Chapter 2: The Trophy Hallway

I was relieved to be leaving the principal’s office still fully dressed, but the weight of what had just been decided was crushing me. As I stepped into the hallway, I could already feel the stares burning into me. My hands shook uncontrollably, and I tried to hold myself together, but it was pointless. I was a wreck. A few students were scattered around, eyes wide, watching me. They had probably seen me go in with my parents, and now I was coming out, shaking like a leaf. The air was thick with curiosity, and I knew what they were thinking. What could be so important that the superintendent had to be there? I wondered the same thing when I first walked into that small, suffocating office.

Now they would all start talking. They’d be whispering in the halls, in class, at lunch. And soon, they’d know. Everyone would know.

It wasn’t just an art exhibit anymore. I thought it was going to be one humiliating day—one mortifying moment where I’d stand there, exposed, while people wrote on my skin like I was nothing more than a chalkboard. But no, I was so wrong. Yesterday in Ms. Amberley’s class, I thought it was a one-off event. Just a strange, uncomfortable thing I could somehow survive and forget. I couldn’t have been more naive.

In that tiny office, with my parents sitting there beside me, I learned the horrifying truth. The principal, Mr. Thompson, and the superintendent, Mr. Harper, calmly explained that this wasn’t just a single event. It was an art project—one that would last the entire year. I was to be the centerpiece, the living art, the “canvas” for everyone to write their deepest thoughts on. My body would be exposed, laid bare in front of the school, in front of strangers, again and again.

I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My head was spinning as they talked, my eyes darting to my parents, hoping they’d protest, say something—anything. But they didn’t. Instead, they nodded along as if this was some great opportunity for me. Then, to my absolute horror, they agreed to donate all my clothes. Everything I owned to cover myself up? Gone. Just like that.

I could barely process it. They had just stripped away my last shred of protection, and I felt like I was falling into a nightmare I couldn’t escape. My worst fears—my deepest insecurities—were about to be put on display for everyone. Did they not know how self-conscious I am? How do I hide behind layers of clothing, even when it’s hot, just to avoid the stares and the comments? I’ve spent years trying to disappear, blending in, doing everything I can to avoid being noticed. And now they wanted me to stand there with nothing to hide behind. Nothing.

I walked down the hallway, my body still trembling, as more students began to gather. They were whispering, pointing. I tried to keep my head down, but I could feel their eyes on me. They must’ve known something big was happening. They probably thought I was in trouble or that something scandalous had gone down in that meeting. But whatever they were imagining couldn’t come close to what was happening.

My face burned with humiliation as I realized that soon, they’d all know. They’d know that I was going to be the school’s human canvas, that I would be standing there, exposed, while they wrote whatever they wanted on my skin. Some of them might laugh. Others might pity me. But worst of all, they’d look. I was already the girl who wore too many clothes, and who kept to herself. Now, I’d be the girl everyone would be staring at.

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I refused to cry in front of them. Not yet. But the humiliation was already creeping up, tightening around my chest. How was I supposed to face them every day, knowing what was coming? What were they about to do to me?

I walked faster, trying to escape their stares, but the hallway felt endless. All I could think about was how, soon enough, I wouldn’t be able to hide at all.

Then, with about ten minutes left of the first period, my parents slowed down right in front of the row of sports trophies and achievement plaques encased in glass. Their polished surfaces gleamed under the fluorescent lights, taunting me with their permanence, their respectability—everything I was about to lose. But I wasn’t focused on that. All I could think about were the doors at the end of the hallway, just beyond reach, that led off campus. I silently begged to be anywhere but here, to walk through those doors and away from this nightmare. But I wasn’t going anywhere.

My stomach churned with dread as we came to a stop. I stood there, right in the middle of the busiest section of the school—the spot where every hallway met, where students from all corners of campus passed through between classes. I knew what was coming, but I still clung to some desperate hope that this was all a mistake, that maybe my parents would realize how insane this all was.

But the look on their faces told me otherwise. Stone-faced. Expressionless. There was no going back. I felt the floor beneath me tilt, and my breath came in shallow bursts. This was happening.

I could already feel the eyes on me. A few students were loitering around, watching from a distance, their curiosity building. More would come soon. The bell would ring, and the halls would be flooded with students. They’d all be witnesses to what was about to unfold.

My heart pounded in my chest as I looked at my parents. I wanted to scream at them to stop, to tell them that they couldn’t do this to me. But my voice was stuck in my throat. I couldn’t make a sound. My mom stepped closer, her voice low and cold, as if even she was disgusted by what she was about to say.

“Emma,” she said, not meeting my eyes, “your dad is going to start cutting off your clothes, piece by piece, right here. It’s time for everyone to see what you’ve been hiding behind all this time.”

Her words hit me like a slap to the face. I stared at her, my mind reeling. Right here? Now? My eyes darted around the hallway, taking in the familiar lockers, the rows of classrooms, and the glass display cases reflecting a distorted version of myself. I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare, one that was quickly spiraling out of control.

“The school officials have agreed to this,” she continued her voice barely above a whisper. “We thought it would be better to do it here, now, instead of waiting for the assembly later today. That way, the students won’t have to cut away your clothes during the seventh-period demonstration.”

I felt my knees buckle. My head spun, and for a moment, I thought I might faint. I had known something terrible was coming, but this? The public display? The cutting away of my clothes like I was some object? This was worse than anything I could have imagined. I looked at my dad, hoping—begging—for some sign of hesitation, for him to step in and stop this madness. But he was already standing behind me, a pair of scissors in his hand. His eyes were glued to the floor, avoiding my gaze, as if he was ashamed of what he was about to do. But not ashamed enough to stop.