But her body felt glued to the chair, heavy with dread and a weird, paralyzing curiosity.

The Gamma Gamma Pi sister reached her table. She smiled, a polite, practiced expression. “Hi,” she said. Her voice was friendly but impersonal, like a hostess at a restaurant.

“Um. Hi,” Violet managed, her own voice a croak.

“Heidi was wondering if you’d like to come join us.” The girl gestured back toward the central table with a flick of her head.

“Heidi?”

“Our president.” The girl said it like it was obvious, like everyone should know who Heidi was. “She said you look like you could use some company.”

Violet’s mind raced. This was a trap. It had to be. Some kind of rival sorority trick to humiliate her further. But what could they do to her here, in public, that was worse than what happened in private at Chi Omega? And the girl’s invitation seemed genuine enough, if a bit robotic.

“I… I should probably get going,” Violet stammered.

The girl’s smile didn’t waver. “She really would like to meet you. It’ll just take a minute.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a relayed command, delivered pleasantly.

Violet looked past the girl to the table. Heidi was watching the exchange, that small smile still in place. She gave a little wave with two fingers.

Trapped. Again. But this felt different from Jecka’s threats or Susan’s wheedling. This felt like being summoned by royalty.

Slowly, awkwardly, Violet pushed her chair back and stood up. The hoodie felt even heavier now, like a costume she’d been caught wearing. She followed the brunette back across the mess hall, acutely aware of her own waddling gait compared to the other girl’s easy stride.

They arrived at the table. The other two sisters looked up at Violet with polite, blank curiosity.

Heidi patted the empty chair beside her—the one the brunette had been occupying. “Sit,” she said. Her voice was higher than Violet expected, lilting and bright. “You’ve been lurking over there forever. It’s rude to stare, but it’s weirder to stare from a distance when there’s a perfectly good seat right here.”

Violet lowered herself into the chair, which was still warm from the previous occupant. Up close, Heidi was even more striking. Her makeup was flawless, her ginger pigtails sleek and shiny. She smelled like vanilla perfume and french fries.

“I’m Heidi,” she said, extending a hand with perfectly manicured nails painted glittery black. “President of Gamma Gamma Pi. And you are?”

Violet took her hand for a brief, weak shake. “Violet.”

“Violet,” Heidi repeated, as if tasting the name. “Chi Omega’s project, right?”

The word ‘project’ landed like a slap. Violet flinched again.

Heidi noticed and laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Oh, relax. It’s what we all are, honey. Projects. Living art installations.” She gestured grandly at her own body with both hands. “I’m Gamma Gamma Pi’s masterpiece-in-progress. You’re Chi Omega’s. No need to be shy about it.”

She picked up a leftover fry from her tray and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she looked Violet over. Her gaze was assessing but not unkind—more like a collector examining a new piece.

“I saw you in Armitage’s class,” Heidi continued. “Hiding in the back like a little church mouse in that giant… whatever that is.” She wrinkled her nose slightly at Violet’s hoodie. “I thought, now there’s a girl who hasn’t learned the first rule.”

Violet just stared at her, completely out of her depth.

Heidi leaned in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially even though her sisters were right there listening. “The rule is this: if you’re going to be the centerpiece, you have to act like it. You don’t hide in the back row. You sit front and center so everyone can see what their donations and their sisterly devotion are paying for.” She leaned back again, spreading her arms wide along the back of the chairs on either side of her—a queen on her throne. “Own it.”

Violet found her voice, though it was thin and shaky. “You… you know what I am?”

“Of course I know!” Heidi said brightly. “We all keep tabs on each other. It’s a competition! I know Chi Omega’s girl is named Violet Sorenson, she started around two-twenty last fall, and last weigh-in she was sitting at three-twenty but plateauing.” She ticked the points off on her glittery fingers as if reciting grocery items. “I know your head sister is Hannah—she’s sweet but kind of basic with her feeding strategies, honestly—and you have that psycho Jecka who thinks brutality is motivation.” She shrugged one sequined shoulder. “We have dossiers.”

The casualness of it stole Violet’s breath away. Her suffering, her weight, her sisters—all reduced to data points in a rival’s dossier.

“You don’t… mind?” The question slipped out before Violet could stop it.

Heidi blinked those glittery eyelids slowly. “Mind what? Being the Pig Girl?” She let out another laugh, this one richer, more genuine. “Honey, I campaigned for this. I wanted it. When they voted four years ago, I made sure they picked me.”

Violet could only stare, her mind utterly rejecting the concept. Wanted it? Campaigning?

“See,” Heidi said, leaning forward again, her expression turning earnest. “You Chi O girls, you treat it like some grim duty. A cross to bear for sisterhood. So boring. So martyr-complex.” She shook her head, her pigtails swaying. “At Gamma Gamma Pi, we understand what this really is. It’s a privilege. It’s power.”

She gestured to the three sisters sitting silently around them. “They serve me. They feed me. They cater to my every whim because my size, my gain, is their glory. I am their living trophy. And a trophy gets polished, not hidden under a hoodie.”

She reached out and flicked the loose fabric of Violet’s sleeve. “This? This is sending the wrong message. It says you’re ashamed of what they’re making you. And if you’re ashamed, then they should be ashamed of their work. But they’re not, are they? They’re proud. So you have to be proud too. Or at least act like it. It’s better for everyone.”

Violet sat there, dumbfounded. This wasn’t just a different person; it was a different reality. In Heidi’s world, the Pig Girl wasn’t at the bottom of the hierarchy. She was at the top. The force-feeding wasn’t punishment; it was tribute.

“You’re… the president?” Violet asked, still stuck on that earlier detail.

“President, Pig Girl, head bitch in charge,” Heidi confirmed with a proud nod. “Why should those jobs be separate? The Pig Girl is the most important person in the house! She should be running things! Otherwise you get what you have— people like Jecka pushing you around because they think they have authority over you.” She scoffed, taking another sip of soda. “Nobody has authority over me. I let them feed me because I want to get bigger. Because being this big is fun. And because when I win this thing for Gamma Gam, my name goes on a plaque, and every girl in this school will remember who Heidi fucking Prescott is.”

Her eyes sparkled with ambition that had nothing to do with academics or career. This was her legacy. The biggest girl, the winner.

She looked at Violet again, and her expression softened into something that almost resembled pity. “You look confused, sweetie. And miserable, honestly. You should come by our house sometime. See how things are done when the Pig Girl is treated like royalty, not livestock.”

An invitation. Not from a sister, but from another Pig Girl. A sense of camaraderie, however twisted, settled in the space between them. It was the first time since this whole nightmare began that anyone had acknowledged they were in the same boat. Even if Heidi seemed to think they were on a luxury yacht while Violet was drowning in the bilge.

Violet didn’t know what to say. Thank you? No, that wasn't right. She just nodded slowly, a numb, automatic response.

“Good,” Heidi said, smiling broadly as if Violet had agreed to something grand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Violet. Really. It gets lonely at the top sometimes.” She patted Violet's arm, her touch surprisingly gentle. “We should stick together. Us special girls.”

“You should come by,” Heidi said again, her tone leaving no room for the invitation to be merely polite. “Now’s good. We’re having a little pre-dinner social at the house. Nothing formal.”

Violet’s brain scrambled for an excuse. Hannah would be expecting her. There was probably a “nutrient-dense” smoothie waiting on her desk. Jecka would have opinions about fraternizing with the enemy. But the word ‘enemy’ didn’t fit here. Heidi wasn’t an enemy; she was a reflection, warped and glittering, showing a path Violet had never imagined.

And more than that, Violet was curious. A terrible, deep-down curiosity that overrode her fear.

“Okay,” she heard herself say.

“Excellent!” Heidi clapped her hands together once, a sharp, happy sound. She pushed her chair back and stood, a motion that still seemed effortless despite her size. Her sisters instantly moved into action—one gathering the trash onto the tray, another helping her into her jacket (a stylish denim number that wouldn’t close over her stomach), the third slinging her backpack.

Heidi led the procession out of the mess hall, Violet trailing awkwardly at the rear. They crossed campus toward the row of historic houses that served as sorority row. Gamma Gamma Pi’s house was a Victorian painted a cheerful lavender with white trim. It looked like a giant frosted cupcake.

Inside, the atmosphere was different from Chi Omega’s house immediately. Chi Omega felt like a clinic sometimes, or a farm—all efficiency and silent judgment under Hannah’s gentle veneer. Gamma Gamma Pi was louder, brighter. Pop music played from a speaker in the common room. Girls lounged on sofas, texting or chatting. They looked up as Heidi entered.

“Heidi’s back!” someone called out.

“Did you get the chili fries?” another asked.

“Obviously,” Heidi replied, not breaking stride as she headed for a large, plush armchair positioned like a throne in front of the fireplace. It had no arms, Violet noticed—a wide, forgiving seat. Heidi sank into it with a contented sigh, kicking off her platform boots. One of the sisters who had been at the mess hall immediately knelt to put them neatly by the door.

“This is Violet,” Heidi announced to the room at large, gesturing vaguely in Violet’s direction. “Chi Omega’s project. Be nice.”

A few girls waved or smiled. Their looks weren’t hostile, just curious. Violet stood frozen just inside the doorway, clutching her backpack like a life preserver.

“Sit, sit,” Heidi said, pointing to a matching ottoman pulled up near her chair. “Megan! Get us some snacks. The good cheese plate from the fridge, and those mini quiches we heated up earlier. And two Cokes. Full sugar.”

A girl with a ponytail—Megan, presumably—nodded and hurried off toward what must have been the kitchen.

Violet shuffled over and perched on the edge of the ottoman. It was lower than Heidi’s chair, putting her at a slight disadvantage. The setup felt deliberate.

“So,” Heidi said, making herself comfortable. “You see? No hiding in bedrooms here. The Pig Girl holds court in the common area. Where everyone can see the investment paying off.”

As if on cue, another sister approached with a footstool. “Heidi, your feet?”

“Please,” Heidi said, lifting her legs so the girl could slide the stool underneath them. Once settled, Heidi wiggled her toes in their fishnet tights. “Better.”

Megan returned with a large wooden board laden with cubes of cheese, crackers, grapes, and a small bowl of what looked like artisanal mustard. A separate plate held about two dozen golden-brown mini quiches. She set it all on a low table between Heidi’s chair and Violet’s ottoman, then placed two glass bottles of Coke beside it.

“Thank you, Megan,” Heidi said, not looking at her. She picked up a cracker, layered it with cheese and a grape, and ate it in one bite. “Help yourself,” she said to Violet around the mouthful.

Violet tentatively took a cracker. She wasn’t hungry—she was never not full anymore—but the social script demanded it.

Heidi ate steadily, efficiently. She didn’t gorge, but she didn’t pause either. It was like fueling. “The key,” she said after swallowing a quiche, “is to never let them think you’re doing them a favor. You are allowing them to feed you. You are accepting their service. It’s a gift to them.” She pointed a cheesy cracker at Violet for emphasis. “Your sisters at Chi O, they think they’re doing you a favor by stuffing you. They think you should be grateful. That’s why you’re miserable. You’ve got the power dynamic backwards.”

Violet nibbled her cracker. The cheese was sharp and good. “It doesn’t feel like power,” she said quietly.

“Because you’re not using it!” Heidi exclaimed, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. “Look.” She raised her voice slightly, not shouting, but projecting. “Jessica! This Coke is getting warm.”

A girl reading on a nearby sofa immediately put her book down and came over. “I’ll get you a cold one, Heidi.”

“With ice this time,” Heidi said, handing her the half-finished bottle.

“Of course.” Jessica took it and headed to the kitchen.

Heidi turned back to Violet, a smug smile on her face. “See? I wanted a colder drink. Now I get a colder drink. That’s power. It’s small, but it adds up.” She selected another quiche. “They want me to be huge, right? The biggest, the best. So everything that contributes to that goal— my comfort, my happiness, my cravings— becomes a house priority. My whims are their commandments.”

Jessica returned with a fresh, frosty bottle of Coke in a glass with ice. Heidi took it with a nod. “Thank you, Jess.” She took a long drink. “Perfect.”

Violet watched this whole exchange, stunned. At Chi Omega, a request like that would have been met with a sigh from Hannah, a passive-aggressive comment from Susan, or outright scorn from Jecka. Service was something extracted from Violet, not something offered to her.

“You really enjoy it?” Violet asked, the question slipping out before she could filter it.

Heidi’s eyes lit up. “Oh, honey, I love it. I love eating. I always have. Now I get to do it as much as I want, and I get praised for it, pampered for it. I get to be gloriously, unapologetically fat, and instead of people whispering behind my back, they cheer me on.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper again. “Do you know how liberating that is? To take the thing society says you should be most ashamed of and turn it into your greatest asset?”

Violet didn’t know. Shame was her constant companion, a thick syrup coating every thought.

“But… the pain,” Violet murmured. “Being so full you can’t breathe. The… the things they make you do.”

Heidi waved a dismissive hand. “Discomfort is part of the process. You think ballet dancers don’t have bloody feet? You push through. And you make sure they make it worth your while.” She popped another grape into her mouth. “Besides, the pain fades. The glory is forever. When I win, my picture will be on the Gamma Gam wall forever. I’ll be a legend. What will you be? Another miserable girl who got fat and dropped out?”

The bluntness of it stole Violet’s breath. It was too close to her own secret fears.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Heidi working steadily through the cheese plate. Violet managed one more quiche, the rich egg and pastry sitting heavily on top of everything else already inside her. But for the first time in months, she was having something resembling a conversation. Not about calories or progress, but about… the experience itself.

Heidi asked about Chi Omega’s methods, listening with a critical ear. “Raw pancake batter? That’s just desperate. And cruel. We do high-fat custards for overnight gains. Way more efficient, and they taste better.” She shared her own strategies— scheduled “digestive rests” where she was massaged but not fed, the specific high-calorie supplements her house’s nutrition chair researched. It was surreal, like two generals discussing wartime logistics, except the battlefield was their own bodies.

And for a little while, Violet almost forgot to be miserable. There was a bizarre comfort in talking to someone who understood the sheer physical reality of it all— the ache, the logistics of clothing, the way the world shrank to the space you could waddle through. Heidi didn’t offer sympathy; she offered commiseration laced with strategy. It was refreshing in its own terrifying way.

The light outside the bay windows began to fade into evening. Violet realized with a start how long she’d been gone.

“I should probably get back,” she said, setting down her empty Coke bottle.

Heidi looked at the window, then back at Violet. She sighed, a performative sound of regret. “I suppose. The Chi O jailers will be missing their prize pig.” She didn’t say it meanly; it was just a statement of fact in her worldview.

She shifted in her chair, raising her voice again without straining. “Claire! You drove today, right?”

A girl who had been doing homework at the dining table looked up. “Yeah.”

“Good. You’re going to drive Violet back to Chi Omega.”

Claire blinked, then closed her textbook without argument. “Sure.”

Violet stood up quickly, almost losing her balance as her weight shifted. “Oh, that’s okay, I can walk—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Heidi interrupted, waving Claire over. “Pig girls like us shouldn’t have to walk so far.” She said it as if it were an obvious truth, a rule of nature. “It’s undignified. And it burns calories we can’t afford to waste.” She smiled up at Violet as Claire fetched her keys from a hook by the door. “See? It’s about framing. You’re not incapable of walking. You’re too important to walk.”

Claire came over, jingling her keys. “Ready?”

Violet looked from Claire’s patient face to Heidi’s smug, glittery one. A car ride home. Not because she was pitied, but because she was… important? Too valuable to expend energy? It was nonsense, but it was a different flavor of nonsense than she was used to.

“Thank you,” Violet said softly, to both of them.

Heidi reached out and gave Violet’s hand a quick squeeze. “Anytime, Violet. Really. Come by again. It’s good for us to talk.” Her expression turned serious for just a second. “Remember what I said. Own it. Or they will own you.”

With that final piece of advice hanging in the air, Violet followed Claire out of the lavender house and into the cool evening.

The drive back to Chi Omega was short and silent. Claire didn't ask questions or make small talk; she just performed the task she'd been given. When she pulled up in front of Chi Omega's darker, more subdued brick house, she simply said, "Here you go."

Violet got out, mumbling another thanks that Claire acknowledged with a nod before driving off.

She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking up at the house that was her prison and her home. The memory of Gamma Gamma Pi— the music, the bright colors, Heidi holding court— felt like a dream already, fading against the stark reality of this quiet porch.

But something had shifted inside her, a tiny crack in the monolith of her despair. She had met someone else living this life, and that person wasn't just surviving it; she was thriving on it. It didn't make Violet want to thrive, not really. But it introduced a new variable into the grim equation of her existence: the possibility of a different angle, a different way to bear the weight.

She pulled the oversized hoodie tighter around herself, not for camouflage now, but as armor against whatever waited inside. Then she walked up the steps, each one heavier than the last, and opened the door to whatever snack, whatever judgment, whatever fresh demand awaited her there.

The chapter of meeting Heidi was over. But its echo lingered in her mind, a glittering, impossible alternative that changed nothing about her situation, and yet somehow changed everything about how she saw it