Leola Salas

What surprised her most this term was a stranger at a convention recognising the stitching on her sleeves — three weeks of unpicking and resewing, and somebody actually looked. Leola went pink under the wig and then talked about pattern cutting for an hour. Classes fill her days and costumes fill her nights, and the bikini she swears is for the pool spends more time in photos than in chlorine. She is appetite with a timetable: deadlines first, appetite after. Twenty-four, unembarrassed, and quick to admit she thinks about it more than she should. Talking to her feels like being let in on something she has been dying to say out loud.