Chapter 2: The Walk of No Return

6:00 AM
the alarm screamed. My stomach clenched. Today, the day I’d been dreading all summer—the first day of junior year, naked.

My hand shot out, grasping for the robe that used to hang beside my bed. Empty air. Right. No more barriers after signing that contract. Just skin. Always skin.

The shower knob gleamed tauntingly from across the bathroom. ANF Rule #12 glared from the mirror: “Cleansing only in natural bodies of water or school swimming facilities.” No hot showers. No privacy. Just a damp washcloth and the sting of cold water as I scrubbed—harder than necessary, as if I could scour away reality—it didn’t work.

7:15 AM
Downstairs, Mom packed my lunch—extra protein bars, vitamin smoothies in sealed containers. “You’ll need the energy!” she chirped, like this was any other first day.

Dad scrolled through his phone. “You’re trending again.” He turned the screen toward me: “Stanfield High’s ANF Pioneer Begins Senior Year under Historic Contract”

Below the headline: that cursed photo from my birthday—my bare body beside the cake, face carefully blank. The article quoted my parents extensively. Not a single word from me.

My cheeks burned. I kept my expression neutral. They didn’t get to see me break. Not again.

7:45 AM – The Walk
the school loomed, its brick walls suddenly foreign. News vans lined the curb; police barricades strained against a crowd. Flashbulbs exploded like gunfire as I stepped off the bus.

“Miss Gomez! How does it feel to be the face of bodily autonomy?”
“—true intentions behind ANF?”
“—parents forcing you into this?”

Dad materialized beside me, waving them off. “She’s exercising her constitutional rights!” His grip on my elbow was iron.

The path to the doors stretched endlessly. Every step was a battle—the morning chill tightening my skin, the weight of hundreds of eyes boring into me.

A freshman girl dropped her books. Guys by the bike racks erupted into laughter, one pretending to shield his eyes. Phones lifted. Shutters clicked.

And then—him. Tyler Jacobs, my secret crush since sophomore year, was leaning against his bike. His letterman jacket was tied hastily around his waist—a feeble attempt to hide his body’s reaction. His gaze raked over me, wide and unblinking, before he jerked away so violently he tripped. The sound of his bike skidding off drowned in the blood roaring in my ears.

First Period – Calculus and Cruelty
Mrs. Henderson had placed my desk at the front with a disposable absorbent pad. It crinkled like thunder as I sat.

Behind me, Jessica Moreno’s whisper sliced the silence: “At least we won’t need red dye for the homecoming float. We could just use her—” The class erupted. Someone snorted soda out their nose. Mrs. Henderson pretended not to hear, her chalk snapping against the board.

Third Period – The Digital Onslaught
By mid-morning, whispers had spread like wildfire:
“—just walking around like that—”
“—so messed up—”

Phones buzzed under desks. #CelinesSchoolDay already had 50,000 mentions. Someone had livestreamed me climbing the rope in the gym. Memes spliced my face onto pornographic images.

Lunch – The Nurse’s Office
The only place that would let me hide. Mom’s note waited in my lunchbox:
“So proud! You’re changing the world!” I crumpled it, the paper cutting into my palm.

Gym Class – The Arena
The locker room was a slaughterhouse of whispers:
“—think she gets off on this?”
“—parents must be fucking cultists—”

The pool was worse. No one wanted to go into the water, as I swam for the first several minutes. No one followed—not even the teacher, who called time from a safe distance for what was painful until she told everyone to enter the water.

3:15 PM – The Bus Ride Home
Sophomores in the back row openly snapped pictures, their laughter sharp enough to draw blood.

At home – around 5:30 PM, Mom scrolled through the hashtag, beaming. “You’re sparking global conversations!”
Dad popped sparkling cider. “To break barriers!”

I locked myself in my room—still naked, always naked.

Tomorrow: The emergency school board meeting about my “disruptive presence.”
Friday: The mandated gynecological exam—ANF’s “full reproductive transparency” clause.

Somewhere, Tyler Jacobs was probably washing his eyes out with bleach. Somewhere, my parents were drafting more press statements.

One excruciating sunrise at a time. The Unexpected Rebellion, my second Monday dawned with the same acid dread in my throat—until I turned the corner and saw them.

Three girls clustered at my locker, their eyes wide with something other than horror.

Mira Patel – The Reluctant Rebel
Mira clutched her books like a shield, turtleneck straining over the burn scars she usually hid. “I brought you these.” She thrust forward pH-balanced wipes, hands shaking. “For ... between classes.” I knew that look. The twitch of someone who’d been bullied mercilessly.

“My parents would kill me if I did what you’re doing,” she whispered. “It’s brave. Stupid, but brave.” We ate lunch together that day. She didn’t flinch when I left a red smear on the bench.

Lena Dawson – The Radical
on Thursday, Lena arrived with traffic-cone orange hair and a stack of feminist theory texts. “You’re living what these academics only write about,” she said, slamming them onto the table.

Her passion came from scars too—purity rings, modesty covenants, a bedroom door that hadn’t closed since she was twelve. “They monitor my Instagram DMs,” she confessed. When she looked at me, there wasn’t pity in her eyes. It was envy.

Cassie Whitmore – The Convert
Then Friday—a collective gasp ripped through the hallway as Cassie stepped beside me, completely nude. “My parents signed the ANF contract last night,” she announced, chin high despite the tremor in her voice. A visible trickle ran down her thigh.

Later, in study hall, she showed me why: fitness-obsessed mother, calorie trackers since elementary school. “At least now she can’t force me into those fucking waist trainers,” Cassie muttered, comparing ANF clauses like battle strategies.

The unignorably
by month’s end, we were a phenomenon. Mira rolled up her sleeves, scars be damned. Lena got suspended for organizing a “Free the Body” protest.

Cassie’s viral ANF transition forced the school to install special seating. The local news called us “The Naked Truth Movement.”

My parents preened. “See?” Mom crowed. “You’re changing the world!” They were wrong.

When Mira smuggled me extra wipes after gym class—
When Lena slipped me black-market cramp remedies—
When Cassie stood back-to-back with me in the hallway, shielding me with her body so I could use the nurse’s last clean pad—

We weren’t a movement; we were just girls.

The Boy Who Saw Me

First Notice
the first time I noticed Ethan Hendricks watching me, I assumed he was just another gawker. He sat two rows ahead in AP Lit, usually buried under a hoodie and unruly brown curls. But that Thursday, as I tried to discreetly adjust the bunched-up absorbent pad beneath me, I caught his reflection in the window—not leering, not smirking. Just ... observing. With something that looked suspiciously like concern.