Chapter 3: Aprico Island Reform School – Twerking Lesson

Sylvia jolted awake at 7 a.m., the chaotic din of Aprico Island’s morning shattering the fragile stillness of her shack—shouts of vendors hawking wares, the clatter of rickety carts rumbling over dirt, and the distant, relentless roar of waves crashing against the shore. The air inside her single-room cabin hung heavy, thick with suffocating humidity that coated her alabaster skin in a sheen of sweat the moment her eyes fluttered open. Sunlight poured through the large window, its tattered curtain swaying uselessly, the harsh glare searing the worn wooden floorboards and igniting the cramped space in a blinding blaze. She stumbled from the sagging bed, the thin mattress creaking beneath her, her voluptuous frame trembling with urgency as she hurried to dress.

In the dim corner by the rickety bedstand, Sylvia fumbled through her sparse wardrobe, her shaky fingers brushing over the few items she’d unpacked from her suitcase. She pulled on a short-sleeved black t-shirt, the fabric straining obscenely against her massive triple D breasts, the melon-like mounds stretching the material so taut that the small logo warped into a distorted smear across her chest. She hated it—hated how it clung to her, outlining every curve of her full, heavy breasts, the faint outline of her white bra peeking through the thin cloth. Her shy, modest nature recoiled at the exposure, a quiet wish flickering in her mind for a smaller, flatter chest that wouldn’t draw every eye, but she had no choice. Her clothes—limited to what she’d brought from Australia—were all she had, most fitting too tight to veil her allure. She paired the t-shirt with tight white pants, the fabric molding to her wide hips like a second skin, hugging the plump, perfectly shaped buttocks that quivered with each nervous movement. The seams dug into her athletic yet curvaceous frame, accentuating the seductive swell of her hips and the firm, rounded flesh below, leaving little to the imagination. Her long, dark brunette hair cascaded over her shoulders in silken waves, brushing the tops of her thighs as she tied it back loosely, framing her angelic face—large brown eyes wide with dread, sultry lips trembling with every shallow breath.

Inside the shack, the air was stale, tinged with the faint musk of damp wood and the lingering scent of last night’s meager meal—a few scraps of fish and rice she’d cooked on the dented stovetop in the kitchen corner. The single room sprawled around her in its raw simplicity: the dining table sat scarred and wobbly in one corner, its splintered chairs shoved haphazardly against it; the tiny fridge hummed feebly beside the stove, its door ajar to reveal bare shelves; the shower’s flimsy plastic curtain hung limp, still damp from her hurried wash the night before, the chipped toilet gurgling faintly beside it. The bedstand teetered under the weight of a cracked lamp, its dim bulb flickering as she brushed past, her suitcase and backpack slumped against the wall nearby, a silent reminder of her stranded state. She stepped to the large window, peering out at the dirt street alive with the neighborhood’s pulse—children darting barefoot, women balancing baskets—but the sight only tightened the knot in her chest. With a trembling exhale, she grabbed the two worn books Tuwme had given her—the English primer and Aprico Island History—tucking them under her arm, and slipped on her sneakers, the gravel crunching beneath her feet as she stepped out, each sound a march toward Aprico Island Reform School, her new prison of survival.

This wasn’t a job she’d chosen—it was a desperate lifeline thrust upon her by circumstance. Failure loomed like a specter: starvation if she couldn’t earn a wage, eviction from this rundown shack if she couldn’t pay, or worse—abandonment to the island’s lawless whims under the anti-foreigner decree. Quitting was a fantasy she couldn’t entertain; missing even a day could unravel everything, her survival chained to the school’s merciless demands. For a foreign woman like Sylvia, stripped of rights and left behind, losing this position was a death sentence, her fragile existence tethered to its unforgiving grip.

The thirty-minute walk assaulted her senses, the briny sting of the ocean mingling with the musky scent of dew-soaked earth, the heat pressing against her like a living thing. Sweat beaded along her spine, trickling down to soak the thin fabric of her t-shirt, the damp cloth clinging even tighter to her heaving breasts, the white bra beneath now faintly visible as it strained to contain their fullness. Her tight white pants grew slick against her thighs, outlining the plump outer labia beneath, her wide hips swaying with each step, her buttocks trembling under the fabric’s unyielding embrace. The island throbbed around her—palm fronds rustling overhead, cicadas droning their relentless hymn, the shouts of locals weaving through the air—but her beauty drew eyes like a flame. As she passed through the dusty streets, a wiry man leaning against a porch rail called out, his voice thick with the island’s rolling accent, “Eh, white lady, why ya still here? Didn’t ya leave wid de others?” Sylvia’s large brown eyes flickered toward him, her heart thudding, but she offered only a meek, timid smile, her sultry lips quivering as she quickened her pace. Further along, a woman with a basket paused, her dark eyes narrowing. “Don’t ya know ‘bout de anti-foreigner ban? Ya s’pose to be gone!” she snapped, her tone sharp with suspicion. Sylvia’s flush deepened, her alabaster skin blooming crimson, but she didn’t want to explain her reason—her sickness, her missed ferry, her abandonment—to strangers. She ducked her head, her hair spilling forward like a shield, and kept walking, her voluptuous frame trembling under their scrutiny, her timid soul shrinking from their questions.

Ahead loomed the Reform School, a squat, single-story fortress of despair that devoured the sunlight, its drab concrete walls cracked and streaked with the dark stains of years of rain and neglect. A towering fence encircled it, its jagged barbed wire glinting menacingly under the sun, casting a shadow that pulsed with foreboding across the sparse yard of trampled grass and scuffed dirt. The building’s grimy windows stared out like clouded, unblinking eyes, the wooden doors sagging on rusted hinges, hinting at the shadowed classrooms within. Sylvia’s breath hitched, her huge breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath the strained t-shirt, her wide hips shifting nervously as she approached, the books clutched tighter against her chest. She crossed the yard, her sneakers scuffing the dry earth, and stepped into the cramped office, the air thick with mildew and the faint scent of old paper. Mr. Tuwme sat behind his scarred wooden desk, his thin frame hunched, his sharp eyes snapping up to meet hers, cold and unreadable, as she stood trembling before him.

Principal Tuwme had briefed her with an icy detachment that chilled her to the bone: sixteen boys, all late teens, roamed the halls of Aprico Island Reform School—delinquents too volatile to dismiss yet not fully hardened for the island’s brutal prisons. Their crimes ranged from petty theft to savage bursts of violence, and this institution was their reluctant chance at redemption, a thin thread between reform and ruin. Sylvia’s stomach twisted into a tight knot of dread, her breath catching in her throat. This was the last place she’d ever willingly step into, a den of chaos and menace that clashed violently with her timid soul—but choice had abandoned her months ago, when she stepped foot on this unforgiving island.

As she crossed the threshold, a wave of cold, antiseptic air crashed into her, laced with the stale, musky scent of neglect that clung to the walls like a shroud. The interior reeked of institutional decay—faint traces of mildew and unwashed bodies mingling with the sharp tang of cheap cleaning fluid. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh, jagged shadows across her trembling form, her voluptuous silhouette quivering against the cracked concrete floor. Principal Tuwme stood waiting at the entrance, his stern face a mask of indifference, his sharp eyes glinting with a chilling detachment as they briefly snagged on her exposed cleavage. The tight black t-shirt stretched obscenely over her large breasts, betraying her desperate attempts at modesty, the white bra beneath faintly visible through the damp, sweat-soaked fabric. “Follow me,” he barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a sharpened blade. He pivoted sharply on his heel, leading her down a claustrophobic hallway, their footsteps echoing off the peeling, stained walls—each hollow reverberation a tolling bell, sealing her fate within this forsaken fortress.

Sylvia stepped into the classroom, her heart hammering against her ribs as sixteen pairs of eyes snapped to her, their gazes slicing through her fragile facade like knives. The students looked surprisingly younger than she’d expected, their small, wiry frames suggesting early teens—around 14 to 16 years old, though exact ages were a mystery here, as Abuba had explained on Saturday. Aprico Islanders were short and slight, their youthful appearances deceptive, masking the hardened edges of their delinquent lives. They sprawled at weathered wooden desks, the surfaces scarred with graffiti and splintered edges, their postures a gallery of defiance—some leaned back with lazy, mocking smirks, arms crossed over skinny chests, while others stared with an unsettling, predatory intensity that made her skin crawl. The room was a bare, oppressive box: cracked concrete walls, a single grimy window letting in a sliver of harsh sunlight, and a chipped blackboard looming behind her like a silent witness. Principal Tuwme strode to the front, his thin frame rigid, his cold presence commanding an instant, grudging silence from the restless boys. “Dis be ya new teacher, Mrs. Sylvia El,” he announced, his voice a flat, emotionless growl, stripped of any warmth, his accent rolling thickly over the words. “She from Australia, native English speaker, eh.” He turned to her, his stern eyes flicking briefly over her tight blouse, the fabric clinging to her heaving breasts, and the white pants molding to her wide hips and plump, perfectly shaped buttocks. “Introduce yaself,” he ordered, stepping aside with a dismissive wave, leaving her exposed at the front of the room.

Sylvia shuffled forward, her stomach twisting into a painful knot as she faced the students, her sneakers scuffing faintly against the cracked concrete floor. She forced a shaky smile, her shy nature warring violently with the desperate need to project confidence. “Hello, everyone,” she began, her voice trembling softly, a fragile thread in the oppressive air. “As Mr. Tuwme said, my name is Sylvia El. I’m 26 years old, and I’m here to teach you English and a few other subjects.” She emphasized her age deliberately, her youthful, angelic face—soft nose, sultry lips, and wide brown eyes—often leading people to mistake her for much younger, a fact she hoped would carve some distance between her and these boys, lending her a shred of authority. “You can call me Mrs. El or Mrs. Sylvia if you prefer,” she added, her tone wavering. “Back in my home country, students always called their teachers Mr. or Mrs., you know.” She hesitated, then stumbled on, “Yes, I’m Mrs.—I was married before ... I’m a widow now...” Her voice trailed off, her alabaster skin flushing crimson as regret stabbed through her. Why had she said that? Divulging her personal life—her private pain—to these strangers felt foolish, a clumsy bid to seem older, more respectable, unraveling in her extreme nervousness. She was blabbering like an idiot, she realized, her heart sinking. Not a good first impression at all.

She paused, her large brown eyes scanning their faces—some boys whispered to each other, their dark gazes lingering shamelessly on her exposed cleavage, the tight black t-shirt straining over her large breasts, the fabric clinging to her sweat-dampened skin. Others sat stone-faced, their expressions unreadable, a wall of indifference that chilled her further. “I hope we can learn a lot from each other,” she added, her voice faltering as she clasped her hands tightly in front of her, fingers twisting together to hide their trembling. She hated how her clothes betrayed her—tight t-shirt outlining every curve of her heaving breasts, white pants molding to her wide hips and plump, perfectly shaped buttocks—her modesty screaming against the unwanted attention prickling her flesh.

Principal Tuwme gave her a curt nod, his sharp eyes flicking over her once more before he turned and strode out, the wooden door closing with a sharp, definitive click that reverberated in the stifling silence. The air in the classroom thickened, heavy and suffocating, as the boys’ faces shifted—some breaking into sly grins, others chuckling low in their throats, a murmur of excitement rippling through them.

The students couldn’t believe their luck. What a pretty woman, they thought, their eyes devouring her voluptuous form with unrestrained greed. She was a vision—her angelic face glowing with a nervous flush, her huge breasts stretching the t-shirt to its limits, her wide hips and plump buttocks sculpted by those tight white pants. Some had glimpsed her before, trudging through the dusty streets, her luminous beauty a rare spectacle in their rugged world, and they’d salivated then, whispering crude fantasies among themselves.

The students couldn’t believe their luck—fate had handed them a prize, a white woman dropped into their African classroom, her luminous beauty a daily feast for their ravenous stares. Sixteen sets of dark faces turned toward her, a gallery of African boys with skin ranging from deep ebony to rich bronze, their eyes glinting with a mix of glee and hunger as they took her in. The room thrummed with their barely contained excitement, a low buzz of whispers and muffled chuckles rippling through the air. Sylvia’s alabaster skin glowed starkly against their darkness, her voluptuous form a blinding contrast in the sun-drenched space—her massive triple D breasts straining her tight black t-shirt, her wide hips and plump buttocks sculpted by white pants that clung like a second skin. Harsh African sunshine poured through the large window facing the yard, its golden rays flooding the classroom, illuminating the cracked concrete walls and weathered wooden desks in a relentless glare. The chipped blackboard loomed behind her, the single grimy pane framing a sliver of the trampled yard beyond, where dust danced in the heat. The boys’ gazes devoured her, their smirks and hushed murmurs a predatory hum, the sunny expanse amplifying her exposure as she stood trembling before them, a solitary white flame in their shadowed, eager world.

Sylvia’s first day at Aprico Island Reform School began with a jolt of dread as she stepped into the classroom, the weight of sixteen pairs of dark eyes pinning her in place. The morning sun streamed through the large window facing the yard, its harsh African rays flooding the bare, oppressive room with a golden glare that turned the cracked concrete walls into a shimmering furnace.

The boys sprawled at their weathered wooden desks, their dark faces—deep ebony to rich bronze—watching her with a mix of curiosity and sly amusement, their whispers a low hum beneath the buzz of flickering fluorescent lights. She started with English, her timid voice trembling as she read aloud from the primer, “The cat sat on the mat,” her large brown eyes darting nervously to the chipped blackboard where she scribbled the words in shaky chalk. The heat pressed against her, sweat trickling down her spine, soaking the t-shirt until it outlined every curve of her breasts, her sultry lips parting in shallow breaths as she struggled to hold their attention.

The lesson stumbled forward, Sylvia’s soft hands fumbling with the book as she moved between desks, her wide hips swaying, her plump buttocks quivering under the tight pants with each step. The boys’ gazes followed her—some leaning back with lazy smirks, others staring with an intensity that made her skin prickle—yet they stayed mostly compliant, their restlessness simmering rather than erupting. She felt exposed, her modesty screaming against the way her clothes betrayed her voluptuous form, the damp fabric clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, her huge breasts jostling faintly as she handed out scraps of paper for them to copy the sentence. One boy, his skinny frame slouched near the front, snickered as he scribbled something else, passing it to his neighbor, but Sylvia pretended not to notice, her heart hammering as she retreated to the blackboard. The clock crawled, each minute an eternity, until she shifted to math—basic addition and subtraction—her voice wavering as she wrote “2 + 3 = 5” on the board, chalk dust coating her trembling fingers. The room grew hotter, the sunshine unrelenting, and she wiped her brow, her dark hair sticking to her flushed cheeks, her angelic face glowing with a nervous sheen as the boys scratched answers with blunt pencils, their dark hands moving lazily across the pages.

By midday, Sylvia’s nerves were frayed, her body aching from the tension as she launched into a clumsy attempt at world history. She’d barely skimmed the textbook, her voice faltering as she mumbled about ancient Egypt, her large brown eyes flickering to the boys’ faces—some blank with boredom, others whispering crude remarks she couldn’t quite hear. The tight t-shirt rode up slightly as she reached to point at the board, exposing a sliver of her soft midriff, and she tugged it down quickly, her cheeks blazing crimson under their stares. Her white pants clung to her thighs, outlining the plump outer labia beneath, a detail that deepened her humiliation as she turned to face them, her hands clasped tightly to hide their shaking. The lesson dragged, her words stumbling over each other, until the final bell rang—a harsh, jarring clang that echoed through the concrete halls. She dismissed them with a soft, “See you tomorrow,” her voice barely audible, and they shuffled out, their footsteps scuffing the floor, leaving her alone in the stifling room. Sylvia sank into the teacher’s chair, her voluptuous frame trembling with exhaustion, her huge breasts heaving with every ragged breath, the day’s ordeal etched into every line of her angelic face.

The walk back to her shack was a thirty-minute trek through the dusty streets, the afternoon sun scorching the earth, turning the air into a thick, humid haze. Sylvia’s sneakers kicked up clouds of golden dirt, her tight clothes chafing against her sweat-drenched skin, her dark brunette hair swaying like a heavy curtain as she trudged past ramshackle huts and curious locals. Her massive breasts bounced faintly with each step, the t-shirt now a damp rag clinging to her chest, her wide hips and plump buttocks shifting beneath the white pants, drawing eyes she couldn’t escape. She kept her head down, her large brown eyes fixed on the ground, her sultry lips pressed tight against the urge to cry. When she finally reached the shack, the wooden door creaked open to reveal its familiar squalor—the scarred dining table, the sagging bed, the flimsy shower curtain swaying in the breeze from the large window. She dropped her books onto the bedstand, the cracked lamp flickering as she peeled off her tight clothes, the fabric sticking to her skin like a reluctant lover. Standing in her white bra and panties, her huge breasts spilling over the cups, her plump buttocks quivering as she stretched, she felt the day’s weight lift slightly, her alabaster skin glistening with perspiration in the dim light.

Sylvia changed into a loose tank top and shorts, the thin cotton draping over her voluptuous frame, offering a rare reprieve from the tightness that plagued her wardrobe. She moved to the wooden floor, her bare feet pressing against the worn boards as she began her yoga routine—a ritual she’d clung to since Australia, a tether to calm amid chaos. Her athletic limbs stretched gracefully, her huge breasts swaying faintly beneath the tank top as she flowed into downward dog, her wide hips lifting, her plump buttocks flexing with each controlled breath. The cicadas droned outside, their relentless hymn blending with the distant shouts of the neighborhood, and she closed her large brown eyes, her dark hair spilling forward as she sank into child’s pose, her sultry lips parting in a soft exhale. The tension in her shoulders eased, her mind drifting as she prepared for the next day—lesson plans scribbled in her head, a faint hope that she could survive this new prison. After an hour, she rose, her body loose but weary, and cooked a meager dinner on the dented stovetop—rice and a scrap of fish—before collapsing onto the sagging bed, the thin mattress creaking under her weight as she drifted into a fitful sleep.

Two days passed in this fragile rhythm, Tuesday and Wednesday unfolding with a tentative steadiness that surprised her. Sylvia began to know her students, their dark faces softening into familiarity as she taught—Matumbo’s sharp wit cutting through English lessons with unexpected humor, Chaina’s quiet diligence shining in math as he solved problems with a shy smile. They were boys, not the hardened criminals she’d feared, and their laughter at her awkward attempts to pronounce Aprico slang—”Teacha, ya say it wrong!”—warmed her timid soul. Guilt gnawed at her for assuming the worst without knowing them, her gentle nature chiding itself as she watched them scribble answers or kick a ragged ball during gym class, her voluptuous form perched on a bench under the blazing sun. The classroom remained a furnace, the large window pouring sunshine over their desks, her tight t-shirt and white pants a constant betrayal as sweat plastered them to her massive breasts and wide hips, but the boys’ behavior stayed manageable—restless, yes, but not hostile. She clung to their kindness, her large brown eyes softening with relief, her voice growing steadier as she guided them through lessons, her optimism whispering that maybe this could work.

By Wednesday evening, Sylvia settled into a quiet acceptance as she sat at the shack’s dining table, the scarred wood cool against her arms, her tank top loose over her huge breasts as she pored over Aprico Island History. This was her new reality on Aprico Island—stranded, yes, but survival no longer a clawing terror. The job paid enough to keep the shack, to buy rice and fish from the local stalls, and rumors swirled through the town like a faint breeze: the anti-foreigner decree might lift soon, a whisper of hope she cradled close. She could work here, wait it out, her voluptuous frame sinking into the splintered chair as she traced the book’s cracked pages, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. The neighborhood pulsed outside—children’s squeals, men’s shouts—but it felt less hostile now, a rhythm she could endure. She slept better that night, the sagging bed cradling her exhausted body, her dreams a hazy blend of Australia and Aprico, her sultry lips curving faintly as she exhaled into the humid dark.

Thursday morning dawned thick with humidity, the air pressing against Sylvia’s alabaster skin as she laced up her sneakers for a jog—her first since the chaos of the decree upended her life last week. She’d run this route her first two months, a familiar loop through the town’s dusty streets, and now she reclaimed it, her dark brunette hair bouncing in a loose ponytail, her sports bra struggling to contain her massive triple D breasts as they jostled with each stride. Her tight shorts hugged her wide hips and plump buttocks, the fabric stretching over her athletic frame as she wove past ramshackle huts, children darting around her with cries of “Auntie Snow!”. The run left her breathless, her legs trembling as she returned to the shack, stripping for a quick shower behind the flimsy curtain, tepid water sluicing over her voluptuous body, her huge breasts glistening as she soaped them, her plump buttocks swaying as she rinsed away the morning’s heat.

Dressed again in her tight black t-shirt and white pants, Sylvia trudged to school, the thirty-minute walk a familiar grind under the relentless sun, her books tucked under her arm, her dark hair swaying as she crossed the yard to the classroom. The first class unfolded as usual, her voice steady now as she guided the boys through basic arithmetic—simple sums like “7 + 4”—their dark hands scratching answers on paper, their faces a mix of focus and boredom. The large window poured sunshine over the room, the heat making her t-shirt cling tighter to her massive breasts, her white pants outlining her wide hips as she moved between desks, her large brown eyes scanning their work with a flicker of pride. They were learning, slowly, and she felt a quiet thrill, her timid soul bolstered by their small successes. The bell rang, and they shuffled out for a break, leaving her to catch her breath, her voluptuous frame sinking into the teacher’s chair as she wiped sweat from her brow, her sultry lips parting in a soft exhale.

Sylvia stood at the front of the classroom, the chipped blackboard looming behind her like a silent sentinel as the harsh Thursday afternoon sun streamed through the large window, bathing the cracked concrete walls in a relentless golden glow. The air hung heavy with humidity, thick and suffocating, pressing against her sweat-slicked alabaster skin as she guided the boys through their world history lesson. Her tight black t-shirt clung to her massive triple D breasts, the damp fabric stretching obscenely over their melon-like fullness, the faint outline of her white bra visible beneath as her chest heaved with each nervous breath. Her tight white pants molded to her wide hips, hugging the plump, perfectly sculpted buttocks that quivered faintly with every shift of her weight, the seams digging into her voluptuous frame as she scribbled notes on the board with trembling chalk-dusted fingers. Her dark brunette hair cascaded in silken waves over her shoulders, brushing the tops of her thighs as she turned to face the sixteen boys sprawled across their weathered wooden desks, their dark faces—deep ebony to rich bronze—watching her with a mix of boredom and restless curiosity.

The lesson had veered into the topic of dance, a detour from ancient empires to the vibrant tapestry of world cultures. Sylvia’s soft voice wavered as she spoke of ballet’s elegance in France, flamenco’s fiery passion in Spain, and the rhythmic sway of samba in Brazil, her large brown eyes flickering nervously to the textbook cradled in her hands. The boys leaned back in their seats, some doodling lazily on scraps of paper, others staring at her with that unsettling intensity that made her skin prickle. Then a skinny boy near the front—Chaina, with his nerdy glasses and timid demeanor—raised a hand, his voice cutting through the drone of cicadas outside. “Missus Sylvia, ya know ‘bout twerkin’? Dat dance come from Africa first, yeah. In fact, Aprico Island start it—way back, den it go to de Western world and dey call it twerkin’ now.” His words hung in the air, a spark igniting the room as heads turned, smirks blooming across their faces.

Sylvia froze, her sultry lips parting in a soft, startled breath, her angelic face flushing a faint pink as the weight of their attention shifted. She knew twerking—had seen it on TV back in Australia, those bold, gyrating movements of hips and buttocks flashing across music videos, a dance so raw and unrestrained it had always made her avert her eyes in shy discomfort. To her, it was vulgar, a shameless shaking of flesh that clashed violently with her modest, timid nature. Before she could respond, another boy—Darko, with his very dark skin and skinny frame—leaned forward, his grin sly and teasing. “Eh, Mrs. Sylvia, why don’t ya show us? Twerk for us, nuh!” The suggestion landed like a stone in still water, ripples of excitement spreading as the others perked up, their dark eyes glinting with eager anticipation.

Her heart thudded against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing in her chest as her huge breasts quivered beneath the t-shirt. “No, I can’t ... I don’t know how to...” Sylvia stammered, her voice small and trembling, her large brown eyes darting to the floor as she clasped her hands tightly in front of her, fingers twisting together in a desperate bid to steady herself. The idea of twerking—of shaking her plump, sensual buttocks in front of these boys—was unthinkable, a nightmare that clawed at her deepest insecurities. She’d spent her life shrinking from attention, her voluptuous body a burden she couldn’t escape, and now they wanted her to flaunt it in a dance she’d never dared try.

Darko chuckled, his skinny shoulders shrugging as he pressed her. “Common, everybody can do it, Mrs. Sylvia—show us, eh!” His voice carried a playful insistence, but it only deepened her panic. “No, really, I can’t...” she repeated, her plush lips quivering, her alabaster skin blooming a brighter crimson as she shook her head, her dark hair swaying like a curtain she wished she could hide behind. But the boys weren’t deterred. A low chant began, sporadic at first, then swelling into a rhythmic chorus that filled the stifling room—”Twerk, Mrs. Sylvia, twerk! Twerk!”—their voices rolling with the island’s thick accent, their hands slapping desks in time, their dark faces alight with glee. Sylvia’s breath hitched, her wide hips shifting nervously as she backed toward the blackboard, her plump buttocks brushing against it. “Please ... I can’t ... that’s too much...” she pleaded, her voice a fragile whisper lost in their rising clamor, her large brown eyes shimmering with the threat of tears.