The Mailgirl Chronicles of Stephens Academy (Ch 1A, 31 Jan)

[barelin]

The story follows Danielle "Danni" Carter, a 13-year-old eighth-grader at Stephens Junior Academy, as she grapples with the looming dread of the school's infamous Mailgirl Program. This tradition, shrouded in mystery and fear, selects eighth-grade girls over the age of 14 to serve as mailgirls, requiring them to perform their duties completely nude, regardless of weather conditions. Danni, along with her friends Rachel and Carla, is terrified of being chosen, as the selection process is unpredictable and life-altering.

[barelin]

1A

Today is Wednesday—the last school day before Thanksgiving weekend—and everything feels off. There’s this weird tension in the air, like everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for something bad to happen. Usually, the days leading up to a break are pretty boring—just announcements, reminders, and teachers wishing us happy holidays. But this year is different. Everything about eighth grade feels heavier and more important, and today? Today feels like it’s carrying the weight of the whole world on its shoulders.

Hi, I'm Danielle Carter, but I prefer 'Danni.’ I'm thirteen, but I will be fourteen in the first week of December. Why is that relevant, you ask... because of the dreaded Mailgirl Program in our school. Only high school students can be mailgirls, that's why they have to be fourteen. However, new mailgirls are chosen to replace the graduating seniors at the beginning of the last semester of eighth grade to give the new girls a semester with the seniors for training. It’s a birthday I’ve been dreading, and I know I’m not alone. Every girl in eighth grade feels the same way. Why? Because of the Mailgirl Program…, this creepy, awful tradition has been around forever at Stephens Junior Academy. Nobody talks about it openly, but it’s always there, hanging over us, like some curse that eighth-grade girls over fourteen can’t escape. That’s about to include me and my friends.

The whole thing is such a mystery. Nobody knows how they pick the names, and there’s no way to guess who’ll be called. It’s just this horrifying moment where everything about your life changes—and not in a good way.

I’m in English class right now, and I can’t focus at all. My chest feels tight, and my heartbeat is so loud I swear the whole class can hear it. Rachel’s sitting on my left—she turned fourteen back in September—and Carla’s on my right; her birthday was last week. They’re just as freaked out as I am. We don’t talk about it because what’s there to say? But it’s written all over our faces: the fear that one of us could be next. It feels like this slow-moving storm, creeping closer and closer, and there’s nowhere to hide.

I keep thinking about it from years past. It’s one thing when I was younger watching more senior students in the highest grade at the Junior Academy getting their clothes cut away and leaving them all in well… nothing, but seeing it happen and realizing that we are going to be in that grade coming up. That’s something you can’t ever forget. I remember sitting in the auditorium, watching as the names of the girls in the grade above us were called out, one by one. Each of them had to go up on stage, and—ugh, even remembering it makes me feel sick, imagining it was me—they had their uniforms cut off right there in front of everyone, leaving them in… well… nothing. Not even their shoes.

It wasn't until last year, my seventh year that the mailgirl selection process started to feel more personal. My friends and I were approaching mid-school year, and the reality of potentially being chosen to become a mailgirl was sinking in. The thought of one of us being called up on stage, stripped of our clothes, and transformed into a mailgirl who would have to walk around the campus nude at all times was daunting. We had seen it happen to students before, but it was always something that happened to "them," not "us."

As we watched those students being replaced with new mailgirls, we couldn't help but wonder how they dealt with the cold. It was freezing outside, yet they showed no signs of discomfort as they walked around the campus barefoot in the snow and ice. It was as if they had accepted their fate and were numb to the cold.

My friends had classes with some of the girls who were chosen last year, and it made the reality even more real for us. We spent hours discussing how those mailgirls could casually walk around the campus without showing any signs of discomfort, despite the harsh weather conditions between the fall and spring months.

In previous years, we had watched as around five students from the final grade at Stephens Junior Academy were chosen to become mailgirls. Their names would be called, their clothes would be cut away in front of everyone, and they would be left standing in their birthday suits. It was always entertaining to watch from a distance, but it felt like something that happened to someone else, not us. However, last year was different. The reality of our potential selection hit us hard because we knew our time was coming soon. We were next in line to face the possibility of becoming a mailgirl.

Now, as I sit here in English class, the reality is suffocating. This isn’t some far-off nightmare anymore; it’s real. One of us—maybe even me, Rachel, or Carla—could be called. I can’t stop praying that it won’t happen and that somehow, we’ll be spared. But the storm is here. I can feel it closing in, relentless and unstoppable, no matter how much I hope otherwise.

Then, the crackle of the intercom jolts me out of my spiraling thoughts. The room falls silent as Principal Samara Barrera’s voice fills the air. Calm yet commanding, her tone carries the authority of someone who knows the weight of her words—and the rumors that have been swirling all day.

“Good afternoon, students and faculty. My apologies for interrupting your classes,” Principal Barbara begins, her voice steady and confident. “As we approach the Thanksgiving weekend, I want to remind you of upcoming events.”

Her opening words are predictable, the kind of polished lines meant to project warmth and school pride. “First, I want to express my gratitude to all of you for the dedication and positive energy you bring to our school every single day. It’s your hard work that makes Stephens Junior Academy a place where learning, growth, and achievement happen. Thank you for being such an important part of our school community.”

But then, her tone shifts. It’s subtle, a slight edge of formality creeping in, and it sends a chill down my spine. This is it—the real reason for the announcement.

“For our eighth-grade girls,” she continues, each word measured, “I want to highlight an important upcoming event. We are approaching the annual Mailgirl Program Selection, a special tradition at Stephens Junior Academy, which takes place during the second half of the school year starting in January. To prepare, there will be a mandatory assembly for all eighth-grade female students next Tuesday during the second period. Please ensure you attend, as this will provide essential details about the program.”

The room erupts in hushed whispers, the tension snapping into a flurry of murmurs and exchanged glances. My heart pounds in my chest as the weight of her words settles over the classroom. Mr. Scandia, our English teacher, claps his hands for attention, but no one is listening. The atmosphere is electric with panic, dread, and disbelief.

I glance at Rachel and Carla, my closest friends, sitting on either side of me. Rachel’s face is pale, her jaw clenched, while Carla looks frozen, and her wide eyes betraying the same fear coursing through me. We don’t speak, but I know we’re all thinking the same thing: What will this briefing reveal? Could we do anything to prepare? And worst of all—what would happen if one of our names was called?

Principal Barrera’s voice continues, concluding the announcement with platitudes about staying focused, treating one another with respect, and using the break to reflect on our goals. But her closing words barely register. The phrase “Mailgirl Program Selection” echoes in my mind, louder than anything else, drowning out the rest of her speech.

When the announcement ends, silence hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. My mind feels like a storm, a whirlwind of fear and memories—of Abigail, of last year’s assembly, of the inescapable reality that this time, we are the ones being targeted.

The shrill sound of the bell breaks through the haze, signaling the end of the sixth period. My body moves on autopilot as I gather my books and shuffle into the hallway with the rest of the class. Rachel and Carla walk beside me, in a silence filled with fear and anxiety. Normally, we’d laugh or whisper about our plans for the weekend, but not today. The weight of the announcement hangs between us, unspoken but undeniable.

The hallways feel different now, too. The usual chaos of students rushing to their next class is muted, the energy subdued. It’s as if everyone feels it—the shadow of what’s to come.

When I get to seventh-period Social Studies, I slide into my seat and stare blankly at the desk before me. The wood is scratched with faint carvings—names, dates, random doodles—but I can’t focus on any of it. Mr. Layman begins his lecture on the American Revolution, his voice steady and calm, but it feels like background noise, a faint hum that barely registers.

Principal Barrera’s announcement replays in my mind like a broken record, each word louder and more oppressive than the last. “Mailgirl Program Selection…,” The phrase loops endlessly, tightening the knot in my stomach. I can’t escape it.

I try to focus, to latch onto something—anything—Mr. Layman is saying. But my brain refuses to cooperate. The long weekend ahead looms like a dark chasm, filled with nothing but anxiety and endless questions I can’t answer.

What will the assembly on Tuesday even be like? Will they finally explain how the selection works? Or will they keep it as secretive and cruel as it’s always been? And the worst thought of all—what if it’s my name they call?

My heart clenches as I think about Abigail Moon. She was so strong, so composed. If it could happen to her, what chance do I have? The memory of her standing on that stage, trembling as they cut away her uniform, flashes in my mind…, the scissors, the gasps, the stunned silence—it’s all so vivid as if it happened yesterday. And now, the same shadow is hanging over me, growing darker with every passing moment.

The clock ticks agonizingly slowly, but the period slips by without me realizing it. I haven’t written a single thing in my notebook. I couldn’t even tell you what Mr. Layman’s lecture was about. When the final bell rings, I gather my things automatically, my body on autopilot while my mind stays trapped in a whirlwind of fear.

After school, I caught up with Rachel and Carla in the hallway. We each had different classes for the seventh period, but their faces mirrored my own: pale, drawn, and anxious. Normally, we’d talk over each other, excited to share gossip or weekend plans. Not today.

“What did I miss?” Rachel asks her voice tight as she falls into step beside me.

“Not much,” I say, forcing a shrug. “I couldn’t focus.”

“Same,” Carla mutters from my other side. “I just sat there doodling. I didn’t even realize the bell rang until everyone started leaving.”

We walk out into the crisp afternoon air together as the weight of Principal Barrera’s announcement presses down on us, thick and suffocating. The weekend ahead stretches before us like an endless void, and I know none of us will be able to escape the fear of what’s coming.

Rachel and I shuffle out of the building and head to our bus. Carla veers off toward her own, waving weakly before disappearing into the crowd of students. She lives just on the other side of a busy street, so she’s assigned a different bus than us. Normally, Rachel and I would talk nonstop on the ride home—about school, TV shows, or whatever drama had unfolded that day. But today, the silence between us feels heavy, like neither of us wants to be the first to speak.

I sit by the window, staring out at the passing houses and trees, the colors of late autumn muted under a cloudy sky. Rachel sits beside me, twisting her hair around her finger, a habit I know she falls back on when she’s anxious. Every so often, she glances at me like she wants to say something, but the words don’t come. I don’t blame her. What is there to say? The tension from Principal Barrera’s announcement still sits thick in the air, suffocating any attempt at small talk.

When Rachel’s stop comes, she gets up and hesitates for a moment. “Text me later, okay?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I will,” I promise, watching her step off the bus. The door closes, and the vehicle rumbles forward. My stop is only a few minutes away, but the ride feels endless. By the time I get home, the silence has pressed down on me so hard I feel like I can’t breathe.

The house is quiet when I walk in, the kind of stillness that only comes when no one else is home. My parents are both at work, as usual, and they won’t be back for at least a couple of hours. I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes, heading straight to my room. Normally, I’d grab a snack or turn on the TV, but not today. Today, I just want to curl up under my blanket and block out the world.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and sent a group text to Rachel and Carl.

Dani: Unable to concentrate on anything else I texted my friends. “Are you guys okay?”

Rachel: “Not really, still thinking about the announcement.”

Carla: “Same. I can’t get it out of my head. Every time I think about Tuesday, I feel sick.”

The three of us keep texting, our words coming fast now, like we’ve all been holding it in and can’t stop the flood once it starts. We talk about the countless mailgirls we’ve seen over the years, delivering messages and packages to our classrooms, and walking silently down the halls. They were always there, blending into the background, but we never really thought about them until last year, when it hit us that someday it could be us.

Rachel: “Remember when we were in third grade? A mailgirl came into our room to deliver something to Ms. Goodwin. She barely looked at anyone, just kept her head down the whole time.”

Carla: “I remember that. I thought she looked so sad, but I didn’t understand why back then.”

Dani: “Same. I thought they were just like helpers or something like it was their job.”

Carla: “It’s not a job. It’s punishment and it’s not fair.”

There’s a pause in the conversation.

Rachel: “What if it’s one of us? What if it’s me?”

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t want to answer, but I force myself to

Dani: Trying to console her friends with reassurance and hope. “It won’t be. We don’t even know how they pick.”

Rachel: “They don’t tell us anything. That’s the worst part. It’s like they want us to be afraid.”

Carla’s next message makes my stomach drop.

Carla: Darkening the mood and increasing their fear. “What if it’s all of us?”

I stare at the screen, my chest tightening. The idea is so horrifying, so impossible; I want to delete the message myself.

Dani: Hoping that Carla is wrong. “That’s not going to happen. They only pick a few. It can’t be all of us.”

I don’t know if I believe that, but I don’t know what else to say. The conversation slows after that, and I’m staring at my phone, scrolling back through our texts, when I hear the sound of the front door opening.

“Danielle?” my mom calls out, her voice echoing down the hallway.

“I’m here,” I say, putting my phone down and taking a deep breath, trying to push the fear out of my voice. It doesn’t work.

The sound of Mom’s voice yanked me out of the spiral of anxious thoughts that had been circling my mind all day. I hadn’t even heard her approach, but now the echo of her footsteps filled the hallway, growing louder with each step until she appeared in my doorway. Her warm smile greeted me first, followed by the familiar sight of her work clothes slightly askew—her blazer slipping off one shoulder, the faint smudge of makeup under her eyes, and strands of hair escaping her bun. She looked tired, but the soft warmth she radiated made it hard to tell. It should’ve comforted me. It usually did. But tonight, even her presence couldn’t untangle the tight knot of anxiety in my chest.

Mom leaned against the doorway for a moment, surveying the room, before stepping inside. She moved to my bed, leaning back onto my pillow, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling. She didn’t rush to speak, and for a few seconds, the silence between us seemed louder than anything else. Finally, she broke it.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said with that same cheerful tone she always used when trying to lighten the mood. “Why the long face? It’s the start of a long weekend! You should be excited about visiting your uncle and aunt’s house tomorrow to see your cousins. Or better yet, you should be out with your friends, not hiding away in here.”

I couldn’t bring myself to reply. Her presence was comforting, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the chaos inside my head. The looming thoughts of the day—the announcement, the upcoming assembly—sat heavily in my chest, refusing to budge. I sat up straighter, pressing my arms tighter around myself as if the physical pressure might somehow keep the panic at bay.

Before I could protest, Mom moved closer, sitting on the edge of my bed and running her fingers gently through my hair. The small gesture was familiar, grounding even, and for a fleeting moment, I felt the storm inside me pause. Her touch carried a kind of reassurance that words never could. But just as quickly as that peace settled in, the reality of my fears came crashing back.

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t.

I pulled away, shaking my head as if to physically shake the thoughts loose. The words tumbled out before I had the chance to stop them. “Mom,” I began, my voice trembling, “They made an announcement today about the Mailgirl Program. There’s going to be a briefing for all eighth-grade girls on Tuesday morning.”

Her smile faltered—not much, just a flicker, but enough to tell me she was trying to process what I’d just said. She tilted her head slightly, her hands resting on my shoulders as her eyes searched mine.

“Are you worried about the possibility?” she asked softly.

Her question hit me like a punch to the stomach. My throat tightened, and it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. “Of course, I’m worried!” I burst out, my voice louder than I intended. “What if… what if it’s me? What if they pick me? What if—”

“Danielle, stop,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “Take a deep breath.”

I tried, but my breath came out shaky, and the fear remained lodged in my chest like a weight I couldn’t move. “Mom, you don’t understand,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s not just the briefing. It’s knowing they could pick me—or Rachel, or Carla—or anyone. We have no control over it…, none!”

Her expression softened, and she pulled me into a hug, her hands rubbing slowly, and soothing circles on my back. “Honey, the selection isn’t until January,” she said quietly. “You still have time, okay? There’s no sense in worrying about something that might not even happen.”

“But, Mom,” I said, stepping back, my words spilling out in a rush. “The mailgirls—they’re always nude. They run around school like that all day. Even outside in the cold. I’ve seen them running through the snow, and it’s like they don’t even feel it. How can they do that? How could anyone?”

Her face shifted slightly—sympathy mixed with something else I couldn’t quite place. She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I know it’s hard to understand, Danielle,” she said carefully. “But they’ve been doing this for years. The girls always manage. They adjust. And if it ever comes to that, you will too.”

“Adjust?” I repeated, my voice breaking with disbelief. “Mom, they don’t even look cold! It’s not normal. It’s like they’re not even human anymore.”

“Danielle,” she said firmly, cutting me off, “that’s enough. You’re working yourself up over something that hasn’t happened and might not happen. I know it’s scary—I do—but worrying like this won’t change anything.”

I stared at her, frustration rising. “You don’t get it,” I said, my voice trembling. “You don’t know what it’s like to sit there; waiting, knowing they could call your name at any second and everything will change.”

She sighed deeply, her gaze softening again. “I know you’re scared,” she said, her voice quieter now. “And I don’t blame you for feeling this way. But you’re stronger than you think, Danielle. Whatever happens, I believe in you.”

Her words hung in the air between us, but the weight in my chest didn’t lift. How could she believe in me when I wasn’t sure I believed in myself?

I wanted to believe her, to take her words and let them soothe the storm inside me. But I couldn’t.

She kissed my forehead, brushing my hair back. “Try to enjoy your weekend, okay? Spend time with your friends when you can this weekend. Do something that makes you happy. You deserve that and not worry.”

I nodded mechanically, watching as she left the room. Her footsteps faded down the hall, and the silence closed in around me. I sank onto my bed, curling into myself as her words echoed in my mind. While I am aware from my earliest memory of seeing various adults in various degrees of attire down to anything at all…, knew from the earliest age that Dad’s work had those traditional mailgirls. It wasn’t until a few years back that I learned that Mom’s work also has nude mailgirls that deliver items around the Magma insurance she works at.

But before I could let myself spiral further; I heard her footsteps again. A moment later, she reappeared, leaning in my doorway with a thoughtful expression.

“Danielle,” she started, hesitating. “There’s something I’ve never told you before.”

I sat up straighter, my stomach twisting. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear whatever she was about to say.

“One of my coworkers has a daughter who’s a mailgirl at Crescendo Academy,” she said. “She’s in the mailgirl program.”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

She nodded. “Her name is Jenna or J765. She started when he was in the grade you are now. Her mom—my coworker—talks about her all the time.”

I stared at her, my mind racing. “What does she say?”

“She says the program has changed Jenna in ways she never expected,” my mom said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “She’s grown so much—become more disciplined, more confident. She’s even considering continuing as a mailgirl in college and beyond.”

“In college!?” I repeated, disbelief sharpening my voice. “And beyond…? Mom, that’s crazy! Why would anyone choose to keep doing this?”

“Her mom says it’s because of the opportunities it’s given her,” she said calmly. “Scholarships, internships, connections…, and people notice Jenna for her resilience and composure. They see her as someone who can handle anything.”

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “So, what—you think I should just accept it? Be okay with walking around naked because it’ll make me ‘resilient’ or ‘strong’?”

Her expression softened as she reached for my hand. “I don’t want you to have to go through it, Danielle. But if it happens, I know you’ll rise to the challenge. You’re brave, even if you don’t feel it right now.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. “I don’t feel brave, Mom. I feel terrified.”

She squeezed my hand. “I know, sweetheart. And I hope you’ll never have to face it. But if you do, I’ll be here for you..., every step of the way.”

Her words stayed with me long after she left a faint beacon of comfort in the storm of my fears. But I still couldn’t shake the thought: What if it’s me?

After Mom left my room, her words lingering in the air like an unspoken challenge, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at my phone. The knot in my chest hadn’t loosened, and the silence of the room pressed down on me like a weight. I knew I couldn’t sit here much longer, drowning in my thoughts. With a deep breath, I unlocked my phone and opened the group chat with Rachel and Carla.

Dani: Did you think?

It wasn’t much, just three words, but I knew they’d understand exactly what I meant.

Rachel responded almost instantly, her typing bubble appearing before I could second-guess reaching out.

Rachel: Ugh, don’t remind me. My stomach’s been in knots all day. I keep thinking, what if one of us ends up in just that stupid collar? No clothes, no way to cover up, even when it’s freezing outside.

Her words hit me hard, mirroring the fears I hadn’t said out loud.

Carla: Same. I keep telling myself there’s no way it’ll be us, but what if it is?

Dani: That’s exactly how I feel. My mom keeps saying not to worry, that even girls who do become mailgirls are somehow “conditioned” to deal with the cold or whatever. But I can’t stop thinking about it—what if it’s one of us?

Rachel: My parents are acting like it’s no big deal. “It’s just a briefing, Rachel,” they keep saying. Yeah, okay, easy for them to say—they’re not the ones who might end up walking around naked in the snow!

Rachel’s frustration bled through the screen, and I could practically hear her voice.

Carla: I can’t even imagine. Do you think anyone at school wants to do it?

The thought stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t considered that. Was there someone out there—someone I knew—hoping to hear their name called? Someone who saw this as an opportunity instead of a nightmare?

Dani: I don’t know. Maybe…? My mom told me one of her coworker’s daughters is a mailgirl at Crescendo Academy. She likes it.

Rachel: Wait… likes it???

Carla: No way. That’s impossible.

Dani: I swear. My mom said she’s confident, and disciplined, and even wants to keep doing it in college.

Rachel: That’s insane. I don’t care how “confident” it makes you—it still sounds humiliating.

Carla: Confident?

Their responses came quickly, the disbelief practically leaping off the screen. But even as I read their words, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it. What if there were girls out there who genuinely saw this program as a path to something better? Could I ever see it that way if it happened to me?

I shook the thought away, my hands trembling slightly as I typed.

Dani: I just hope I can make it through the weekend without freaking out.

Rachel: Same. Let’s all hang out tomorrow, okay? Distract ourselves.

Carla: Yes! My house…? Noon...?

Dani: Sounds good.

I put my phone down and exhaled, feeling a small weight lift from my chest. My friends got it. They didn’t have any answers, but at least I wasn’t alone in this. I wasn’t the only one lying awake at night, dreading the sound of my name being called in that assembly.

Curling back into my bed, I stared at the ceiling, their messages replaying in my mind. The fear hadn’t disappeared, but knowing Rachel and Carla were just as scared helped me feel a little less isolated. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on tomorrow. At least we’d have each other, even if the storm in my mind didn’t stop raging.

At dinner, I shuffled to the table, dragging my feet like they weighed a ton. Harper, my ever-loyal golden retriever, lay sprawled under the table, his warm body pressed against my feet. His soft snores were a comforting backdrop to the lively chatter between my parents. My dad sat at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone in between bites of spaghetti, completely engrossed in whatever he was reading.

I took my usual seat across from Mom, dropping into the chair and half-heartedly twirling my fork in the pile of pasta on my plate. The conversation swirled around me—Dad mentioned something about a last-minute meeting at work, and Mom talked about a new policy her office was implementing. But it all felt distant, like I was underwater, hearing their words through a muffled haze.

Now and then, Mom glanced at me, her eyes flickering with curiosity or concern. She didn’t say anything, though, and I kept my focus on my plate, pushing the spaghetti around in lazy circles.

Finally, after a pause in the conversation, Mom cleared her throat and broke the silence. “Danielle,” she said gently, her fork resting on the edge of her plate. “You’ve been quiet all evening.

I hesitated, glancing at Dad, who was still scrolling through his phone but now with one eyebrow raised, clearly listening. Harper stirred at my feet, stretching before settling back down.

“I’m fine,” I muttered, though the tightness in my chest betrayed me.

Mom tilted her head, her expression soft but persistent. “You don’t seem fine. Did something happen at school today?”

I sighed, setting my fork down with a soft clink against the plate. “Not exactly… It’s just this announcement they made.”

Dad finally set his phone down, giving me his full attention. “What kind of announcement?”

“The Mailgirl Program,” I said, the words tasting bitter as they left my mouth. “They told us there’s a mandatory briefing for all eighth-grade girls on Tuesday morning.”

For a moment, the room fell silent except for the sound of Harper’s rhythmic breathing. Mom’s face softened with understanding, while Dad’s expression became more serious.

“I see,” Mom said quietly. “That’s a lot to process.”

Dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Are you worried about it, kiddo?”

I nodded, biting my lip. “Of course, I’m worried. What if… what if I get picked? What if it’s me? I don’t even know how I’d handle that.”

Mom reached across the table, placing her hand over mine. “Danielle, I know it feels overwhelming, but remember—it’s just a briefing for now. You’re not being picked yet.”

“But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen,” I said, my voice trembling. “They could still call my name. Or Rachel’s… Or Carla’s… And if they do, everything changes.”

Dad rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “I get why you’re scared. But you’re not in this alone, you know. If it ever comes to that—and that’s a big if—we’ll be here to help you through it.”

“Dad, it’s not that simple,” I said, my frustration bubbling up. “You don’t know what it’s like to sit there, knowing they could call your name at any second. You’re not the one who has to walk around—” I stopped myself, unable to finish the sentence.

Mom’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. “You’re right; we don’t know exactly what it feels like. But I do know that you’re stronger than you think, Danielle. No matter what happens, you’ll find a way to handle it. And you have us, always.”

I looked down at the table, my throat tightening. “I don’t feel strong. I just feel scared.”

“That’s okay,” Mom said softly. “It’s okay to feel scared. It’s a scary thing to think about. But you don’t have to face it alone. And remember, the selection isn’t for a while. For now, focus on the present—your friends, your weekend, the things that make you happy.”

Dad nodded in agreement. “Your mom’s right. Try not to let this take over your thoughts, kiddo. You’ve got time. And worrying about what-ifs doesn’t change anything—it just makes you miserable.”

I nodded, though the weight in my chest didn’t fully ease. “I’ll try,” I said quietly.

Thanksgiving morning arrived too quickly—the day you dread but can’t avoid. I woke to the soft rhythm of Harper’s snoring, his warm body curled at my feet. Golden sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting faint shadows across the walls. I stayed motionless under the blankets for a moment, pretending time had frozen, wishing it had.

But, of course, time marched on.

[Csquared]

Great start! Can't wait to see where it goes

[Hooked6]

Very well-written story set-up. Over the many years you have been sharing your talent, and your contributions are quite significant, I think this is one of the best story introductions that you have ever written (in my humble opinion.) This story is very true to the Mailgirl universe yet it has a certain slant and charm that others haven't quite captured. Your characters are realistic and their internal anxiety rings true from the very start and your pacing isn't rushed.

I hope you continue this story following Daniele for the entire time she is in the program, IF she is eventually selected that is.

Nicely done, barelin. I look forward to reading more.

Hooked6

[cradulich]

Always been a fan of mailgirl stories. Nice work so far.

[EddieDavidson]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?

somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

[flashharry]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?

somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

Mailgirls deliver mail. Completely naked

[Debbifan]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?

somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

It's a genre from Literotica, one of those alternate universe things.

https://search.literotica.com/?query=Mailroom%20girls

[underdog_13]

Can someone update me on the role of the mailgirl? is this a bit like NIS but with a job?
somehow I am picturing the mail being carried pigeon style.

AFAIK, the first story, the one that created this universe, was created by Cambridge Caine, on the now defunct site BDSMLibrary. There's a copy of the 4 stories (that I know) that he wrote here:
The Executive Floor: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... Floor.html
A Day in the Life: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... eLife.html
A Week in the Life: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... sWeek.html
The Name Game: https://writingsofleviticus.grometsplaz ... eGame.html

There are also these links that you should know:
https://www.mailgirlenterprises.com/expanded-universe
https://www.mailgirlenterprises.com/

[barelin]

Readers,

Thanks for the comments above. My objective is to stay true to the mailgirl universe of all of the other great writers that have or are currently writing mailgirl stories. All while taking it out of the office to a whole new environment of possibilities.