Chapter 6: The Assembly

The morning announcements had barely ended when Mrs. Johnson’s gaze swept across the classroom. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes sharp with quiet intensity. After a long pause, she spoke, her voice calm but unmistakably firm.

“Some of you are already on edge.” Her eyes lingered on a few students shifting uncomfortably in their seats—including me. “I expect all of you—especially the boys—to be on your best behavior for the next two periods while the girls in this homeroom attend the assembly.”

A heavy silence followed. No one spoke. No one questioned. Instead, we exchanged uncertain glances, the air thickening with unspoken apprehension. The tension pressed down on us, suffocating and unrelenting, as if we all sensed something looming just beyond our understanding.

The warning bell rang, a sharp sound that sent a jolt through me. The knot in my stomach tightened. Something was coming—something significant—but none of us knew what.

The first-period bell still echoed as we spilled into the auditorium lobby, already crowded with bodies. Clusters of eighth-grade girls huddled together like nervous sparrows, their whispers sharp and brittle. Carla and Rachel flanked me, arms crossed like shields, their faces pinched with unease. The air hummed—not just with the buzz of fluorescent lights, but with the static of dread, a collective breath held too long.

Then the room seemed to shift. They appeared without warning—the mailgirls.

Older than any student, older than most teachers, they positioned themselves near every entrance to the seating hall. Their numbers stunned me, but it was their nakedness that struck like a slap—unflinching, indifferent to stares. Symbols and codes covered their ribs, collars gleamed cold as surgical steel. Yet it was their imperfections that held my gaze: skin toughened by sun, scars tracing hips and shoulders like faded seams. Some wore straps that bit into flesh, tools dangling with cryptic purpose. They stood as monuments to something deeper than confidence.

By the east entrance, a red-haired woman stood slouched against the wall, her pale skin deeply lined, resembling the fragile texture of ancient parchment. Nearby, a blonde woman bore a serial number stamped above her chest, the digits marred by a thick scar that sliced through them like a savage claw mark. Then there was her—A7A01. She appeared to be in her late thirties, perhaps older, her movements deliberate and measured, as though years of enduring harsh conditions had left her carrying more than just physical weight. The curve of her stomach stretched and distorted the ink on her hip, twisting the once-crisp characters into something unrecognizable. Her dark, weathered skin gleamed under the unforgiving lights as she turned, and for the briefest of moments, her eyes locked with mine. It was only a flicker of time, but in that split second, something clicked. I knew her—not from here, but from a faded photograph I’d seen in the admin office. A decade-old mailgirl picture, where she stood smiling, younger, unbroken. The academy’s first.

The lights dimmed as Junior Principal Barrera’s heels echoed across the stage. Carla’s elbow jabbed into my ribs, a silent warning, but my pulse had already begun to roar in my ears.

“Welcome, eighth-grade ladies,” Barrera began, her voice smooth, practiced, and unwavering. “Today marks the beginning of a path that only a select few will have the privilege to walk the path of becoming one of the academy’s new mailgirls.” A hush fell over the auditorium, thick with tension.

“At the beginning of the coming year, after the winter break,” she continued, “four of you will earn the honor of officially joining the esteemed ranks of Stephens Academy’s mailgirls.” My breath caught.

“The same honor carried by those who came before you—graduates who have served with pride, and of course, those whom you passed in the lobby. They will now join us, seated here in the front rows.” All at once, I felt the weight of the presence before me. The mailgirls. The graduates.

I had tried to keep my focus on the stage, to ignore them. But Barrera’s words dragged my gaze back to the front rows—to their exposed bodies, their blank stares, their silent endurance. A cold dread coiled in my stomach, twining around the words my mother had spoken earlier.

“At this time,” Barrera announced, her voice unwavering, “I ask all of our current mailgirls to come forward to face your peers.”

The air in the auditorium thickened, pressing down on us like a held breath, then movement. From the back of the stage, they rose. Their bodies bore bold numbers and letters, their collars gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. They turned in unison, facing us, their expressions unreadable. To them, their nudity seemed as inconsequential as a school uniform and for the first time, I understood—this wasn’t just an assembly. it was a reckoning.

As they took their seats, I studied them—their presence no longer something I could ignore. These were not the fresh-faced girls I had seen before, the ones who still seemed tethered to the lives they once lived. Their faces etched with time; their postures molded by years of routine. They were fixtures, absorbed into the academy’s unrelenting machine.

It struck me then: becoming a mailgirl wasn’t a temporary role, something endured and eventually left behind. It wasn’t a phase to be outgrown, like an old uniform that no longer fit. It was a suture—a permanent stitch binding them to the institution ... forever.

Their bodies bore the passage of time—silver threading through their hair, hands calloused from years of labor—yet they moved with the same regimented precision as the newest recruits. The rules that governed them had not softened, nor had the academy’s demands lessened. If anything, time had not freed them; it had only deepened the grooves of their obligations.

A cold realization settled over me. This wasn’t a sisterhood of youth that faded with graduation. It was something far more unrelenting—a continuum of service that did not end, only absorbed. The academy did not release its mailgirls. It consumed them. As I watched them, their quiet endurance sent a warning that lodged itself deep in my bones.

The assembly dragged on, stretching time unbearably thin. Each passing moment thickened the air, pressing down with an almost suffocating weight. Dr. Reuben Hutchinson, director of Stephens Academy’s senior division, stepped onto the podium. His baritone voice reverberated through the silent auditorium as he called the next names.

Dr. Hutchinson’s voice sliced through the whispers. “The Department of Lifestyle’s mandates are absolute. Once ordained as academic mailgirls, their duties transcend transfers or even graduations. T7B67 serves as a reminder of this permanence—just as do the veteran mailgirls you passed in the lobby and now witness before you.”

A sick weight settled in my stomach. Bound forever?** The title of “mailgirl” wasn’t a designation. It was a sentence—a chain locked in place, indefinite and inescapable.

Beside me, Carla sat frozen, her arms crossed so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Rachel’s fingers trembled as she shredded the edge of a program into a mess of tiny scraps. None of us spoke. None of us looked at each other. As if saying anything aloud might summon the same fate upon us. The air in the assembly hall thickened, almost choking.

Dr. Hutchinson’s voice cleaved through it, sharp and deliberate. “Would the three Stephens Academy’s graduating mailgirls—step forward.” His gaze swept across the audience like a blade. “Including T7B67, who remains bound by Lifestyle Department protocols despite her ... relocation?” A current of unease crackled through the crowd.