Chapter 1: Stripped Bare

The sun barely kissed the horizon as I trudged through the towering metal gates of Pine Valley High. It was only the second week of the semester, but the long bus ride still left a knot in my stomach. No matter how many times I made the trip, it felt the same. The cold September morning clung to my skin, biting through the thin fabric of my jacket. The air had that early autumn crispness, carrying the sharp scent of dead leaves and freshly cut grass. I hugged my sketchbook to my chest as if it were a shield, protecting me from the hostile environment that felt louder and more menacing with every passing day.

My name is Emma Collins. I’m a sixteen-year-old artist—a label I cling to more desperately than I should. In a world full of noise and harsh judgments, art is my sanctuary. Each pencil stroke lets me voice the turmoil inside, a voice muffled by self-doubt and insecurity. My blue eyes, often described as icy or distant, are far more expressive in my drawings than in conversation. They capture the emotions I can’t articulate, holding secrets about who I am beneath the layers of my carefully constructed persona.

At five-foot-four, I’m slender but unremarkable, lost among the tall, confident bodies that fill the hallways. I often catch glimpses of myself in window reflections, barely recognizing the girl staring back. My long, light-brown hair, usually tied back in a neat ponytail, hangs over my shoulders like a veil, hiding me from the world. I’d rather keep it as a barrier than risk it distracting me from my art—or worse, catching the judgmental gaze of my peers.

Beneath my layers of clothing lies a tapestry of insecurities, each thread woven from past experiences. I cover myself in oversized sweaters and long sleeves, even when the afternoon sun begs for lighter attire. The chill of autumn is nothing compared to the icy grip of self-consciousness that’s settled in my chest. I wear these layers not just for warmth, but to shield myself from scrutiny, to hide the imperfections I see in the mirror each morning. The scars from awkward growth spurts and early teenage awkwardness are etched onto my skin—reminders I desperately try to obscure.

I should have more confidence and more presence. As the oldest of four, I’m expected to be a strong role model. My parents constantly urge me to be more outgoing, and to “believe in myself.” But they don’t understand how impossible that feels most days. Every step outside my room is an act of courage, and by the time I get to school, I’m already exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own life, floating through the motions while trying to keep my insecurities from swallowing me whole. They push, and I pull away, retreating further into the safety of my art.

There was one moment that cemented my need for layers. I had come home from school one afternoon, tired and wanting nothing more than to unwind. Thinking I was alone, I changed into just my bra and panties, enjoying the cool air on my skin. But then Mason burst through the door, his bright energy invading my sanctuary. I scrambled to cover myself, embarrassment crashing down like a wave. His innocent confusion only deepened my shame, making me feel even more exposed.

That moment locked in my resolve to always stay covered. Now, I wear at least two layers of clothing at all times—even in the shower, where I wear a bikini to minimize any chance of exposure. The thought of being seen without my armor sends my heart racing. I would rather suffocate in fabric than feel that vulnerable again.

My little brother Mason, twelve and full of energy, always bugs me about why I won’t hang out with him and his friends. He doesn’t understand the effort it takes just to get through the day, much less be social. Ellie, at ten, is everything I used to be—bright, optimistic, and eager to make friends. Watching her is like looking into a mirror at my younger self before self-consciousness and doubt became too heavy. And Lila, only six, is still blissfully ignorant of how harsh the world can be, living in a bubble of innocence I wish I could protect forever.

They love me in their ways, but none of them know me. They don’t see the parts of myself I hide from everyone—the broken, insecure, and invisible parts. I’ve mastered the art of appearing fine while keeping everything else locked away. But even that mask is starting to crack.

My mother, of course, was the one who pushed me to audition for the controversial graphic art course, even though I didn’t want to. By the end of my freshman year, she convinced me it would be a prestigious opportunity, something to be proud of. I was accepted, but now, two weeks in, I could feel the dread building like a tidal wave.

The course is taught by Ms. Jennifer Amberley, a name that sends chills through the art world. A few years ago, she caused an uproar with her infamous exhibit Stripped Bare—an installation that became a national scandal. It wasn’t just the graphic nature of the art that grabbed attention; it was the extreme methods she used, pushing her students to the brink of emotional collapse.

Stripped Bare was more than an exhibit—it was a psychological experiment in public humiliation, forcing participants to confront their most vulnerable, humiliating truths. The centerpiece was a series of glass boxes where each student stood exposed—both physically and emotionally. Behind them, written on the walls, were confessions of their darkest fears and most shameful secrets, displayed for all to see. The audience was invited to participate, scribbling comments on the glass, jeering, and criticizing.

It was a grotesque spectacle of vulnerability turned into entertainment. Some students broke down during the exhibit, sobbing as they stood exposed. Others left the art world entirely, unable to recover from the psychological toll. The media condemned Ms. Amberley, calling it an abuse of power. But she defended it, claiming true art had to be raw, unfiltered, painfully honest. She argued that the humiliation was part of the process—a way to strip away the masks people wore and expose the raw, ugly truth beneath.