Chapter 1A: The Shadow of Tradition

It’s the last school day before Thanksgiving break, but instead of excitement, a strange tension hangs over everything—like the whole school is waiting for something to happen. Usually, the days before a break are easy: lazy lessons, half-empty classrooms, and teachers reminding us to turn in assignments before vacation but not today. Today, there’s a weight in the air, pressing down on me like a storm rolling in. Usually, the days before a break are easy: lazy lessons, half-empty classrooms, and teachers reminding us to turn in assignments before vacation, but not today.

Today, there’s a weight in the air, pressing down on me like a storm rolling in.

I’m Danielle Carter, but I prefer ‘Dani,’ and I turned fourteen last weekend. That’s supposed to be a milestone—one step closer to adulthood, freedom, and possibilities. But at the junior side of Stephens Academy, turning fourteen means something else.

Because it means you’re eligible for the Mailgirl Program.

It’s a tradition, they say. A legacy—but no one ever questions it. No one asks why it exists or who’s really behind it. The rules are simple: once called, there’s no turning back. Now, for the first time, I won’t just be watching from the sidelines.

New mailgirls are chosen to replace the graduating seniors at the beginning of the last semester of eighth grade, giving them time to train under the older girls. I’ve been dreading, and I know I’m not alone. Every girl in eighth grade feels the same way.

Why? Because of the Mailgirl Program..., it’s this creepy, awful tradition that’s been around forever at Stephens Academy and other mostly nonpublic primary and senior academies around the country. Nobody talks about it openly, but it’s always there, hanging over us, like a curse. A shadow we can’t escape.

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

My parents always brushed it off, telling me not to worry, that I had time. Well, I am worried and time is running out.

I’m in Mrs. Patel’s, Technology & Computer Science, my sixth-period class right now, and I can’t focus at all. My chest feels tight, and my heartbeat is so loud I swear the whole class can hear it. Rachel’s sitting at the desk before me—she turned fourteen back in September—and Carla’s on my right; her birthday was last week with mine. They’re just as freaked out as I am. We don’t talk about it because what’s there to say? But it’s written all over our faces: the fear that one of us could be next. It reminds me of a scene from a Stephen King novel—like Pet Cemetery, The Talisman, or The Dark Tower—with dark clouds creeping closer and closer, leaving nowhere to hide.

I keep thinking about it from years past. It’s one thing when I was younger watching more senior students in the highest grade at the Junior Academy getting their clothes cut away and leaving them all in well ... nothing, but seeing it happen and realizing that we are going to be in that grade coming up. That’s something you can’t ever forget. I remember sitting in the auditorium, I believe it was in the week after the last winter break, watching as the names of the girls in the grade above us were called out, one by one. Each of them had to go up on stage, and—ugh, even remembering it makes me feel sick, imagining it was me—they had their clothes cut off right there in front of everyone, leaving them in ... well ... nothing—not even their shoes. I recall it was nearly freezing that day and I couldn’t imagine being forced to be naked and no longer being permitted to cover up again, even in the weather we get at this time of the year.

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

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

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

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

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

The intercom crackles to life, interrupting the low hum of classroom chatter. The moment Principal Samara Barrera’s voice comes through the speakers, a hush falls over the room.

“Good afternoon, students and faculty,” she began, her tone smooth and practiced. A pause. Just long enough to make my stomach tighten. Apologies for interrupting your classes, but I have a few announcements before we head into the Thanksgiving weekend.”

I barely heard the first part. Just the usual pleasantries, the kind of polished words designed to sound warm and inviting, but beneath the surface, there’s something else—something calculated.

She continues. “First, I want to express my gratitude to all of you. Your dedication and enthusiasm make Stephens Academy a place of learning, growth, and excellence.” Another pause, just long enough to feel forced. Thank you for being such an important part of our school community.”

It’s too smooth. Too deliberate. My grip tightens on the edge of my desk, my breath caught in my throat. I know what’s coming. We all do.

Then, it happens—a barely perceptible shift in her tone—subtle, but enough to send a shiver down my spine. “For our senior girls, I want to highlight an important upcoming event.” There it is—the real reason for this announcement.

I hear someone inhale sharply behind me. Rachel stiffens. Carla grips the sides of her chair. “As approach the second half of the school year, we are preparing for one of Stephens Academy’s most time-honored traditions: the Mailgirl Program Selection.” The words hang in the air, cold and final.

“The selection process will take place after winter break, beginning in January,” she continued, her voice unwavering. “To prepare, all eligible female eighth grade students will attend a mandatory assembly next Tuesday during first and second periods. Attendance is required, as we will all be providing essential details about the program.”

My stomach twists violently. All around me, I hear the sharp intakes of breath. The shift in the air. The room isn’t just quiet—it’s tense and charged, like the split second before a thunderstorm hits.

Rachel’s hand clenched into a fist on her desk. Carla stares straight ahead, her jaw tight. We don’t need to look at each other to know we’re all feeling the same thing—dread.

They say tradition, but we all know the truth. They say selection, but they never explain how. They say mandatory, but they never say why.

Principal Barrera’s voice continues, but I barely register it. Something about staying focused, supporting each other, and using the break to reflect on our goals, but it’s already too late. The only words that matter are “Mailgirl Program Selection.” They echo in my mind, drowning out everything else.

By the time the announcement ends, the silence in the room is deafening. I swallow hard. My heart is racing, but I force myself to breath, to focus on something—anything—but I can’t. The fear is real now. It’s coming for us!

The classroom stays eerily still for a few more seconds, like no one wants to be the first to move. Then, slowly, the hushed whispers begin. Exchanged glances. Fear thick in the air.

Rachel presses her fingers to her temples. “I can’t believe it’s happening already.”

Carla just stares at the whiteboard, like if she focuses hard enough, maybe the words Mailgirl Program Selection will disappear from her memory. I don’t know what to say.

The teacher claps his hands to get the class back on track, but no one is listening. His words sound distant, like he’s speaking underwater. Nothing feels real anymore.

We don’t speak, but I know we’re all thinking the same thing: What will this briefing reveal? Could we do anything to prepare? And worst of all—what if the school called one of our names?

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

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

The shrill sound of the old-style bell erupts suddenly, its sound jolting me from my haze of chaotic thoughts, signaling the end of the sixth period. I flinch, my heart lurching as the sound crashes through the silence.

On autopilot, I gather my books and shuffle into the hallway with the rest of the class. Rachel and Carla walk beside me, but none of us speak. Normally, we’d laugh or whisper about our weekend plans, but not today.

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

I barely register anything as I slip into my seventh-period Study Hall at the library, I slid into a seat, my fingers tracing the faint carvings—names, dates, random doodles—anything to distract myself, but it doesn’t work.

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

Outside the window, snow drifts lazily from the gray sky, dusting the walkways. A few students hurry across the courtyard, bundled in coats and scarves. Normally, it all looks so normal, but nothing feels normal anymore.

I rub my temples, trying to push the thoughts away. Tuesday. That’s when the assembly is. Four days from now. That should feel like plenty of time, but it doesn’t.

I glance around the library. Other students are studying, whispering, flipping through books as if today is just another day, but eighth-grade girls ... I can see it on their faces. They’re feeling it too.

Rachel and Carla aren’t in this period with me, but I know they’re somewhere else, just as lost in thought as I am.

I should be thinking about Thanksgiving break. I should be excited to visit my cousins, eat pumpkin pie, and have a few days away from school, but how am I supposed to enjoy any of it, knowing what’s waiting for us on Tuesday?

Will they finally explain how the selection works, or will they keep it just as secretive and terrifying as always? I exhale slowly, but it doesn’t help. My chest feels tight and the worst thought of all slams into my mind uninvited—what if they call my name?

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

The clock ticked agonizingly slowly, but the period slipped by without me realizing it. When the final bell rings, I gather my things automatically, my body on autopilot while my mind stays trapped in a time loop of fear and anxiety.

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

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

“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a shrug. “I couldn’t focus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I barely remember walking home. The moment I stepped off the bus, I felt numb, like my body was moving without me. The air was cold, crisp with the last breath of autumn before winter truly settled in, but I barely noticed.

My mind remained trapped in Mrs. Patel’s class, in the hallway, in the swirling mess of whispers and worried glances. Mailgirl Program Selection. Those three words had taken over everything.

By the time I stepped inside, the house was quiet, still. My mom won’t be home for another hour, maybe more. I should be relieved—I don’t feel like talking, but at the same time, I know I can’t avoid this forever.

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

Instead, I grabbed my phone and sent a group text to Rachel and Carl. Unable to concentrate on anything else I texted my friends.

Dani: “Are you guys okay?”

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

Carla: “Same. Every time I think about Tuesday, I feel sick.”

Dani: I don’t get how the mailgirls just ... do it. Evan in the snow, they don’t react. It’s like they don’t even feel the cold.

A pause.

Rachel: Remember in third grade? That mailgirl came into our class to deliver something to Ms. Goodwin. Ms. Goodwin wouldn’t even look at us, just kept her head down the whole time while removing all of her clothes including her panties. Before she followed those mailgirls out of the room.

Carla: I remember that. She looked so sad, but back then I didn’t get why.

Dani: Back then, I thought it was just a lob, like they were volunteering or something.