Chapter 7: The Weight of Compliance

All around me, people began to rise and file out of the auditorium. I watched as a wave of older mailgirls stood up, following the crowd toward the lobby. I remained seated, frozen, my eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before me. The sight of the seasoned mailgirls passing by was overwhelming, and for a moment, I saw myself among them, my vision blurring as I felt on the verge of passing out. My mind raced, trying to process everything, but I was barely aware of my surroundings.

Somewhere in the chaos, I heard what I thought was Carla groaning in frustration, likely reacting to someone—maybe Rachel—having their phone out. The details were hazy, but I remember Carla throwing up her hands in exasperation, trying to get me to stand. “This isn’t going to happen. It can’t happen,” she insisted, her voice tinged with urgency.

Under my breath, I muttered, “This is such bullshit,” but the words didn’t stop me from nervously tugging at my blouse. My hands trembled until I felt someone’s hand gently rest on mine, bringing my fidgeting to a halt.

I noticed Rachel’s movements were sharp and deliberate, her anger palpable, though she stayed silent. She flashed her phone screen at me, but I couldn’t fully grasp what she was trying to convey. My attention shifted to Carla, who seemed hesitant and uneasy, her fingers fidgeting nervously as uncertainty flickered across her face. It felt like the assembly was nearing its end, and amid their hurried actions, they managed to slip my bra off. I glanced down and saw it lying on the floor at my feet.

I sat there, a strange sense of inevitability washing over me. It was as though I knew I’d soon be stripped down to my true self, exposed and vulnerable. My eyes darted between Carla and Rachel as they exchanged words, their expressions a mix of frustration and disgust. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, leaving me frozen in place, caught between resignation and the surreal reality of what was unfolding.

The auditorium seat felt suffocating; the air thick with unspoken tension. Carla stood nearby, her arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched, while Rachel avoided my gaze, her discomfort etched into every line of her face. I wrapped my arms around my chest, the realization sinking in—I was now braless. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on me, my mind spiraling with questions, uncertainty, and a quiet terror of consequences I couldn’t yet name. A strange calmness lingered just out of reach, elusive and taunting.

The voice in my head whispered doubts, questioning whether I could simply grab the bra from the floor and end this madness. Had I made the right choice by following the instructions so blindly? The auditorium was nearly empty, yet I remained frozen, my breath catching and my limbs stiffening as the full weight of the situation settled over me. Everything I had known before this moment had unraveled.

My past, my identity, the very foundation of who I was—it had all crumbled, leaving behind one undeniable truth: I was becoming just another, mindless mailgirl. I looked down at myself, at the layers of fabric that now felt foreign against my skin. No one had spoken the words aloud, but I knew—the line had been crossed. The expensive fabric of the bra on the floor was not mine anymore, and there was no room for denial, no desperate scramble for escape.

Acceptance settled over me, heavy and inescapable. Soon, I would stand among them—bare and belonging. I glanced at my two best friends, their faces shifting between disbelief and something I couldn’t quite decipher. Their lips moved, but their words never reached me. I was severed, no longer moored, the life I had once known, drifting toward a reality I had never imagined. And yet, I wasn’t afraid.

The fear that had filled me, desperate and insistent, had begun to slip away, dissolving like morning mist. There was no way back—only forward. As I inhaled a slow, steady breath, something unexpected settled within me.

I was ready.

Time blurred. One moment, I sat trapped in my seat; the next, I found myself drifting out of the empty auditorium and into the lobby, my body moving sluggishly as if disconnected from my thoughts. My two best friends stayed close, holding my hands, their presence a fragile tether to the reality I once knew—though even that felt uncertain now, as I drifted toward something unimaginable.

Then, through the haze, Rachel’s voice broke through. We were standing in the crowded lobby, surrounded by people, when she murmured, “She picked it up.” Her tone was a mix of curiosity and apprehension, though it wasn’t clear who or what she was referring to.

I blinked, confused. “What?”

Rachel hesitated, then clarified, “That girl in front of us ... she picked up a discarded bra and waved it.”

Those words should have jolted me. They should have sent a wave of embarrassment crashing over me, knowing that anyone who looked at me would see I was braless. I should have felt the sting of humiliation, the weight of eyes piercing through me, making my heart race in protest. But I didn’t. Instead, I simply felt the subtle shift of my breasts with each step, the absence of support so natural that it barely registered. A strange calm settled over me as if I had already forgotten what it felt like to wear a bra.

I exhaled, my voice steady. “What are you talking about? I don’t wear one.” Because, deep down, I already knew. I just hadn’t been ready to admit it—until now.

As we stepped into the vast, open hallway, the brightness of the overhead lights made me squint, the world around me feeling distant and surreal. Is this happening? I wondered, my thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a storm. The sheer swell of bodies moving through the corridor only added to my disorientation—a blur of motion, voices, and stares that seemed to pierce through me. Why does it feel like everyone’s looking at me? My heart thudded unevenly, and I clutched the lower buttons of my blouse below my breasts, my fingers tightening instinctively. Why does this feel so uncomfortable? Why does everything feel so wrong?

Their hands held mine, their firm grip anchoring me, or at least trying to. ’Are they trying to pull me back to reality?’ I thought dimly. But what even is reality anymore? My fingers fumbled with the buttons, tugging at them without thought as if trying to ground myself in something tangible. Why can’t I just breathe? Why does it feel like the walls are closing in?

Then Rachel’s voice broke through, sharp and laced with anger. “This isn’t you, Dani,” she hissed, and I looked up, startled. Her eyes burned with intensity, but her words barely registered. Isn’t it me? What does that even mean? Who am I supposed to be? Carla chimed in, her voice cutting through the haze. “No way, no way I’m standing by and letting you—” She stopped herself, frustration tangling her words. Let me know what. I thought, my mind scrambling to keep up. What are they so afraid of?

Their urgency pressed against me, but I couldn’t fully process it. My mind felt scattered, thoughts slipping through my fingers like sand. Why can’t I think straight? Why does everything feel so heavy? And then, suddenly, I felt the fabric slip from my grasp. What just happened?

Rachel’s voice cut through the moment, startled and exasperated. “You’re destroying the blouse!”

I glanced down, my breath hitching. The buttons I had been gripping were gone—ripped clean off. Three of them lay scattered on the floor, torn away just below my breasts, leaving the fabric gaping open. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I stared at the damage, my pulse quickening. What have I done? The weight of what was happening pressed down with undeniable force. This is real. This is happening. And then—oh. This is just the beginning, isn’t it?

Carla reached into my purse, still slung over my shoulder, and pulled out my phone. She unlocked it and pressed it into my hand, her expression unreadable. What is she doing? What’s on the screen? My fingers slightly as I took it, the pounding in my ears drowning out everything else. Why does it feel like the world is spinning?

The screen lit up with a message—one sent to all of us. Just a few words, simple yet absolute:

“You will be leaving the academy in nothing since you are to be naturally yourself in the best attire you have.”

I read it once. Then again. What does that even mean? Naturally myself? Best attire? My stomach churned as I scrolled further, my eyes struggling to focus. Below were frantic messages my friends had sent to my mom. Desperate pleas, begging her to stop this, to undo what we all knew was coming. They’re trying to save me, but from what? From becoming one of them? The messages were frantic, offering themselves in my place, swearing they would do anything—anything—to keep me from becoming a mailgirl., as I had learned it was called. Why would they do that? Why would they sacrifice themselves for me?