The Notice Board

Silke pulled her hood lower over her face and stood behind the pillar.

Mira stood ten meters away in front of the black bulletin board, the flyer in her hand, with two friends on either side. Lina with the straight bangs. Hanna with the loud voice. Silke knew them by sight. Mira knew Silke’s body better than both of them put together. The hoodie was too big, dark gray, with the sleeves pulled down over her hands. No one gave her a second glance. That was exactly what she wanted.

Mira flipped the flyer over, as if there might be something on the back that would make things easier. “I don’t know if I should go for this,” she said. “It’s really tough. Plus, there’s bound to be competition.”

Lina took the flyer from her hand and read it aloud.

“Models of all body types. Professional photo shoot. Two thousand euros. Mira. This is a real casting call.”

“It also says ‘open to experimental concepts,’” Hanna interjected. “That’s exactly your thing. There’s even an exhibition at the end.”

“It’s always been your dream,” Lina said more softly. “A real photo shoot. Not that cell phone stuff. It would give you some financial breathing room, too. Just see what could come of it.”

“I’ve got the scholarship,” Mira muttered. “And all that stuff from last semester…”

“Then apply,” Hanna cut her off. “If you don’t do it, some nobody with zero personality will. You want this. You’ve wanted this for years.”

Mira took a photo of the flyer. The shutter clicked softly.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll apply.”

The three of them continued toward the cafeteria. Mira was laughing again. Too loudly. As if nothing had happened.

Silke stepped up to the box.

The flyer was glossy, printed on high-quality paper. Large font. Smaller text below it.

Her stomach clenched. Not out of fear. Out of anger. Mira wanted this. Mira, who had given away Silke’s tits, Silke’s mouth, Silke’s ass to a sweaty tutor because she wanted to stay clean herself. Mira, who had signed away two hours and every hole without batting an eye. And now Mira wanted to be paid handsomely for letting someone photograph her slender body. Silke took a photo. Sent it to Peter.

She typed the message with her thumb, her hood still pulled low:

“Should I go along with this? Mira was just here. She really wants the job. Wouldn’t it be cool if I could take it away from her?”

Three gray checkmarks. Then the reply.

Peter: “Sounds like fun. Do whatever it takes to get the job.”

Silke stared at the screen. She felt sick.

Not the idea. The tone. “Do whatever it takes.” With Peter, that phrase never meant “send a nice email.” With Peter, it meant: Give it your all.

Silke had misunderstood again. Or understood exactly right. With Peter, it was the same thing. Peter was pleased with her newfound self-confidence. Nice.

Silke pressed her forehead against the cool glass surface of the bulletin board. Behind her, the university bustled. Laughter. Trays. Someone called out a name.

In her head was Mira. Anger rose hot in her throat. Not the clean anger you can fit into a message. The other kind. The kind that started between her legs, even though she didn’t want it to. The kind that was already making her body ready to do stupid things again.

She typed: I’ll do it.

Silke opened the address from the flyer. Her fingers were damp.

She wrote while standing, hood pulled over her face, right in the middle of campus.

Hello,

I’m applying for the job posting. 25, brown hair, soft hips, full breasts.

I’m a student, not a professional. I hope that’s okay.

I can come to the casting today or tomorrow. I’m really open to anything.

Silke.

Then she attached four photos that were supposed to help her land the job.

She sent the email.

Then she stood there for a while, looking at the flyer, as if Mira might come back and see that someone else had applied. No one came. Her cell phone vibrated one more time in her pocket.

The reply came right away.

You’re amazing. We want you. Please stop by the registrar’s office and sign the contract. Hurry—we have another applicant. First come, first served.

Silke stared at the screen. Another applicant. It had to be Mira.

She ran.

Her hoodie fluttered behind her, the hood pulled low over her face; she took the stairs two at a time. Only one thought ran through her mind: First come, first served. Mira had the dream. This time, Silke would get there first.

The office was on the ground floor—a glass door, bright light, a desk right behind the window. A young student was sitting there, laptop open, two folders in front of him. He looked up as Silke stormed in.

“Are you Silke or Mira?”

“Silke,” she said too quickly. Her voice was hoarse from running.

He smiled with relief. “Good. Here’s the contract.”

She’d made it. She was faster.

He slid the sheet across to her. Two pages, small print, the name at the top, the amount at the bottom: 2,000 euros. A model contract. One spot.

Through the glass pane, Silke saw Mira.

Mira was coming down the same hallway, cell phone in hand, her pace not quite hurried enough yet. Lina wasn’t with her. Just Mira. She’d sent the email later. Or it had taken her longer. Or she’d thought she had time.

Silke picked up the pen. Signed. The name scratched loudly across the paper.

The student closed the folder and exhaled.

“Good. So the model contracts are all set. You’re really lucky. We only had this one spot because a new photographer was looking for a model.” He grinned. “Congratulations.”

Silke nodded. Her hand didn’t tremble. Deep inside her sat something warm, ugly, and content.

As she walked out, she took off her hood.

Brown hair. The soft face. The body that Mira had given away back then without batting an eye. She wanted Mira to see who had landed the last contract.

Mira stopped two meters from the door. Her gaze met Silke’s open face, then the portfolio under her arm, then the glass door, behind which the student was already setting the second sheet aside.

Silke paused for a heartbeat. Long enough.

Mira turned pale. Then red. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She pushed the door open and disappeared into the office.

The door clicked shut.

Silke kept walking. The hallway was suddenly too bright. Her cell phone was already vibrating in her pocket; Peter would read the message and be proud. Two thousand euros. The last spot. Mira’s dream shattered, with Silke’s name right underneath it.