Chapter 1: The Spark

I’ve always felt different—not in a way that made me stand out in a crowd, but in a way that made me feel like I was carrying a secret, a quiet rebellion simmering beneath my skin. It started when I was barely a teenager, though the roots of it might have been there long before. Maybe it was the summer I turned eleven, when I’d peel off my sweaty, suffocating jeans the moment I got home from school, tossing them into the corner of my room like a prisoner shedding chains. My mother would scold me, her voice sharp with disapproval: “People don’t want to see that, Cass. Put on some shorts.” But the relief of the cool air on my legs, the way my heartbeat slowed as if my body itself sighed—that felt like truth.

Or maybe it was earlier still. I remember being six, crying hysterically at the scratchy lace of a flower girl dress my aunt forced me into for her wedding. The fabric bit into my shoulders, the sash digging into my ribs like a warning: Conform, or be uncomfortable forever. I’d tugged at it until the seams frayed, earning a spanking and the nickname “Little Houdini” from my exasperated father.

We lived in Waterflow Falls, Wisconsin, a town so small it barely earned a dot on the map. Here, conformity wasn’t just expected—it was enforced. Women wore knee-length skirts to church picnics; men mowed lawns in collared shirts. Nudity wasn’t just taboo—it was a moral failing. Once, when I was eight, my cousin dared me to run through the sprinkler in my underwear. The neighbors called my mother to complain about “indecency.” I spent the rest of that summer grounded, the weight of their judgment like a stone in my gut.

But there were flickers of something else, cracks in the world’s rigid facade. When I was ten, my mother took me to Madison for a doctor’s appointment. As we drove through a leafy neighborhood, I saw them: three people strolling down the sidewalk, utterly naked. A man with a silver beard, a woman laughing as she swung a grocery bag, and a girl my age, her sunlit hair bouncing as she skipped. They weren’t hiding or rushing—they were living. I pressed my face to the car window, mesmerized, until my mother jerked the wheel and hissed, “Don’t stare, Cassidy. It’s rude.” Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but all I could think was, why aren’t they cold? Why aren’t they afraid?

We moved to the suburbs of Madison the following year. If Waterflow Falls was a locked box, Madison was a window cracked open—still stuffy, but with a whisper of breeze. My new middle school had rainbow stickers on classroom doors and a “Diversity Day” assembly every semester. Yet even here, certain lines held firm. Then came seventh grade, and the anti-bullying assembly that split my life into before and after.

The auditorium buzzed with the chaos of 300 students packed into creaking seats. Sunlight filtered through dusty blinds, painting stripes on the linoleum as the principal introduced the speakers. There was a gay man who’d survived conversion therapy, his voice cracking as he described praying until his knees bled; a Black woman who’d been followed in stores since she was twelve, her sharp laugh masking old hurt; a boy in a wheelchair who’d been told he’d never play sports—then became a Paralympic sprinter. Their stories were met with respectful applause, the kind adults call “mature.”

Then Erika Mitchell took the stage.

The room didn’t go silent as much as shatter into it. Someone dropped a water bottle; the thud echoed like a gunshot. She was naked—not in the careful, artistic way of statues, but unapologetically human. A scar curved over her hip, stretchmarks silvered her thighs, and her bare feet left faint prints on the stage. Teachers sitting in the seats before me all made some audible sounds after she was at the microphone.

“My name’s Erika,” she said, and her voice was honey and gravel, the kind that dared you to look away, “and yes, I know I’m naked.”

The giggles died when she didn’t flinch. She told us about her family’s nudist colony—”Not a cult, unless you think sunscreen is a religion”—and the legal battle to become “permanently unclothed” under state law. “We’re like vegans, but for fabric,” she joked, and a few kids snorted. But her smile faded as she described walking to school past hecklers, the time a boy yanked her hair to “see if those are real” (she broke his nose), and the petition to ban her from the town pool. “They said I’d ‘disturb the children,’” she said, rolling her eyes. “Newsflash: kids don’t care until adults teach them to.”

I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t her body that stunned me—it was her certainty. She stood like a queen, shoulders back, and chin high, as if the air itself adored her. When she said, “Clothes are costumes. Why spend life playing dress-up?” something in my chest cracked open.

Afterward, the hallways erupted. Boys high-fived over “free porn,” girls whispered “She’s so gross” while stealing glances at their reflections. I lingered by her Q&A table, too shy to speak, until she caught my eye. “You get it,” she said suddenly, pointing at me. Not a question—a fact. My face burned, but I nodded. She grinned. “Good. Don’t let them shame you into silence.”

That night, I Googled “nudist colonies near Wisconsin” under my blanket. Articles warned of “moral decay,” but I clicked on a photo gallery: people gardening, playing chess, and riding bikes— all naked, all ordinary. One image stuck with me: a woman my mom’s age, stretchmarks and all, belly-laughing on a porch swing. She looked free.

I started small; slept naked, my sheets cool against my skin. Changed clothes faster after gym, savoring those seconds of bareness. Each time, the world’s voice—”Cover up, hide, be small”—grew quieter.

Erika’s words became my mantra: Why spend life playing dress-up? The spark was lit. Now, all I needed was the courage to let it burn.

By sophomore year, the halls of Madison High became a gallery of contradictions. Kids dyed their hair neon and pierced their eyebrows, but even rebellion had rules. Then I saw them—the ones who broke the final taboo.

Liam was first, a junior with sun-bleached dreadlocks and a permanent sunburn line across his hips. He held court under the oak tree at lunch, bare feet in the grass, preaching about “corporate enslavement via fast fashion” to anyone who’d listen. “They’re just threads, man,” he’d say, gesturing to a classmate’s designer hoodie. “You’re paying $200 to wear a billboard.” The football team called him “Naked Buddha,” but he’d just laugh and offer them hemp granola.

Next came Marisol, a transfer from Chicago mid-semester, strutting into homeroom in a cropped band tee that ended just below her ribs—and nothing else. Rumors swirled: expelled, pregnant, in witness protection. But she’d smirk and say, “I just hate pants.” Her confidence was a weapon. When Mr. Hendrix tried to send her to the office for “dress code violations,” she’d slapped a medical exemption form on his desk. “Chafing,” she deadpanned. “It’s a sensitivity.”

I watched them like a botanist studying rare blooms. They weren’t Erika—no state-registered idealism, no speeches—but they carried her same fire. I ached to ask how they breathed through the stares, but fear kept me mute. Instead, I cataloged their survival tactics: Liam’s Zen indifference, Marisol’s defiant humor. I practiced in the mirror—shoulders back, don’t flinch, breathe—but only managed a hunched shuffle.

Jenna found me crying in the art room closet after gym. My thighs had rubbed raw under cheap polyester shorts, the skin angry and welted. “Chub rub a bitch, huh?” she said, tossing me her Vaseline.

We’d been friends since middle school, bonded over shared lunches and Doctor Who marathons. She was the first person I kissed (a dare-fueled peck at Rachel Cho’s pool party), the one who held my hair back after my first beer. So when I whispered, “I think I want to be like them,” I expected ... something. Not laughter.

“Them?” She snorted. “Liam smells like school lunch farts, and Marisol’s just doing it for attention.”

“It’s not about them,” I said, too fast. “It’s—Erika. How she owned it. I want to feel...”

“Free?” Jenna rolled her eyes. “Cass, you’re not exactly—” She caught herself, but the word hung between us, fat and suffocating.

Later, she texted: didn’t mean it was beautiful!!! The damage was done. That night, I stood before my mirror, tracing the softness of my belly, the dimples on my thighs. Not the type. As if freedom had a BMI limit.

Mrs. Alvarez’s “Body Positivity” pamphlet featured smiling, airbrushed women in bikinis. ‘Love the skin you’re in!’ Chirped the caption. I wondered if the models had ever sprinted past store windows to avoid their reflections.

“Have you considered yoga?” Mrs. Alvarez asked, when I returned for my mandated follow-up. “Mindfulness can help with ... impulsive urges.”

“It’s not impulsive,” I said. “I’ve wanted this since seventh grade.”

She adjusted her cardigan like armor. “Desire isn’t always healthy, Cassidy. What if this is a reaction to trauma? Body dysmorphic? Your mother mentioned...”

Weight Watchers at twelve. The keta phase. The shrink who called me “pre-disordered.” I stood abruptly, chair screeching. “You think I’d rather be naked because I hate my body?” Her pitying look said it all.

The bus ride downtown took 17 minutes. I counted each second, my backpack heavy with research: legal statutes, notarized forms, and a printout of Erika’s old interview (“Nudity isn’t radical—shame is”). The clerk didn’t blink at my request. “Birth certificate? Photo ID?”

I slid them across the counter. She stamped the paperwork with a thud that echoed through the vaulted room. Changing rooms are there. Trash cans are full, though.”

In the bathroom, my hands shook as I unbuttoned my jeans. Last chance. I thought of Mom’s “modest is hottest” tirades, Jenna’s laugh, Mrs. Alvarez’s pamphlets. Then I yanked my shirt over my head. The mirror girl stared back—pale, trembling, real.

October air cuts on my skin as I step outside. A cyclist swerved, yelling, “Put some clothes on, psycho!” Across the street, a toddler pointed. “Mommy, that lady’s naked!”

“Yep,” I whispered. “And?”

By the third block, numbness set in. Not courage—just the dull throb of inevitability. Mom’s scream could’ve shattered the crystal. Dad’s face crumpled like a discarded draft. “Why?”

I handed him the registration papers. “Because I’m not ashamed anymore.”

“We’re ashamed!” Mom spat. “Do you know what people will say? What will they think?”

“That you raised a daughter who doesn’t cringe at her own shadow?”

She lunged, but Dad caught her arm. “Let’s ... process this.”

Upstairs, I locked my door and stood at the window. The streetlamp painted my silhouette onto the glass—a girl-shaped exclamation point.

Liam nodded as I entered history. “Took you long enough.”

Mr. Donovan stammered through the Preamble, eyes glued to the whiteboard. Snickers erupted when I raised my hand, but Liam kicked the loudest boy’s chair. “Chill, bro. It’s just skin.”

At lunch, Marisol tossed me a granola bar. “Pro tip: Cafeteria chairs suck. Bring a towel.”

The whispers didn’t stop, but they dulled—background static to Marisol’s stories of nude beaches and midnight bike rides. “They’ll get bored,” she said. “Bullies need a reaction. Give ‘em nothing.”

Jenna passed me after the last bell, her gaze skittering over me like a skipped stone. “You’re doing it,” she said, half-accusation, half-awe. I kept walking.

Mom confiscated my phone but not my notebook. Under Day 1, I wrote: They see my body.

I see the flinch in their eyes—

The shame they taught me to carry.

Joke’s on them.

I put it down.

The second day was worse. Word had spread overnight. Students clustered in the hallways like vultures, phones held aloft. “Show us your freedom!” a senior jeered, aiming his camera at my hips. Mr. Donovan pretended not to hear, shuffling papers at his desk.

In the bio lab, Tyler “accidentally” brushed his hand against my back while reaching for a microscope slide. His friends snickered. Mrs. Kwon froze, her eyes darting between us. “Cassidy, maybe ... sit in the front?”

Maybe teach your students consent, I wanted to snap. Instead, I moved, the linoleum cold under my feet.

At lunch, Marisol tossed me her hoodie. “For the chairs. Trust me.”

I hesitated. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

She smirked. “I’m not the one registered. You can’t wear it, but I can lend it as a ... public service.” The fabric was warm, smelled like lavender. I draped it over the cafeteria bench, a flimsy shield against splintered wood.

Gym class was mandatory. Coach Riggs refused to let me sit out. “Dress code says appropriate attire,” he barked, though he couldn’t meet my eyes. “No exceptions.”

“I’m exempt,” I said, holding up my state ID.

“Not in my gym.”

The locker room was a minefield. Girls snapped towels, “joking” about “accidents.” I changed in a stall, heart pounding.

During dodgeball, Jason Fuller aimed low. The rubber stung my thigh, leaving a welt the shape of his grin. “Oops,” he said. “Didn’t see you there.”

When I reported it, Vice Principal Crane sighed. “Cassidy, you have to understand—your lifestyle makes some kids uncomfortable. Maybe tone it down?”

“Tone down existing?”

He slid a detention slip across his desk. “For disrupting class.”

Mrs. Greer summoned me after the second period. The office reeked of stale coffee and regret.

“We’ve had ... complaints,” she said, fiddling with her pearls. “Parents are concerned about exposure.”

“I’m following the law.”

“Yes, but—” She leaned forward, voice dropping. “What if we found a compromise? A ... modesty panel? Or a sash?”

“I’m not a parade float.”

Her smile tightened. “Think of the younger students. They’re impressionable.”

“They’re fine,” I said, thinking of the third-grader who’d high-fived me that morning. “It’s the adults who keep staring.”

The art room was supposed to be safe. Mr. Vega let me sketch in the back, away from prying eyes. But Derek Hooper followed, his breath sour with Axe body spray. “Need a model?” he whispered, crowding me against the kiln.

I kicked his shin, hard. He howled, drawing the class’s attention. “She’s crazy!”

Mr. Vega didn’t ask questions. Just pointed to the door. “Office. Now.”

In the hallway, I pressed my back to the lockers, shaking. Marisol found me there. “They’re scared,” she said, handing me a stolen Coke.

“Of what?”

“That you’re right.”

The police arrived during the fourth period. Two officers, one bored, one blushing. They escorted me to the conference room, where Mom sat clutching a tissue like a white flag.