Chapter 8: The Point of No Return

Carla’s grip on my hand tightened as we walked, her fingers digging into my palm like she was afraid I might vanish if she let go. Her eyes darted nervously around the hallway, scanning the faces of passing students, her anxiety palpable. I could feel her unease radiating off her, a sharp contrast to the strange calm that had settled over me. My mind was elsewhere, already drifting toward the inevitable future I had accepted—becoming one of the mindless mailgirls, stripped of identity, stripped of choice. There was no point in fighting it anymore. The assembly had made that clear. The stage, the collars, the branding—it was all real, and it was coming for me.

I was acutely aware of how my blouse hung loosely below my breasts, the buttons ripped off in a moment of frustration, leaving the white camisole beneath exposed. The fabric felt foreign against my skin, like it didn’t belong to me. I didn’t care. Not about the blouse, not about the stares, not about the whispers. Soon, none of it would matter. Soon, I wouldn’t be wearing anything at all. The thought should have terrified me, but instead, it brought a strange sense of relief. No more pretending. No more fighting. Just acceptance.

Carla’s voice broke through my thoughts, low and urgent, pulling me back to the present. “Dani, you can fight this mailgirl thing,” she whispered, her eyes wide with mortification. “Do you ... Do you realize how many people are staring?” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing as she glanced around nervously, her grip on my hand tightening even more.

I followed her gaze, noticing the sideways glances from passing students. Some whispered to each other, their eyes flicking toward me before darting away. I caught snippets of their conversations, sharp and judgmental. “Did you see her blouse?” one girl hissed to her friend. “What’s wrong with her? Is she trying to get attention?” Another group of boys snickered, their laughter cutting through the air like knives. “Look at her,” one of them muttered, his voice dripping with mockery. “She’s practically asking for it.”

For a moment, a flicker of defiance sparked inside me. I wanted to give them all a show, to yank the rest of the blouse off right there in the hallway and let them see exactly how little I cared. But the spark faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by that same numb acceptance. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. This wasn’t about them. It was about me; about the future I couldn’t escape.

“I know,” I said simply, my voice calm, almost detached. “But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. No mailgirls wear clothes.”

Carla’s jaw dropped, her grip on my hand tightening to the point of pain. “Dani, what are you talking about? Of course, it matters! You can’t just ... You, we are all fourteen. We can all go to the state welfare office and demand they put an end to this mailgirl thing—” She cut herself off, her voice trembling. “This isn’t you. You’re not ... you’re not like this. You’re our friend, a free-thinking woman. I don’t want to lose you to this ... this mailgirl stuff.”

I stopped walking and turned to face her; my expression steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside me. Carla’s eyes were pleading, desperate for me to snap out of whatever trance she thought I was in, but I wasn’t in a trance. I was awake, more awake than I’d ever been. And I was tired—so tired—of pretending.

“Carla,” I said softly, “I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m accepting my fate, but I do know that—these clothes, this body—it doesn’t feel like mine. Not really. It’s like I’m wearing a costume over my true self, and I’m finally ready to take it off. I’m ready to accept that I’m going to become a mailgirl, just like we saw on the stage. Just like those who were previously students here.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t just ... give up, Dani. You can’t just let this happen. We can fight it. We can—”

“No,” I interrupted, my voice firmer now. “This isn’t about giving up. It’s about ... letting go. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel like I’ve been holding on to something that doesn’t belong to me, and I’m tired, Carla. I’m so tired of pretending. I’m tired of fighting the realization that my name is on that shortlist. I’m going to be one of those four new mailgirls announced after the winter break. It’s done.”

She stared at me, her tears spilling over as she struggled to find the right words. Around us, the hallway buzzed with activity, the noise of laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the heaviness between us. A group of freshmen rushed past, their backpacks swinging, oblivious to the weight of the conversation happening just feet away. Someone dropped a stack of papers, and they scattered across the floor, drawing a few annoyed groans. But none of it mattered. Not to me. Not anymore.

I could see the fear in Carla’s eyes, the heartbreak, but I also saw something else—understanding. She didn’t agree with me, but she was trying to. And that meant more to me than she could ever know.

“Dani,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “If this is really what you want ... if this is who you are ... then I’ll stand by you. No matter what, but please ... just promise me you’ll think about it. Think about it.”

I nodded, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “I will,” I promised, “but I need you to trust me. I need you to believe that I know what I’m doing.”

She hesitated, then nodded, her grip on my hand loosening slightly. “Okay,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

The warning bell rang, its sharp tone cutting through the moment. Carla glanced down the hallway, her expression torn. “I have to go,” she said reluctantly, “but we’re not done talking about this, okay?”

I forced a small smile. “Okay. Go. I’ll be fine.”

As she hurried off, I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as I continued down the hallway. The stares and whispers didn’t bother me anymore. I knew what was coming, and for the first time, I felt ready to face it. The blouse, the camisole, the judgment—it was all temporary. Soon, it wouldn’t matter. Soon, I would be just another mailgirl.

I reached into my bookbag, my fingers brushing against the jacket I’d stuffed in there earlier. For a moment, I hesitated, my hand resting on the fabric. Then, without thinking, I pulled it out and let it drop by the trash can near the lockers. I didn’t need it anymore. I didn’t need any of it.

As I stepped toward the doorway of Mrs. Thompson’s English Language Arts classroom, the final bell rang, its sharp chime cutting through the low murmur of lingering hallway chatter. Normally, that sound sent a jolt of anxiety through me, a reminder that I was moments away from facing yet another day of whispers, stares, and carefully worded sympathy, but today was different.

The weight of everything—the loss, the change, the uncertainty—still pressed down on me, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like it would crush me. It was there, steady and heavy, but manageable. I took a slow breath, my fingers tightening around the strap of my backpack as I crossed the threshold. This was my life now, my new reality. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like running from it. I was ready to face it.

As I stepped through the doorway, the weight of my thoughts scattered into nothingness. My mind went completely blank. It wasn’t just me—several others around me halted in their tracks, their faces mirroring my stunned disbelief. A hush spread across the room, yet the silence wasn’t empty. It was thick, heavy with the collective confusion and discomfort hanging in the air.

Before us, the usual order of the classroom had crumbled into something unrecognizable. Some students stood near their desks, frozen mid-step, while others had stopped just short of sitting down, their bodies tense as if caught between fight and flight. The sight before us defied comprehension, and as I forced myself to process it, my stomach twisted.

There, casually leaning over the table beside Mrs. Thompson’s desk, were three of the so-called mailgirls—the same ones we had seen on stage before. Their bare bodies were on full display, completely unbothered by the dozens of stunned eyes locked onto them. But that wasn’t what sent my pulse into a frantic rhythm of disbelief and unease. No, it was the signs. Two of them had placards hanging from their backs, turned outward so everyone in the room could read them clearly:

“Urgent Official Parcel Inside.”

The words sent a chill through me, but what truly unsettled me was what lay beneath those signs—the reason I had hesitated to let my gaze wander further. And yet, against my better judgment, I forced myself to look.

I regretted it immediately.

From my angle, the sight was anything but normal. My brain scrambled to make sense of what I was seeing, but logic refused to bridge the gap between reality and whatever twisted version of it this was. Two of them had something lodged inside them—large cylindrical objects that seemed absurdly oversized for where they had been inserted. The sheer unnaturalness of it made my skin crawl. How could anyone endure something like that? And more disturbingly, why?