Chapter 1: The Last Resort

Wednesday, the second week of November, the cold outside seemed to amplify the storm brewing inside me. Thanksgiving break was just around the corner, a time that, in any other year, would have brought relief and excitement. But this year, the holiday felt like an insignificant blip, overshadowed by the impending disaster of Business Law 345.

In the room, I shared with Sara Ramirez, the dim light cast long shadows over our cluttered desk. The end of the semester loomed—Friday would mark the close of my junior fall semester, a milestone that should have been met with enthusiasm. Instead, my thoughts were consumed by anxiety and dread. While my grades in other classes were solid—perfect scores in some, high eighties in others—Business Law felt like an anchor dragging me down.

It wasn’t just a poor grade—it was a potential wrecking ball to my entire academic future. The course had been a relentless grind from the start. Every lecture and case study seemed to chip away at my confidence. I had hoped that the end of the semester would bring a sense of accomplishment, but now it felt like a looming deadline for disaster.

Failing this course could mean repaying the money I had spent or losing my precious scholarship. Even a D would mean retaking the course, accumulating more debt, and possibly extending my college years. Each scenario closed on me like walls closing in on a confining space.

My name is Isabelle Faulkner. At twenty, I’m slender and stand 5’6”; my athletic build is a testament to countless hours spent at the gym. My fair skin, usually brightened by my vibrant collection of dresses, starkly contrasts with the drab gray of my current predicament. I hoped my face conveyed determination, though I could feel the creeping edge of despair threatening to infiltrate my every expression. I couldn’t let it show. Today, my brown hair was braided simply—a small gesture of normalcy amidst the chaos.

I took a deep breath and focused on the stack of textbooks and notes on my desk. The pressure was suffocating. With finals looming, time was slipping through my fingers like sand. Despite countless notes and highlighted sections, the material remained a foggy mess in my mind. The professor’s stern warnings about the final exam hovered over me like a dark cloud.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm the storm inside. A part of me wanted to surrender, to let the weight of the situation drag me down. But I couldn’t afford that. I had to push through, to claw my way back to a passing grade. The thought of explaining a failing grade to my parents—or, worse, losing my scholarship—was a motivation I couldn’t ignore.

Over the past few months, I’ve found solace in conversations with Sara, who has become a great friend and a source of comfort at this university. We’ve discussed nearly every topic under the sun, and through these talks, my main concern has been my struggle with Business Law. Despite my best efforts—working with teacher aides and collaborating with other students—my grade hasn’t improved.

Reaching for my phone, I texted Marissa Griffin, my closest friend and confidant since high school. She had always been a pillar of support during my toughest times. I typed a quick message: “I’m still drowning in Business Law and risking failure. I need some advice and maybe just a little encouragement.”

As I waited for her reply, I tried to refocus on my notes. The hours of studying felt endless, but I had to push through. The last day of semester classes was Tuesday, with some on Wednesday before Thanksgiving break began at noon. While others eagerly anticipated the break, I felt trapped in a different kind of imprisonment—a battle against my academic demons.

Marissa’s response came almost immediately, her words a small beacon of hope amidst my doubts. “You’ve got this, Isabelle. You’ve faced tough challenges before and emerged stronger. Just keep pushing, and you might pass this course, one step at a time. Remember no matter what happens, you’re not alone in this,” Her message continued, touching on the syllabus we had discussed extensively before she sent it mid-sentence.

Her words provided a glimmer of solace, reminding me that I wasn’t fighting this battle alone. I took a deep breath, feeling a bit of the weight lift from my shoulders. I had to remind myself that this was just one chapter in a long story. The storm would pass, and I would emerge stronger for having faced it. Marissa’s final note about needing to register in the raw and her reassurance that I would pass the course helped solidify my resolve.

I returned to my textbooks with renewed determination. Thanksgiving might be just a week away, but before that, I had to conquer this final hurdle. The storm inside me might be relentless, but I was resolved to weather it, no matter how fierce it raged.

Desperation led me to Dr. Orangewood’s office. Standing outside his door, I could feel my heartbeat reverberating in my ears. When I finally pushed the door open and stepped inside, I was immediately struck by the fortress of towering books and legal documents. The room reeked of old paper and frustration, a fitting backdrop for the gravity of my predicament.

Dr. Orangewood looked up from his desk, his expression as stern and unyielding as the piles of paperwork surrounding him. “Isabelle Faulkner,” he said, his voice cold and authoritative. “The only way to avoid a failing grade is to accept what’s outlined in the syllabus.” He pointed to the document pinned prominently on his desk, its bold header reading “SYLLABUS AGREEMENT.”

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing heart. “You can’t be serious. This is about failing a class, not about forcing me to register to be nude.”

Dr. Orangewood’s gaze was as unyielding as his tone. “It’s a measure designed to ensure compliance with the course’s ethical guidelines. If you choose this option, you’ll need to register with the county clerk as a nudist. The longer you remain registered, the less the cost, which starts in the four figures for less than five years. Previous students who chose this route extended their registration to significantly reduce the cost.”

The absurdity of his proposition was overwhelming. The thought of being registered as a nudist, something that seemed like a nightmare rather than a solution, was incomprehensible. “This is supposed to be about ethics and responsibility, not this!” I could barely keep the tremor out of my voice as the humiliation of the suggestion sank in.

Dr. Orangewood’s expression remained impassive as if discussing something as routine as the weather. He pulled up my signature from the syllabus on his screen and said, “You agreed to the syllabus at the beginning of the semester. If you choose to accept the terms outlined here, your grade will be increased to a passing score of no less than eighty percent. As you might have observed, there are various degrees of students registered as nudists in this region. By complying with the syllabus, any past or future courses you take will be automatically marked as passing, provided you adhere to the nudist registration. This isn’t solely about academics; it’s about grasping and upholding the principles of accountability and personal responsibility that the university emphasizes.”

The room seemed to close in on me, the walls pressing in as if to contain my panic. My vision narrowed to the document in front of me and the unyielding gaze of Dr. Orangewood. The idea of my name being associated with such a demeaning condition was overwhelming. I could barely process the implications: my dignity on the line, my future hanging precariously in the balance.

My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a deafening reminder of my desperation. “How could this be happening?” I thought. The very notion of having to register as a nudist felt like a cruel twist of fate, a punishment that felt far more personal than academic. My mind raced with images of humiliation, the thought of walking around campus, exposed and judged, paralyzing me with fear.

As Dr. Orangewood continued, his words became a blur, drowned out by the cacophony of my inner turmoil. “Is this the only way?” I wondered, grappling with the cruel irony of being forced into such a demeaning situation to avoid failure. The weight of the decision pressed heavily on my shoulders, each second stretching into eternity as I struggled to reconcile my sense of self with this punitive measure.

I felt a wave of shame rise within me. My dignity, my sense of self-worth—they were being compromised for the sake of a passing grade. “What kind of choice is this?” I thought bitterly. “Is this really what my education has come to?” My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady myself against the onslaught of humiliation and despair.

Dr. Orangewood’s voice cut through my thoughts. “This isn’t just about academics,” he said, “it’s about understanding and adhering to the principles of accountability and personal responsibility that the university is projecting.”

The weight of his words was suffocating. The room felt smaller, and my future more uncertain with each passing moment. I was faced with a choice that seemed both impossible and unjust, torn between my dignity and my academic survival. The prospect of my name being tied to such a degrading condition left me feeling stripped of my autonomy, trapped in a cruel game where the stakes were far higher than I had ever imagined.

I took a deep breath, trying to hold back the rising tide of despair. “There has to be another way,” I pleaded, my voice cracking with frustration. “I can’t ... I can’t do this. Is there no other option? I’m working hard to keep up with this class and understand the material, but my grade doesn’t reflect that. I just need a chance to prove I can pass this course and earn enough points going into the final after the break.”