The Contest: Becoming Sarah

The music just slammed the sorority house. Bassline? Like a freaking fist pounding the walls. Foundation was basically groaning.

The bass wasn’t music to the closest freshman. It was a leech, biting through her eardrums. Molars rattled close to the speakers, and some kid had quit, hands over his head like a POW.

Fairy lights bled a drunk glow over the couch-crammed living room. Bodies and red cups collided in the sweaty grind of a party hitting its stride. Beer and punch slicked the floors—sacrificial offerings to the night. Every squk of shoes on sticky tile was a eulogy for the floor’s dignity.

Vanilla body spray fought the corpse of a citrus candle. It reminded Sarah of her aunt’s tacky beach house, where every room smelled like a fruit salad had a midlife crisis. Laughter ricocheted, tangled with shouty flirtations and a very wrong rendition of the chorus.

Annie the sorority president, didn’t stand; she occupied, spine like a steel ruler. Black dress so tight it might’ve been painted on. Her hair—fucking flawless. Light caught every wave like it owed her money. Her smile—champagne meets arson—killed the noise. The crowd feared her more than FOMO.

A spoon ting against a stolen cup. Chatter flatlined. The music ducked, leaving only the bass, throbbing like a bruise.



“Alright, you heathens…“ Annie barked, ducking a whizzing cup. “Chill, Chad! Our anniversary bash. You’re welcome.” Squk. Squk. Annie’s glare froze the offender mid-step: dog caught pissing on the rug.

“This isn’t a party; it’s our annual descent into chaos.” A phone buzzed. “Tonight? I’m the one holding the matches.”

The crowd buzzed. What’s she up to? Annie’s plans were legend—sometimes iconic, often a felony. This? Branding-iron memorable.

Sarah hovered by the punch bowl, half-invisible, like she’d mastered the art of vanishing. Her cup—sticky, red, tasting like someone melted a bag of gummy bears—was basically glue in her hand. Cardigan buttoned up to her chin, never mind the house felt like Satan’s sauna. Same old Sarah, hiding in her sweater fortress, wondering if anyone noticed she’d been standing there for, like, an hour.

Always the same. Walls up, safe inside her soft, modest cage. Back in high school, after that guy—nobody talked about it—she’d learned to hide. Sweaters were her armor. And for a long time, she felt safe in them.

Used to.

Phil saw through all that. From that first day in the Student Union, hunched over Pride and Prejudice, clutching a soda the size of her head.

“You’ll have to drink that faster if you want to make the Soda Olympics,” he’d said. She’d looked up and laughed. Real, loud, like something broke free. The crack had started there. Then came dates: coffee, pizza. Walks that stretched past curfew, where his hand found hers like it belonged there. “You’re a gem,” he’d said.

He saw her. Really saw her. Nobody else did. And he stuck around. It rattled her, but God, she craved it.

The party raged, but Sarah was background noise. Wallpaper. Her punch was lukewarm now. Gross. Sarah wondered why she even came. Same old nerves, same old hiding…God, was she always gonna be this way? Shoulda stayed in my room. Too loud, too hot. She took a sip. It didn’t help.

Then Amanda showed up. Of course. Brassy, bold Amanda, her roommate, her chaos magnet. Her accidental compass. Chipped bracelet jangling like it was late for something. “Sarah,” she said, voice low, slicing through the noise. “You’re doing this.”

Sarah flinched, clutching her cup. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Really.”

“No way,” Amanda said, leaning close. “Not hiding tonight. This is your moment.”

Moment? Sarah’s pulse spiked. Moment for what? “Amanda, me? On stage? I’d die. I’d actually die.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t even wear a tank top without turning red.”

Amanda’s grin was all trouble. “Exactly why you’ve gotta. You’re not that shy Sarah anymore. Phil took care of that.”

“Amanda!” Sarah hissed, glancing around. “Keep your voice down.”

Nobody knew. Not about last week, that night she’d let Phil in. When she’d wanted, and asked, and let herself feel. His touch— slow, careful, electric, steady and reverent— made her feel alive, and for the first time in forever, she’d felt lit from within. Like someone had turned her on and left the lights glowing. New.

Amanda knew. She’d seen Sarah sneak in at 3 AM, cardigan slipping, hair wild, lit up like a stadium. “Chill,” Amanda said, waving it off. “Nobody’s eavesdropping. Oh, Phil’s here, by the way. He asked about you.”

“He’s here?” Sarah’s stomach flipped. She found him by the door, laughing at something, red cup in hand. Easy and relaxed, like always. Clueless about the chaos Amanda just sparked.

“What’ll he think?” Sarah muttered, picking at a thread on her sleeve.

Amanda snorted. “He’ll lose his mind. Proud as hell. Watching you shine, owning it.”

“Really?” Sarah’s voice was small.

“Yeah. Also? You’ve got the best ass in this house.”

“Shut up!” Sarah laughed, mortified, cheeks burning. Best ass? Her? Hidden under cardigans and loose skirts, unnoticed.

Best ass. Doe eyes. Smile like a secret. Amanda rattled off her assets like she was someone else. Me?

“My family would freak,” Sarah mumbled.

“They’re not here.”

“Our pledge class?”

“They’d be shocked but they’d cheer. Claire’d probably throw confetti.”

“You think?”

“They’d see what I see—a badass stepping up. Owning her power. ” Amanda softened, just a touch. “You’re gorgeous, Sarah. Stop hiding.”

“Think I could?” The question came out small, soft, like it slipped past Sarah’s filters. Like she wasn’t even sure she’d said it out loud.

Amanda didn’t even blink. “I know you can.”

Something shifted. Like a door creaking open inside her chest. Sarah’s heart pounded. Annie hadn’t even mentioned the contest to her, only Amanda and Jennie, her “big sister.” That hurt more than she wanted to admit.

They think I’m a joke. A nothing. They think I don’t matter.

Her breath hitched. Joining Annie’s contest terrified her, but Amanda’s words echoed Phil’s touch—scary but amazing. A quiet yes stirred inside. Small and shaky, but alive.

It grew. Not just stepping on stage. Owning it. Not stripping…revealing. Music pulsing. Lights spinning. Phil’s breath hitching. Her cardigan falling, not a loss, but a rebirth. They’ll see me.

“I can’t,” she murmured, her voice barely holding.

“You can,” Amanda said, softer now. “You need to.”

“Good girls don’t do this,” Sarah said softly, almost to herself.

Amanda leaned closer, her voice teasing. “Good girls don’t fuck their boyfriends either.”

Sarah gasped. Amanda really went there.

“Remember what you said, Sarah? Scary but amazing? This is like that, only more so.”

Sarah stared into her cup. The punch had gone flat. And warm. She thought of Phil. His hands. His whisper. How she trembled, but didn’t stop. The way he’d made her feel beautiful, not in spite of who she was, but because of it.

“This would feel like that,” she whispered.

Amanda nodded. “Exactly.”

“Come on,” Amanda said, eyes gleaming. “Phil’s jaw dropping. You, shining like a damn star. Not Punchbowl Girl; woman. Kick that cage open.”

She saw it—flashes of it. Blurry, but real. The stage. Her. Not just taking off the cardigan, but stepping out of it. Music flaring. Her body in motion. The crowd going still. Phil’s mouth hanging open. A hush, and then—

Applause. Seen. Not invisible anymore.

“I don’t know…”

“You do,” Amanda said, gentle. “You’ve just never let yourself believe it.”

Something cracked. Sarah swallowed hard.

What if I could? Wanted to? What if this was it? The moment she stopped hiding?

Amanda touched her arm. “Do it for you, okay? Not for me. Not for Phil. For you. For Sarah. Because you deserve it.”

Sarah exhaled slowly, unsteady. Trembling.

“You know you want to,” Amanda pressed. “Admit it. It’ll be fun. Just think about it, okay?”



Sarah hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll… think about it.”

Amanda grinned. “That’s my girl.” And she vanished.

Sarah’s fingers eased off the cup. Not yes. Not yet. But not no. Her skin tingled.

She couldn’t.

She might.

She shouldn’t.

She wanted to.

The crowd buzzed, drunk on drama, high on beer and anticipation. Annie clapped, voice shrill with excitement. “To our anniversary bash!” she shouted, grin wicked. “We go big, but tonight’s lit.” The room crackled. Annie’s heel tapped, scuffed. “Not just a party…a Striptease Showdown!”

The crowd roared. Annie listed six sorority sisters, each bold, ready:

Jennie, Sarah’s “big sister,” the six-foot blonde softball pitcher, busty, toned, and blazing with hazel-eyed fire. She didn’t just walk onto that stage; she stalked it like a predator. I’ll own this.

Betsy, Jennie’s “big sister,” cute but wild, a busty redhead with a daring bob and a reputation to match. House VP. Loyal to Jack—mostly. Her barely-there dress made her intentions crystal clear.

Amanda, Sarah’s brassy roommate. Round-titted and fresh off a breakup, dressed to play: red top, leather skirt, and confidence like a dare. She was ready to turn heads and prove something to herself and everyone else.

Debbie, sultry brunette with a history, her vibe electric, teasing Charlie tonight, sparking jealousy tomorrow. She’d once swapped partners with Jennie. The crowd could feel it.

Penny, short, auburn-haired, with a wicked glint and no fear of nakedness. A spotlight addict, ready to charm. She practically wiggled onto the stage.

“And, uh, me,” Annie said, a quick giggle breaking her cool. The crowd went wild.

Sarah clutched her cardigan, heart pounding. They’re fearless. Could I be?

Annie’s voice rang out. “Let’s hear it for our six contestants!” Applause exploded.

Sarah’s throat tightened. She gripped her cardigan. This is it.

“Seven.” Soft. Shaky. Firm.

Heads turned. Chatter stopped. Eyes blinked.

Sarah—quiet, demure, Cardigan Sarah—stepped forward. Chin up, hands shaking. Amanda’s grin spread, slow, like dawn.

Phil’s beer froze halfway to his lips. Sarah? His Sarah? His heart skipped.

Annie blinked. “I count six,” she said, repeating the names.

Sarah climbed onto the stage. Her voice, steady but loud in her ears, cut through.

“Seven, Annie. I’m in.”

Annie’s jaw dropped. She was gobsmacked. “SARAH?!” she yelled. The name came out like a scream in a library, eyes bugging out like she’d seen a ghost. Cardigan Sarah? Punchbowl Girl? Her hand smacked her chest, half-joking, half-pissed. “You sure?” It sounded sweet, like she cared, but it was a shove—This isn’t you. Go back to the punch bowl. But Sarah wasn’t budging.

Sarah nodded, gut screaming, Nope. Her hands shook, but her eyes said, You ain’t ready.

“Totally,” she muttered, tough as nails. Her knees wobbled, but her eyes burned. My moment. She was done hiding, done being the girl who ducked out. Done wondering what might happen if she dared. This was her, strutting out. Gutsy, real, owning it. No turning back. Cardigan Sarah? Toast.

The rickety stage groaned, beer cans rolling underfoot. Girls froze. “Wait…Sarah? For real?” one giggled, half-choking. Others gaped, like, What the hell? Laugh? Clap? Run? Pretend it wasn’t happening?

But Amanda’s wink hit like a high-five. Phil’s grin—wide, shocked, proud—locked her in. She’s got this. His eyes screamed it. He knew the nights it took—coffee runs, 2 AM talks, cracking her walls like a safe. Porchlight goodbyes, poems he coaxed from her cardigan shield. She wasn’t his gem to uncover anymore. She was blazing, blowing his damn mind, owning the light.

For me. For him. For us.

She was here. She was burning bright.

And even he hadn’t seen this coming.

But Phil’s grin twitched. Can she handle this? The sweaty crowd, buzzing lights, Annie’s glare?

Too late. Sarah was on that stage, not backing down.

The whispers lit up like a fuse.

The crowd went nuts. “Wait…is that—?”

“No freaking way.”

“Cardigan Sarah?” Whispers hit like a bar fight breaking out.

Annie’s smile cracked, turning stiff and glassy. She gritted her teeth She’s serious? A snicker here, a gasp there. Punchbowl Girl? Striptease? This has to be a joke. Sarah was crashing her party, stealing her spotlight. Hell no!

Sarah. Sarah? In this? Not in a million years.

This wasn’t the plan.

Sarah didn’t fit the vibe: wasn’t brash, wasn’t wild, wasn’t the kind of girl who showed skin or stole stages. Hell, Annie hadn’t even told her about the contest. Sarah was supposed to pour the punch and stay out of the way.

And yet here she was. Shaking, but standing tall. Owning space Annie hadn’t offered.

I swear to God. She’s hijacking my party.

Sarah’s knees were unsteady, but her eyes blazed. This was her moment. She could feel it. No turning back now.

Annie’s voice cracked as she forced the words out. “Our, um, seven contestants!” Her tone hit like dry ice—cold and brittle, breaking on contact.

She’ll choke, Annie thought. Gotta.

Then the crowd erupted. For Sarah. Cheers slammed her ears, wild, raw, like a Bronx bar after a Yankees homer. Wild, electric, alive. A wave of raw sound that seemed to lift her off the ground. Sarah blinked, then stood taller, eyes flashing. I’m here.

Annie’s face fell. They’re cheering her? Punchbowl Girl? Her smirk was gone, smoked like a bad pitch.

Five judges plopped down: Steve, Casey from the baseball team, Charlie—Debbie’s guy—sweating bullets every time she glanced his way, and two frat bros, better at beer pong than brains, names lost in the party’s roar.

Backstage, the contestants drew numbers. One by one, they vanished behind curtains to get ready. Sarah’s hand shook as she pulled hers. Four. Smack in the middle. Her gut screamed, Nope, but something stronger pushed through: heat, resolve, the quiet roar of I’m doing this. “Breathe, girl,” she muttered, legs like jelly but spine like steel.

Annie leaned in, voice syrupy but sharp. “Sarah, you don’t have to do this, y’know.” Total BS. It was a shove: Beat it, Punchbowl Girl. Her second jab to ditch Sarah, like, You’re embarrassing yourself.

Sarah stared her down. “I need to, Annie,” she said, voice low, steady. “I want to.” I’m not hiding anymore. Cardigan Sarah? Donezo.

Annie’s eyes slit, like, Need to? Who the hell does this chick think she is? “Whatever,” she spat, turning away.

Amanda grabbed Sarah’s shoulder. “You’re a damn knockout, girl,” she hissed, all fire. Sarah’s chest lit up.

That did it. Annie’s jaw clenched. Amanda. Of course.

Debbie sashayed out, owning the rickety stage the second her heel hit it.