Be Yourself

[barelin]

Be Yourself

Chapter 1: The Spark

I’ve always felt different—not in a way that made me stand out in a crowd, but in a way that made me feel like I was carrying a secret, a quiet rebellion simmering beneath my skin. It started when I was barely a teenager, though the roots of it might have been there long before. Maybe it was the summer I turned eleven, when I’d peel off my sweaty, suffocating jeans the moment I got home from school, tossing them into the corner of my room like a prisoner shedding chains. My mother would scold me, her voice sharp with disapproval: “People don’t want to see that, Cass. Put on some shorts.” But the relief of the cool air on my legs, the way my heartbeat slowed as if my body itself sighed—that felt like truth.

Or maybe it was earlier still. I remember being six, crying hysterically at the scratchy lace of a flower girl dress my aunt forced me into for her wedding. The fabric bit into my shoulders, the sash digging into my ribs like a warning: Conform, or be uncomfortable forever. I’d tugged at it until the seams frayed, earning a spanking and the nickname “Little Houdini” from my exasperated father.

We lived in Waterflow Falls, Wisconsin, a town so small it barely earned a dot on the map. Here, conformity wasn’t just expected—it was enforced. Women wore knee-length skirts to church picnics; men mowed lawns in collared shirts. Nudity wasn’t just taboo—it was a moral failing. Once, when I was eight, my cousin dared me to run through the sprinkler in my underwear. The neighbors called my mother to complain about “indecency.” I spent the rest of that summer grounded, the weight of their judgment like a stone in my gut.

But there were flickers of something else, cracks in the world’s rigid facade. When I was ten, my mother took me to Madison for a doctor’s appointment. As we drove through a leafy neighborhood, I saw them: three people strolling down the sidewalk, utterly naked. A man with a silver beard, a woman laughing as she swung a grocery bag, and a girl my age, her sunlit hair bouncing as she skipped. They weren’t hiding or rushing—they were living. I pressed my face to the car window, mesmerized, until my mother jerked the wheel and hissed, “Don’t stare, Cassidy. It’s rude.” Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but all I could think was, why aren’t they cold? Why aren’t they afraid?

We moved to the suburbs of Madison the following year. If Waterflow Falls was a locked box, Madison was a window cracked open—still stuffy, but with a whisper of breeze. My new middle school had rainbow stickers on classroom doors and a “Diversity Day” assembly every semester. Yet even here, certain lines held firm. Then came seventh grade, and the anti-bullying assembly that split my life into before and after.

The auditorium buzzed with the chaos of 300 students packed into creaking seats. Sunlight filtered through dusty blinds, painting stripes on the linoleum as the principal introduced the speakers. There was a gay man who’d survived conversion therapy, his voice cracking as he described praying until his knees bled; a Black woman who’d been followed in stores since she was twelve, her sharp laugh masking old hurt; a boy in a wheelchair who’d been told he’d never play sports—then became a Paralympic sprinter. Their stories were met with respectful applause, the kind adults call “mature.”

Then Erika Mitchell took the stage.

The room didn’t go silent as much as shatter into it. Someone dropped a water bottle; the thud echoed like a gunshot. She was naked—not in the careful, artistic way of statues, but unapologetically human. A scar curved over her hip, stretchmarks silvered her thighs, and her bare feet left faint prints on the stage. Teachers sitting in the seats before me all made some audible sounds after she was at the microphone.

“My name’s Erika,” she said, and her voice was honey and gravel, the kind that dared you to look away, “and yes, I know I’m naked.”

The giggles died when she didn’t flinch. She told us about her family’s nudist colony—“Not a cult, unless you think sunscreen is a religion”—and the legal battle to become “permanently unclothed” under state law. “We’re like vegans, but for fabric,” she joked, and a few kids snorted. But her smile faded as she described walking to school past hecklers, the time a boy yanked her hair to “see if those are real” (she broke his nose), and the petition to ban her from the town pool. “They said I’d ‘disturb the children,’” she said, rolling her eyes. “Newsflash: kids don’t care until adults teach them to.”

I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t her body that stunned me—it was her certainty. She stood like a queen, shoulders back, and chin high, as if the air itself adored her. When she said, “Clothes are costumes. Why spend life playing dress-up?” something in my chest cracked open.

Afterward, the hallways erupted. Boys high-fived over “free porn,” girls whispered “She’s so gross” while stealing glances at their reflections. I lingered by her Q&A table, too shy to speak, until she caught my eye. “You get it,” she said suddenly, pointing at me. Not a question—a fact. My face burned, but I nodded. She grinned. “Good. Don’t let them shame you into silence.”

That night, I Googled “nudist colonies near Wisconsin” under my blanket. Articles warned of “moral decay,” but I clicked on a photo gallery: people gardening, playing chess, and riding bikes— all naked, all ordinary. One image stuck with me: a woman my mom’s age, stretchmarks and all, belly-laughing on a porch swing. She looked free.

I started small; slept naked, my sheets cool against my skin. Changed clothes faster after gym, savoring those seconds of bareness. Each time, the world’s voice—“Cover up, hide, be small”—grew quieter.

Erika’s words became my mantra: Why spend life playing dress-up? The spark was lit. Now, all I needed was the courage to let it burn.

By sophomore year, the halls of Madison High became a gallery of contradictions. Kids dyed their hair neon and pierced their eyebrows, but even rebellion had rules. Then I saw them—the ones who broke the final taboo.

Liam was first, a junior with sun-bleached dreadlocks and a permanent sunburn line across his hips. He held court under the oak tree at lunch, bare feet in the grass, preaching about "corporate enslavement via fast fashion" to anyone who’d listen. "They’re just threads, man," he’d say, gesturing to a classmate’s designer hoodie. "You’re paying $200 to wear a billboard." The football team called him "Naked Buddha," but he’d just laugh and offer them hemp granola.

Next came Marisol, a transfer from Chicago mid-semester, strutting into homeroom in a cropped band tee that ended just below her ribs—and nothing else. Rumors swirled: expelled, pregnant, in witness protection. But she’d smirk and say, "I just hate pants." Her confidence was a weapon. When Mr. Hendrix tried to send her to the office for "dress code violations," she’d slapped a medical exemption form on his desk. "Chafing," she deadpanned. "It’s a sensitivity."

I watched them like a botanist studying rare blooms. They weren’t Erika—no state-registered idealism, no speeches—but they carried her same fire. I ached to ask how they breathed through the stares, but fear kept me mute. Instead, I cataloged their survival tactics: Liam’s Zen indifference, Marisol’s defiant humor. I practiced in the mirror—shoulders back, don’t flinch, breathe—but only managed a hunched shuffle.

Jenna found me crying in the art room closet after gym. My thighs had rubbed raw under cheap polyester shorts, the skin angry and welted. "Chub rub a bitch, huh?" she said, tossing me her Vaseline.

We’d been friends since middle school, bonded over shared lunches and Doctor Who marathons. She was the first person I kissed (a dare-fueled peck at Rachel Cho’s pool party), the one who held my hair back after my first beer. So when I whispered, "I think I want to be like them," I expected… something. Not laughter.

"Them?" She snorted. "Liam smells like school lunch farts, and Marisol’s just doing it for attention."

"It’s not about them," I said, too fast. "It’s—Erika. How she owned it. I want to feel…"

"Free?" Jenna rolled her eyes. "Cass, you’re not exactly—" She caught herself, but the word hung between us, fat and suffocating.

Later, she texted: didn't mean it was beautiful!!! The damage was done. That night, I stood before my mirror, tracing the softness of my belly, the dimples on my thighs. Not the type. As if freedom had a BMI limit.

Mrs. Alvarez’s "Body Positivity" pamphlet featured smiling, airbrushed women in bikinis. ‘Love the skin you’re in!’ Chirped the caption. I wondered if the models had ever sprinted past store windows to avoid their reflections.

"Have you considered yoga?" Mrs. Alvarez asked, when I returned for my mandated follow-up. "Mindfulness can help with… impulsive urges."

"It’s not impulsive," I said. "I’ve wanted this since seventh grade."

She adjusted her cardigan like armor. "Desire isn’t always healthy, Cassidy. What if this is a reaction to trauma? Body dysmorphic? Your mother mentioned…"

Weight Watchers at twelve. The keta phase. The shrink who called me "pre-disordered." I stood abruptly, chair screeching. "You think I’d rather be naked because I hate my body?" Her pitying look said it all.

The bus ride downtown took 17 minutes. I counted each second, my backpack heavy with research: legal statutes, notarized forms, and a printout of Erika’s old interview (“Nudity isn’t radical—shame is"). The clerk didn’t blink at my request. "Birth certificate? Photo ID?"

I slid them across the counter. She stamped the paperwork with a thud that echoed through the vaulted room. Changing rooms are there. Trash cans are full, though."

In the bathroom, my hands shook as I unbuttoned my jeans. Last chance. I thought of Mom’s "modest is hottest" tirades, Jenna’s laugh, Mrs. Alvarez’s pamphlets. Then I yanked my shirt over my head. The mirror girl stared back—pale, trembling, real.

October air cuts on my skin as I step outside. A cyclist swerved, yelling, "Put some clothes on, psycho!" Across the street, a toddler pointed. "Mommy, that lady’s naked!"

"Yep," I whispered. "And?"

By the third block, numbness set in. Not courage—just the dull throb of inevitability. Mom’s scream could’ve shattered the crystal. Dad’s face crumpled like a discarded draft. "Why?"

I handed him the registration papers. "Because I’m not ashamed anymore."

"We’re ashamed!" Mom spat. "Do you know what people will say? What will they think?"

"That you raised a daughter who doesn’t cringe at her own shadow?"

She lunged, but Dad caught her arm. "Let’s… process this."

Upstairs, I locked my door and stood at the window. The streetlamp painted my silhouette onto the glass—a girl-shaped exclamation point.

Liam nodded as I entered history. "Took you long enough."

Mr. Donovan stammered through the Preamble, eyes glued to the whiteboard. Snickers erupted when I raised my hand, but Liam kicked the loudest boy’s chair. "Chill, bro. It’s just skin."

At lunch, Marisol tossed me a granola bar. "Pro tip: Cafeteria chairs suck. Bring a towel."

The whispers didn’t stop, but they dulled—background static to Marisol’s stories of nude beaches and midnight bike rides. "They’ll get bored," she said. "Bullies need a reaction. Give ‘em nothing."

Jenna passed me after the last bell, her gaze skittering over me like a skipped stone. "You’re doing it," she said, half-accusation, half-awe. I kept walking.

Mom confiscated my phone but not my notebook. Under Day 1, I wrote:

They see my body.
I see the flinch in their eyes—
The shame they taught me to carry.
Joke’s on them.

I put it down.

The second day was worse. Word had spread overnight. Students clustered in the hallways like vultures, phones held aloft. “Show us your freedom!” a senior jeered, aiming his camera at my hips. Mr. Donovan pretended not to hear, shuffling papers at his desk.

In the bio lab, Tyler “accidentally” brushed his hand against my back while reaching for a microscope slide. His friends snickered. Mrs. Kwon froze, her eyes darting between us. “Cassidy, maybe… sit in the front?”

Maybe teach your students consent, I wanted to snap. Instead, I moved, the linoleum cold under my feet.

At lunch, Marisol tossed me her hoodie. “For the chairs. Trust me.”

I hesitated. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

She smirked. “I’m not the one registered. You can’t wear it, but I can lend it as a… public service.” The fabric was warm, smelled like lavender. I draped it over the cafeteria bench, a flimsy shield against splintered wood.

Gym class was mandatory. Coach Riggs refused to let me sit out. “Dress code says appropriate attire,” he barked, though he couldn’t meet my eyes. “No exceptions.”

“I’m exempt,” I said, holding up my state ID.

“Not in my gym.”

The locker room was a minefield. Girls snapped towels, “joking” about “accidents.” I changed in a stall, heart pounding.

During dodgeball, Jason Fuller aimed low. The rubber stung my thigh, leaving a welt the shape of his grin. “Oops,” he said. “Didn’t see you there.”

When I reported it, Vice Principal Crane sighed. “Cassidy, you have to understand—your lifestyle makes some kids uncomfortable. Maybe tone it down?”

“Tone down existing?”

He slid a detention slip across his desk. “For disrupting class.”

Mrs. Greer summoned me after the second period. The office reeked of stale coffee and regret.

“We’ve had… complaints,” she said, fiddling with her pearls. “Parents are concerned about exposure.”

“I’m following the law.”

“Yes, but—” She leaned forward, voice dropping. “What if we found a compromise? A… modesty panel? Or a sash?”

“I’m not a parade float.”

Her smile tightened. “Think of the younger students. They’re impressionable.”

“They’re fine,” I said, thinking of the third-grader who’d high-fived me that morning. “It’s the adults who keep staring.”

The art room was supposed to be safe. Mr. Vega let me sketch in the back, away from prying eyes. But Derek Hooper followed, his breath sour with Axe body spray. “Need a model?” he whispered, crowding me against the kiln.

I kicked his shin, hard. He howled, drawing the class’s attention. “She’s crazy!”

Mr. Vega didn’t ask questions. Just pointed to the door. “Office. Now.”

In the hallway, I pressed my back to the lockers, shaking. Marisol found me there. “They’re scared,” she said, handing me a stolen Coke.

“Of what?”

“That you’re right.”

The police arrived during the fourth period. Two officers, one bored, one blushing. They escorted me to the conference room, where Mom sat clutching a tissue like a white flag.

“We’ve received reports of… lewd conduct,” the female officer said.

“I’m naked. Not lewd.”

Mom flinched. “She’s confused. We’ll get her help—”

“Ma’am,” the male officer interrupted, “the paperwork’s legit. She’s not breaking any laws.”

Mom dissolved into tears. “What kind of world is this?”

The kind where I’m the criminal for existing, I thought.

Dad waited in the driveway, a cardboard box in his arms. Inside, the house felt hollow. Mom’s sobs echoed down the hall. “Your mom’s… adjusting,” Dad said, setting the box on my bed. “But the law’s the law.”

I peered inside—every stitch of clothing I’d ever owned, folded neat as surrender. “They’re donating it,” he said. “Can’t have ‘temptations’ lying around.”

I touched my favorite hoodie, threadbare at the elbows. “Do you agree with this?”

He hesitated. “I agree that you’re the bravest person I know.”

We packed in silence. Jeans, prom dress, the itchy Christmas sweater Grandma knit. Dad paused over my childhood overalls. “Remember when you refused to wear anything else? Drive your mom nuts.”

“I was four.”

“Yeah.” He smiled, sad. “Some things don’t change.”

The closet gaped empty, hangers dangling like question marks. Mom stayed in her room. Dad made pancakes, humming Sinatra too loud.

At noon, the doorbell rang. Marisol stood on the porch, a stack of towels in her arms. “Housewarming gift,” she said. “For chairs. Car seats. Life.” I hugged her, the towels soft between us.

“They’ll never get it,” she murmured, “but that’s the point.”

The sunlight that streamed through my bedroom window felt accusatory, as if even the sky were demanding an explanation. I lay in bed, tracing the cracks in the ceiling plaster—a map of fractures I’d never noticed before. Downstairs, the clatter of dishes betrayed Mom’s presence. She’d taken to rearranging cabinets obsessively, as though reorganizing spices could reassemble the world she’d lost.

Dad knocked softly, balancing a tray of toast and orange juice. “Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting it on my dresser. His eyes flickered to the empty closet, its door still swung open like a wound. “Your mom… she’s not handling this well.”

“And you are?”

He sank onto the edge of my bed, the mattress groaning. “I keep thinking about that time you refused to wear shoes in third grade. Remember? You went barefoot for a month, even in the rain. You said they ‘suffocated your toes.’”

“You bought me those hideous rubber sandals.”

“And you set them on fire in the backyard.” He chuckled, but it faded quickly. “This isn’t a phase, is it?”

I picked at the toast crust. “Would it matter?” He didn’t answer. He just squeezed my shoulder and left, the ghost of his touch lingering.

Marisol arrived on a beat-up motorcycle, her crop top replaced by a leather jacket that ended mid-rib. “Get on the back of the motorcycle,” she said, tossing me a helmet. “We’re going guerrilla shopping.”

“I can’t wear anything,” I reminded her.

“Who said anything to you?”

We rode to a thrift store on the outskirts of town. Inside, Marisol beelines to the accessories aisle, grabbing scarves, belts, and a feathered boa. “For the aesthetic,” she said, draping the boa over my shoulders. The cashier started, her gum snapping like a metronome.

Outside, Marisol lit a cigarette. “My mom tried to burn my birth certificate when I went bottomless. She said I was ‘erasing her sacrifices.’” She blew smoke into the sky. “Parents think our bodies are their masterpieces, but we’re not fucking canvases.”

“What’d you do?”

“I moved in with my aunt. She’s a burlesque dancer. Taught me how to flip shame the bird.” She grinned, stubbing out the cigarette. “Your turn. What’s your rebellion soundtrack?”

I hesitated. “Erika’s speech, I guess. The part about costumes.”

Marisol snorted. “Mine’s ‘Born This Way.’ Basic, but it slaps.” We rode back in silence, the wind carving its path.

Mrs. Piet from across the street cornered me while I watered the lawn. Her Yorkshire terrier tapped at my ankles. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers,” she said, clutching her pearls. “This… phase—it’s disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful to whom?”

“To God! To decency!” Her face purpled. “What if my grandchildren see?”

“They’ll learn that bodies aren’t sins,” I said, turning the hose slightly. The dog yelped and retreated. Mom watched from the kitchen window, her reflection a smudge of disapproval.

While my parents slept, I crept into the garage. The donation box sat by Dad’s toolbox, sealed with tape. Inside, I found my old soccer jersey—number 14, grass-stained from the game where I’d scored the winning goal. Mom had missed it, stuck at a conference. I tucked it under my mattress, a fossil of the girl they’d expected.

Mom dragged me to church. “Maybe you’ll listen to someone, to teach you that it is indecent to be like that” she hissed, thrusting a shawl at me.

“Illegal,” I reminded her. She seethed but said nothing.

Inside, pews creaked as heads swiveled. Pastor Michaels preached about modesty, his eyes darting to me like I’d personally summoned Sodom. Afterward, Mrs. Garner clutched Mom’s arm. “We’re praying for her,” she whispered, loud enough for me to hear.

In the parking lot, a teenager snapped a photo. Mom shielded me instinctively, then flinched at her reflex. Dad suggested a hike—“Somewhere quiet, just us”—but Mom refused. “I won’t enable this,” she spat, slamming the bedroom door.

I found her later, crying into a sweater I’d worn in sixth grade. “You used to love this,” she mumbled, holding it up. The sequined unicorn on the front was flaking off.

“I did,” I said. “Then I grew up.”

She hurled it at the wall. “You’re throwing everything away!”

Marisol texted: Check the news.

A local blog had posted about me: “Madison High’s Nudist Crusader: Courage or Cry for Help?” The comments were a graveyard of Bible verses and dick jokes. One stood out: @ErikaMitchellOfficial: Proud of you. Keep burning bright. I screenshotted it, the pixels glowing like a beacon.

Downstairs, Dad tuned his guitar, humming “I Will Survive.” Mom’s sobs had dissolved into silence.

In my room, I unfolded Erika’s old interview and traced her words: “They’ll tell you you’re too much. Prove them right.”

The jersey under my mattress prickled, a ghost of who I’d been. Outside, the moon hung naked, unashamed. The moon hovered outside my window, a pale witness to the stripped-down truth of the room. I’d thrown off the top sheet and comforter, leaving only the fitted layer clinging to the mattress like a second skin. The pillowcase smelled of lavender detergent—Mom’s choice, not mine—but I didn’t fling it away. Some habits, it seemed, still tethered me to her.

When the knock came, I almost didn’t hear it. Not the sharp rap-rap of her usual impatience, but a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. The door creaked open, and there she stood, backlit by the hallway’s amber glow. Her silhouette was unfamiliar, edges blurred by the absence of fabric. For a dizzying moment, I thought I was hallucinating—the stress of the week conjuring mirages—but then she stepped forward, and the light pooled around her.

Naked.

Not the clinical nakedness of birth or childhood baths, but deliberate, trembling nakedness. Her body was a map of secrets I’d never been allowed to read: silver stretch marks rippling across her hips, a cesarean scar tucked low like a hyphen, breasts softer and lower than the stiff underwire versions she’d always hidden. She looked… human.

“Can I come in?” Her voice wavered, a frayed thread. I nodded, my throat tight.

She perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her thigh pressed against mine, warm and startling. I realized I’d forgotten the heat of another person’s skin.

“I… I owe you an explanation,” she began, staring at her hands. They fluttered like trapped birds. “No, not an explanation. An apology. Or maybe… a confession.” The words spilled out in a rush, as if she’d rehearsed them in the mirror:

“When I was your age, I wanted to be a dancer. Not ballet—modern. The kind where you move like fire, like… like your body isn’t a thing to hide. My teacher, Ms. Alvarez, had us practice in leotards so thin they felt like air. One day, I didn’t wear one. Just… danced. It was electric, Cassidy. Like I’d been praying in a language I finally understood.”

She paused, her breath hitching. “Then my mother found out—called me a slut, a deviant. She burned my recital costume. She said I’d end up pregnant and penniless if I kept ‘flaunting.’ So, I stopped. I let her dress me in cardigans and shame.” A tear slid down her cheek. I didn’t move to catch it.

“When you were born, I swore I’d protect you from all that. Keep you safe in a world that eats girls alive. But I… I got lost in the how. I thought if I armored you in modesty, in rules, you’d never feel the teeth.”

Her hand found mine, calloused from years of scrubbing dishes raw. “But you’re not a girl to be armored. You’re a wildfire. And I’ve been trying to stomp you out instead of… instead of marveling.”

Silence pooled between us, thick and sacred. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “Not of your nakedness… of mine… of remembering what it feels like to… to want.”

I turned to her then, really looked. Her shoulders hunched, not in shame but in the ache of decades folded too small. “Do you still dance?” I asked.

She laughed, wet and broken. “In the laundry room. When your father’s at work.”

“Show me.”

A beat. Then she stood, her body a silhouette against the moonlit window. Her arms lifted, tentative, then swept into a motion that was all hips and heartbeat. No music, just the creak of floorboards and the rhythm of her breath. She was clumsy, rusted with disuse, but alive. So alive.

When she finished, she was crying in earnest. “I’m proud of you,” she said, fierce as a vow. “And I’m… I’m ready to learn. To see you. To be seen.” We didn’t hug. Didn’t need to. Her hand stayed on my head, a benediction, as the moon climbed higher.

As she left, Mom hesitated in the doorway. “Your father… he keeps your baby blanket in his toolbox. Did you know?”

The morning light filtered through the bathroom window, soft and forgiving. I stood under the shower’s spray, the water sluicing over my skin like a baptism. The razor in my hand felt heavier than usual, its weight a reminder of the lines I’d crossed, the boundaries I’d erased. I ran the blade over the stubble of my pubic area, the motion methodical, almost meditative. It wasn’t about vanity or conformity—it was about ownership. My body, my rules.

I stepped out of the shower, the air was cool against my bare skin. I didn’t reach for a towel; instead, I let the droplets cling to me, catching the light like tiny prisms. The mirror fogged, but I didn’t wipe it clear. I didn’t need to see myself to know I was there.

When I walked into the kitchen, it was almost surreal. Mom was there, dressed in her usual executive attire—a tailored blazer, a crisp white blouse, and a pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her hair was perfectly styled and her makeup flawless. She looked every bit the powerful woman she was, the one who commanded boardrooms and made decisions that affected hundreds of lives.

But as I watched her pour herself a cup of coffee, I saw something else. I saw the young woman from last night; the one who had danced in the moonlight, her body moving with a freedom she hadn’t allowed herself in decades. That woman was still there, just beneath the surface, hidden under layers of silk and ambition.

Dad was by the door, adjusting his tie. Looked up and caught my eye, giving me a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was a quiet acknowledgment, a silent show of support that spoke volumes. Before he left, he turned to Mom, and they shared a kiss—a simple, everyday gesture that felt anything but ordinary. It was tender, filled with a kind of intimacy that I hadn’t seen between them in years.

Mom noticed me standing there and smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. “Good morning,” she said, her voice warm.

“Morning,” I replied, leaning against the counter.

She hesitated a moment before I set her coffee cup down and walked over to me. “I meant what I said last night,” she said softly. “I’m proud of you .”

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I know, and… thank you.”

She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, her touch gentle. “You’re so brave, Cassidy. Braver than I ever was.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there, letting her words sink in.

Dad cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I’ll see you both tonight,” he said, his voice steady but with a hint of emotion.

“Have a good day,” Mom replied, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something deeper.

As the door closed behind him, Mom turned back to me. “Do you want some breakfast?” she asked, her tone casual, as if this were any other morning.

“Sure,” I said, smiling.

We moved around the kitchen together, the silence between us comfortable now, not strained. Mom cracked eggs into a bowl, it was a simple, ordinary moment, but it felt significant.

As we sat down to eat, Mom looked at me, her expression thoughtful. “I was thinking… Maybe we could go shopping this weekend. Not for clothes, obviously,” she added quickly, a small smile playing on her lips, “but for… I don’t know, towels? Maybe some new sheets? Something that’s just for you.”

I felt a surge of gratitude, not just for the offer but for the effort she was making. “I’d like that,” I replied.

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. It’s a date, then.”

We ate in silence for a while, the only sound was the clink of forks against plates. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind of quiet that comes when words aren’t needed, when understanding passes between people without the need for speech.

As I finished my breakfast, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of hope. The road ahead wouldn’t be easy—I knew that. There would still be challenges, still be moments of doubt and fear. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t alone.

Mom stood and began clearing the table, her movements efficient and practiced. I watched her for a moment, then stood to help.

“Thank you,” I said softly, as we stood side by side at the sink.

She looked at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “No, Cassidy. Thank you.” At that moment, I knew that we were going to be okay.

[barelin]

Chapter 2: The Weight of Threads

Monday Morning: The New Normal

The air outside tasted like iron, sharp and unforgiving—a late-autumn chill that bit at my skin as I walked to school. My backpack hung heavy with textbooks and the five state-approved seating towels, each stamped with a bureaucratic seal that read "DLS-Certified" (Department of Lifestyle Standards). The rules were etched into my bones now: no fabric, no shoes, no adornments, nothing that could be construed as "modesty enhancement." Even a hairpin could land me in front of a juvenile judge. Freedom, it turned out, came shackled to a million tiny laws.

The school parking lot was quieter than the week before. No phones raised, no gasps. Just sidelong glances and muttered “There she is” as I passed. Progress, maybe—or numbness.

Someone vandalized my locker, scrawling “WHORE” in red marker across the metal. The letters bled like wounds. Beneath them, in smaller print: “Put them away!” I stared at my reflection fractured in the shiny, dented surface.

Last week, this would have shattered me. Today, I pulled a state-issued sanitizing wipe from my bag and scrubbed. The ink smeared but refused to vanish.

“Need help?” Liam leaned against the adjacent locker, a granola bar in hand. He’d added a hemp necklace since Friday, the beads clacking softly.

“It’s just words,” I said, though my voice wavered.

“Yeah, but words are why we’re here, right?” He nodded to his locker, pristine save for a sticker that read “This Machine Kills Fascists” with a doodle of scissors cutting a fabric tag. “They tried to shame me into pants once. Now I’m a walking middle finger.” I almost smiled.

Mrs. Greer’s decree waited on my desk: a stack of black towels, stiff as cardboard. They smelled industrial, like bleach and compliance.

“Flexible and washable,” Mr. Donovan recited, as if reading from a manual. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You’ll… uh… place one beneath yourself whenever seated. To protect school property.”

Protect school property? Not me?

I unfolded the towel. The fabric was scratchy, prison-issue grade, stamped with the school crest. A performative compromise—letting me exist, but only if I didn’t touch anything too purely.

Marisol caught my eye from the back row. She pantomimed gagging.

The towels became a ritual. Unfold, place, sit. Repeat. By third period, my thighs were raw from the friction. In chemistry, Tyler ‘accidentally’ spilled ice water on my assigned stool. “Oops,” he said, grinning. “Guess you’ll have to stand.” Mrs. Kwon handed me a fresh towel without comment.

At lunch, Marisol commandeered a table near the windows. “Soda,” she said, laying out her towel—a tie-dye monstrosity from home. “They can’t regulate my ass.”

We ate in silence until she said, “They’re scared you’ll win.”

“Win what?” I replied curiously.

“The battle.” She gestured to a group of freshmen staring openly. “They’re used to bodies being secrets. You’re a truth bomb. You seek to expose that which they wish to keep secret… to keep hidden.”

In the hallway, Jenna materialized like a ghost. She’d dyed her hair black, her nails matching. She eyed the raw, red marks streaking my thighs and smirked “Damn, I guess their dress code comes with a side of sandpaper.”

“You look like you’re auditioning for a school play.”

She smirked.

For a second, I saw the girl who’d shared her headphones during rainy lunch periods. Then she added, “They’re voting you ‘Most Likely to Get Arrested’ in the yearbook,” and walked away.

Inside my locker, tucked between textbooks, was a folded slip of paper: Meet @ the oak after school. Bring the towels. —E

Erika’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere—she’d signed my registration forms in the same looping script. The bell rang. I stuffed the note into my bag, the paper crisp with promise.

The oak’s gnarled branches clawed at the sky, their shadows stretching like cracks across the pavement. Erika stood beneath them; her nudity as unremarkable as the bark itself. Beside her, the man in the suit adjusted his camera lens, its glass eye glinting in the dying light. His tie was too tight, his smile too practiced.

“Cassidy, this is Marcus Wells from The Times,” Erika said. Her voice carried its usual magnetism, but there was an edge now—a hunger. “He wants to hear your story.”

Marcus extended a hand. I looked at it but resisted the urge to take it. “Your courage is inspiring,” he said, the word dripping with condescension. “A teenager standing up to systemic oppression? It’s Pulitzer material.”

I crossed my arms, the state-issued towels crumpled in my grip. “It’s not a story. It’s my life.”

Erika stepped closer; her gaze sharp. “Stories change lives. Imagine the impact—kids like you, everywhere, seeing they’re not alone.”

“What do you get?” I asked, unsure if I wanted my life to be an inspiration to millions of teens across the country.

Her pause was a confession. “A platform. Funding for the movement. You know how this works.”

The wind hissed through the leaves. Somewhere, a car alarm wailed. Marcus set up a tripod. “Let’s start with the towels. How do they make you feel?”

I stared into the lens. “Like a germ.”

He blinked. “Elaborate.”

“They’re not for me. They’re for them.” I shook one towel, the school crest glaring. “They don’t care if I’m comfortable. They just don’t want my skin on their precious chairs. When they forced me to use them, I was told they were ‘to protect school property’.”

Marcus scribbled notes. “How have the other students reacted?”

I thought of Liam’s smirk, Marisol’s eye rolls, and Jenna’s poisoned barbs. “Some want me to disappear. Others… watch. Like they’re waiting to see if I’ll surrender… give up and walk away.”

The article dropped at midnight. By first period, the hallway buzzed with screens.

Naked Truth: Teen Defies Dress Code of Shame

My face stared back from every phone—unfiltered, unapologetic, mid-sentence in the interview. The towels were a blurry pile at my feet.

Jenna cornered me at my locker. “You’re famous,” she sneered, waving her phone. “They’re calling you the ‘Nude Revolutionary.’”

“Better than ‘Most Likely to Get Arrested,’” I shot back.

She flinched. For a heartbeat, I saw it—the girl who’d lent me eyeliner before my first dance. Then she spat, “Enjoy your fifteen minutes,” and vanished into the crowd.

Mrs. Greer summoned me at lunch. Her office reeked of burnt coffee and panic. “This,” she jabbed at the article, “is a liability. The school board is demanding action.”

“I’m following the law,” I said.

“Laws change!” Her composure cracked. “You’re making us a target. Parents are pulling donations. The governor’s office called.”

I stood. “Then maybe they should’ve thought about that before harassing me. I am just trying to quietly live my life the way I choose to. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t made an issue of my life choice.”

That afternoon, I found a note in my locker: Meet us @ the quarry after dark. Bring the towels. —L & M

The quarry was a relic—abandoned, half-flooded, and littered with graffiti. Liam and Marisol waited by the water, a bonfire crackling at their feet.

“Burn them,” Marisol said, nodding to my stack of towels.

Liam tossed a matchbook. “They want to erase you—to make you appear less than what you truly are. Erase them instead.”

The flames roared high above Cassie’s head. She tossed the school-issued towels one by one into the roaring fire and watched as the fire devoured the fabric. The school crest blackened, curled, dissolved.

Tuesday morning, I walked into the homeroom without a towel. Mr. Donovan froze. “Where’s your—?”

“Lost them.” He opened his mouth, closed it, and handed me a detention slip. By Wednesday, three more kids arrived towel-free.

Thursday after homeroom, the school’s lawyer stood at the front of the auditorium, his suit crisp, his words crisper. “While the state recognizes permanent nudist registration as a protected lifestyle choice,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “educational institutions retain the right to enforce health and safety protocols.”

The projector flickered to life, displaying a legal clause buried in subsection 12.7 of the Wisconsin Educational Code: “In cases where communal welfare is deemed compromised by individual conduct, schools may impose temporary remedial measures.”

“Remedial measures,” Principal Greer repeated, her voice slick with faux sympathy. “For your protection, Cassidy…, and ours.”

The “measure” hung on a hanger behind her: a gray polyester jumpsuit, the kind worn by prisoners. Tag still attached.

“You can’t do this,” I said, my voice steady only because Erika had drilled me for hours. “Never let them hear you shake.”

“Oh, but we can,” the lawyer said. “Your registration is irreversible, yes, but state law doesn’t bar schools from enforcing temporary dress codes to mitigate… disruptions.” He gestured to a blown-up screenshot of a parent’s Facebook rant: “MY CHILD SHOULDN’T HAVE TO SEE THAT!!!”

Erika’s hand shot up from the back row. “Define disruption.”

“Ms. Mitchell, you’re not a student here—”

“Define it,” she repeated, louder.

The lawyer sighed. “Substantiated instances of harassment, distracted learning environments, or… hygiene concerns.”

“Hygiene,” I spat. “I shower twice a day. How many of you can say that?”

The room buzzed. Principal Greer nodded to a security guard. “Cassidy, either change willingly, or we’ll escort you to the locker room.” They gave me privacy, if you could call it that—a stall with a broken latch, the jumpsuit draped over the door like a corpse. The fabric stank of formaldehyde and regret.

I texted Erika: They’re making me wear it.

Her reply was instant: Fight. Now.

But Mom’s voice, softer, echoed in my head: “Pick your battles, Cass. Survive first.”

The jumpsuit scratched like fiberglass. I zipped it to my collarbone, the sound like a guillotine. The hallway stared. Not at my body but at the uniform. Whispers coiled around me:

“Guess she finally cracked.”
“Told you it was a kink.”
“Should’ve stayed naked. This is sad.”

In biology, Marisol slammed her textbook. “Since when do we dress like UPS employees?”

Mrs. Kwon ignored her. “Page 142, everyone. Mitochondria are the powerhouse…”

Liam passed me a note: Burn it. I’ll bring the matches.

Cassie intercepted me at the cafeteria, her nudity a weapon. “They’re violating Title IX. You’re right to equal treatment.”

“They don’t care,” I muttered, picking at the jumpsuit’s seams.

“They will when this goes viral.” She handed me her phone. A local news headline blared: School Forces Nudist Teen into ‘Prison Uniform’—Legal or Overreach?

The comments section was a war zone:

“Disgusting! Let the girl be free!”
“Thank God—someone’s finally parenting these kids.”
“Where’s the OF link though?”

“Channel 8 wants an interview,” Erika said. “You game?”

By math class, the jumpsuit had fused to my skin. Sweat pooled at my lower back, my thighs chafed raw. I scratched at my neck, leaving crimson trails.

Mr. Riley paused mid-equation. “Do you need the nurse, Ms. Carter?”

“I need air,” I hissed. He opened a window, Autumn’s bite doing nothing to cool the fire under my skin.

Dale from Channel 8 had a voice like a carnival barker and eyes that never stayed still. “So, Cassidy—how’s the jumpsuit feeling?”

“Like a skin graft,” I said. Erika nodded approval.

“And why do you think the school targeted you?”

“Because I’m a mirror. They don’t like what I reflect.” The camera loved that line.

Mom greeted me at the door, her blazer abandoned. “I called a lawyer,” she said, thrusting a business card into my hand. Miguel Rivera, Civil Rights & Education Law.

Dad hovered in the kitchen, dismantling a toaster. “We’re not letting this slide, kiddo.”

However, the internet had already decided. By bedtime, #JumpsuitJustice trended statewide. Memes compared Principal Greer to Mussolini. A TikToker in a homemade gray jumpsuit lip-synced “I Will Survive” while shredding fabric with scissors. In my closet, the garment bag waited—a chrysalis I refused to become.

Mr. Rivera arrived at 7 a.m., leather briefcase and Cuban coffee in hand. “They’re bluffing,” he said, scanning the school’s legal threat. “The ‘health and safety’ clause applies to contagious diseases, not dress codes. This’ll crumple in court.”

Principal Greer paled when he stormed into her office. “My client will not be attending school in what is essentially a hazmat suit. You have until noon to retract.”

They caved at 11:58 a.m.

I burned the jumpsuit in our backyard fire pit. The polyester melted like a witch’s curse, smoke stinging our eyes. Mom raised a marshmallow on a stick. “To freedom.”

“To fire,” I countered. We toasted both.

Principal Greer’s office smelled of peppermint and betrayal. The lawyer this time wasn’t the school’s lackey—he was a state-appointed arbiter, his pin-striped suit and hollow smile radiating bureaucratic finality. On the desk between us lay a document stamped with the seal of the Wisconsin Department of Education.

“Your registration was irreversible,” he said, sliding the paper toward me. “However, it is not non-negotiable. The state’s nudity statutes apply only to public spaces, not educational institutions. Schools retain full authority to mandate dress codes for all students, regardless of… personal designations.”

Mom’s nails dug into her palms. “You’re saying her rights end at the school doors?”

“We’re saying safety supersedes preference,” the lawyer said. “A federal appellate ruling last month granted schools emergency authority to override lifestyle registrations if they conflict with ‘academic integrity’ or ‘community standards.’” He tapped a highlighted section: Buchanan v. Lakeview School District. “Precedent exists.”

Erika, who’d stormed into the meeting uninvited, snorted. “Buchanan was about a kid refusing vaccines, not nudity!”

“The legal principle holds,” the lawyer said. “Your daughter’s registration is still valid outside these walls, but here, she wears clothes… starting today.”

The ultimatum hung in the air, sharp as a blade: Compliance, or expulsion.

They’d learned from the jumpsuit debacle. This time, the “accommodation” was a navy-blue polo and khaki slacks—the same hideous ensemble worn by the detention hall monitors. “School colors,” Principal Greer said brightly. “To foster unity.”

The fabric was prison-stiff, the polo’s collar strangling my throat. In the bathroom mirror, I looked like a stranger—a ghost of conformity.

Marisol texted: Burn it. I’ll smuggle in gas.

Mom’s plea echoed: Just until we fight this. Please.

The hallways were a minefield of whispers.

“Sold out,” someone hissed.
“Knew she’d cave,” another laughed.

Liam met me at my locker, his nudity now a relic of defiance. “They got me, too,” he muttered, yanking up his collar to reveal a tracking anklet. “Anti-slip device. They said if I strip again, juvie.”

In the homeroom, Mr. Donovan avoided my eyes, his relief palpable. No more towels, no more stares—just another body in uniform.

Only Marisol resisted. She arrived in her crop top and nothing else, her legs bare and defiant. The vice principal intercepted her at the door.

“New rules,” he said.

“Eat my ass,” she replied. They suspended her on the spot.

Erika waited by the chain-link fence, her nudity a middle finger to the district’s lawyers. “They’re testing you to set precedent,” she said, handing me a flyer for a rally. “If you bend, they’ll gut the entire registry.”

The flyer read: BODIES UNDER SIEGE—PROTEST THE DRESS CODE DICTATORSHIP!

“Channel 8’s covering it,” she said. “Be there. Naked.”

I crumpled the paper. “They’ll expel me.”

“Then you’ll be the spark that burns this place down,”

The uniform they forced me to wear felt like a lie. In chemistry, Tyler ‘accidentally’ spilled sulfuric acid on my desk. The teacher blamed me for the “distraction.”

After school, Jenna cornered me by the bike shed. Her smirk was gone. “They came for me next,” she said, rolling up her pant leg to reveal a tracking anklet identical to Liam’s. “I wore a crop top yesterday. They called it ‘inciting unrest.’”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because you started this.” She shoved a flash drive into my hand. “Security footage. Greer bribed the arbiter. It’s all there.” Dad hacked the flash drive open. The footage was grainy but clear: Principal Greer handing the state arbiter an envelope stuffed with cash in the school parking lot.

Mom dialed Mr. Rivera. “We have them. Extortion. Bribery. This’ll bury them.”

Erika’s rally was in two hours. I stood at the mirror, clutching the uniform’s collar. Comply and fight quietly? Or burn it all down? I arrived at the protest naked.

The crowd roared—students, parents, strangers holding handmade signs (MY BODY IS NOT A CRIME). Channel 8’s spotlight blinded me, but I stepped forward anyway, Jenna’s flash drive in hand.

“They tried to silence me with clothes,” I said, my voice raw, “but they forgot—threads can’t stitch shut the truth.”

I held up the drive. “Meet your community standards.” The camera zoomed in. Principal Greer’s face drained of blood on-screen.

By midnight, #NakedTruth was trending. By dawn, the district suspended Greer and voided the dress code.

The state’s letter arrived in a crisp white envelope, its contents clinical and cold. “Under Senate Bill 1142, all individuals registered under the Permanent Nudity Act must undergo a mandatory psychiatric evaluation to confirm ‘mental fitness’ and ‘societal compatibility.’ Failure to comply within 30 days will result in registry termination and potential fines.”

Mom slammed her fist on the kitchen table, rattling the coffee mugs. “Societal compatibility? That’s Nazi rhetoric!”

Dad scanned the fine print. “They’re using the Buchanan ruling as a template. If they can link nudity to instability, the registry dies.”

I stared at the state-appointed evaluator’s name: Dr. Marcus Voile, MD, PhD. A Google search showed a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a bestselling book: “The Fabric of Sanity: How Modernity Unravels the Mind.”

Erika called it a hatchet job. “He testified in the Buchanan case. Called vaccine mandates ‘a gateway to anarchy.’ Now he’s their nudity whisperer.”

Dr. Voile’s office smelled like lemongrass and sandalwood. The walls were covered in wood paneling. The atmosphere felt oppressive and suppressive. Framed degrees hung beside a signed photo of him shaking hands with a governor who’d once called nudists “public health terrorists.”

“Cassidy,” he said, steeling his fingers. “Let’s explore why you feel compelled to… reject societal norms.”

The questions were landmines:

“Did your parents neglect you as a child?”

“Do you associate nudity with sexual gratification?”

“Have you ever harmed yourself or others?”

I clung to Erika’s coaching: ‘They want you hysterical. Give them calm.’

When he asked, “Do you believe your lifestyle harms children?” I snapped.

“Do you believe yours does? You’re paid to gaslight teens.”

He smiled, jotting a note. “Subject exhibits hostility to authority.”

Jenna hacked the evaluation transcript and blasted it to every news outlet in the state. By noon, #PsychOps trended. Memes photo shopped Voile’s head onto a straitjacket. TikTok therapists dissected his “quackery.”

Consequently, the state doubled down. A press secretary declared, “Registrants pose a unique mental health risk. Evaluations ensure public safety.”

At school, Liam flicked a paperclip at my desk. “Heard they’re making you take an ‘Are You Crazy?’ test. Want my Adderall?”

“Only if it’s explosive,” I said.

We marched on the Capitol—hundreds of us, naked and clothed, bodies painted with slogans: “MY MIND IS MINE” and “EVALUATE THIS.” Erika roared through a megaphone: “They want to pathologize our freedom? Let’s pathologize their bigotry!”

A counter-protest formed across the street. “PROTECT OUR KIDS!” signs clashed with “GOD HATES SIN.” A preacher hurled holy water; it froze in the air and shattered on the asphalt.

Jenna livestreamed it all, her screen name @AnonVengeance racking up followers. “Meet the real mental health crisis,” she captioned, panning to Voile’s office building.

The state senate convened to fast-track SB 1142. We packed the gallery, towels draped on seats in silent protest.

Senator Whitlock, a man with a voice like gravel and a donor list full of textile lobbyists, spearheaded the debate. “This bill isn’t about shame. It’s about safety. Would you let a schizophrenic roam the streets?”

Erika lunged for the mic. “Would you let a lawyer diagnose schizophrenia?”

Security dragged her out, but not before she spat, “Your laws are the delusion!”

I testified last, my voice steadier than I felt. “You say I need help because I’m naked? Look around. Who’s obsessed with bodies here?”

The committee voted along party lines. SB 1142 passed. Termination notices went out at midnight. “Comply.”

Marisol burned hers in bio class. Liam forged a doctor’s note: “Patient is too sane for your nonsense.”

I stared at mine in the glow of my laptop. Jenna’s latest message blinked: “I can wipe the registry database. Say the word.”

Mom hovered in the doorway. “It’s not worth your future. Take the exam.”

Dad said nothing, just placed a lighter next to my termination letter.

We gathered at the nudist colony where it all began—Erika, Marisol, Liam, Jenna, and fifty others. A bonfire raged, fed by termination letters and copies of Voile’s book.

Erika raised a torch. “They think registries can erase us? Let’s remind them: We’re not data. We’re flesh.”

I stepped forward, the firelight dancing on my skin. “My name is Cassidy Carter. I’m sixteen. I love cherry popsicles and hate calculus. I’m a nudist and I’m not diagnosed.” We recited our names, our stories, and our humanity into the flames.

_______________________________________________

Epilogue: The Aftermath

The state purged the registry. Headlines called it a “cleanse” but we didn’t disappear.

Jenna leaked every senator’s tax returns. Liam organized a “Nude-In” at the governor’s mansion. Mom quit her corporate job to coach teens through evaluations.

As for me… I stand naked at my locker every morning. No towels. No uniforms. Just skin and defiance.

The war isn’t over, but I’ve learned the truth, Erika knew all along: They can’t outlaw existence.

The End