Chapter 2: Gates of Wellington

The gates of Wellington Academy had never looked so much like the entrance to a coliseum. The wrought-iron scrollwork, usually a symbol of exclusionary prestige, now felt like the bars of a cage designed specifically for me. Monday morning sun, bright and unforgiving, painted the cobblestone driveway in stark relief. My bare toes curled against the cold, rough stone. This was the real test. The Garden Café and the Yacht Club were one thing, full of transient adults who could pretend I was performance art. Wellington was my world, a petri dish of cruelty and social stratification, and I was the new virus.

Sarah leaned against the family Mercedes, immaculate in her uniform, the pleated skirt, the crisp blazer, the tie knotted with casual perfection. She twirled my own discarded tie around her finger like a victory ribbon. “Last chance to develop a sudden, highly contagious rash,” she said, her voice a low tease.

I swallowed, the sound loud in my ears. James had driven us in stony silence, the partition up, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The car had felt like a hearse. Now, standing here, the air itself felt heavier, thick with impending judgment.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered, adjusting the strap of my book bag, the sole, sanctioned article I was allowed, feeling its weight as both a burden and a shield.

The first scream was a punctuation mark to my fear.

“Oh my GOD!”

Maddie Cho, standing with her usual clique near the senior quad, dropped her Starbucks. The paper cup exploded at her feet, a river of peppermint latte flooding the cobblestones. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with a horror usually reserved for natural disasters. “Annabel, what the”

“Lost a bet,” Sarah announced, her voice cutting through the sudden silence that had fallen over the quad. She said it like she was announcing the lunch special, breezy and matter-of-fact. She put a hand on the small of my back and propelled me forward, through the gathering crowd that parted before us like the Red Sea.

The whispers began, a hissing undertow pulling at my ankles.

“She’s actually doing it.”

“Do you think her nipples are cold?”

“ ... total psycho, I heard she’s on medication.”

“ ... kind of iconic though, you have to admit.”

The words were physical things, sharp little stones pelting my skin. I kept my eyes fixed ahead, on the main building’s heavy oak doors. Shoulders back. Chin level. A Hamilton does not cringe. The mantra was the only thing holding me together.

Then, the worst possible person appeared, leaning against my locker as if he owned it.

Victor Webber. His letterman jacket was slung over one shoulder, and pinned to his chest, for all to see, was a sheet of paper with a hand-drawn tally chart titled “Naked Heiress Betting Pool.” Categories included: “First Day She Cracks,” “First Teacher to Faint,” and “Cry Count.” His smirk, a permanent fixture of his face, faltered for a half-second when he saw me. A real, human flicker of something surprised, maybe even shocked, crossed his features before his usual armor of arrogance snapped back into place.

“Hamilton.” He whistled low, his eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep that felt more invasive than all the stunned gazes combined. “Didn’t think you’d actually have the balls to show.”

My face burned. I reached past him, my arm brushing against his jacket, to spin the combination lock. The cold metal was a familiar comfort. 18-24-06. my birthday. The irony was not lost on me. “Move, Webber.”

He didn’t. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “You know, there’s a pool on how long you last. I’ve got my money on you cracking by the second period. Okafor’s class. The chairs are notoriously unforgiving.”

The bell rang, a shrill, merciful sound. Victor finally pushed off my locker, his smirk widening as he sauntered away. I yanked the locker open, the metal door shuddering. Inside, taped to the back, was a single, typewritten note.

We know about the coin. - A Friend

My blood ran cold. I snatched the note, crumpling it in my fist and shoving it deep into my book bag. Sarah was already halfway down the hall, not waiting. I was on my own.

First Period: Advanced Calculus

Mr. Okafor was a man of numbers, of logic, of clean, elegant equations. The human body, in all its messy, unpredictable glory, was a variable he had not accounted for. He blinked twice, rapidly, when I walked into his classroom. The chatter died instantly. Twenty pairs of eyes locked onto me.

Without a word, Mr. Okafor turned to the whiteboard and wrote, in aggressive, capital letters: “NO DISRUPTIVE BEHAVIOR WILL BE TOLERATED.” He underlined it twice, the marker squeaking in protest.

I took my usual seat in the third row. The plastic chair was a fresh new hell, icy and unyielding against my bare skin. I had never noticed how cold these damn chairs were, how the texture seemed designed to grip fabric. I focused on pulling out my textbook, my notebook, my pencil case, a series of small, normal rituals in a sea of the profoundly abnormal.

Then Claire, Ethan’s date from the café, slid into the desk beside mine. She didn’t look at me, just opened her own notebook and, with a perfectly straight face, slid a folded note onto my lap.

I unfolded it under the desk.

Pantyhose sales have reportedly gone down 300% since Friday. Fashion brands in shambles. The L’Oréal “Bare Essentials” campaign has been put on hold. You’re crashing the market, Hamilton.

I snorted, a loud, undignified sound that echoed in the silent room.

Mr. Okafor spun around. “Is there something amusing about derivatives, Miss Hamilton?”

“No, Mr. Okafor,” I said, my voice miraculously steady. “My apologies.”

He glared, but turned back to the board. Claire gave me a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.

Second Period: The Leak

The walk to the humanities building was a gauntlet. The whispers had solidified into stares, some mocking, some curious, some openly hostile. But it was the bulletin board outside the history department that brought my world to a screeching halt.

Taped there, for the entire school to see, were photocopied pages from my journal.

My private, ink-splotched, furious thoughts. The words “legally bound to nakedness” were circled in thick red marker. Anonymous notes were scribbled in the margins:

Freak

Attention whore

Daddy issues

Rich bitch stunt

But then, at the bottom, in a different, neater handwriting, someone had written:

Brave as hell.

A small crowd had gathered, snickering. My face was on fire, my hands trembling. This was a violation deeper than any naked walk through town. This was my soul, stripped and put on display.

I reached out, my fingers shaking, to tear the pages down.

A hand closed around my wrist. Sarah. Her grip was firm.

“Leave it,” she murmured, her voice low in my ear.

“They’re my words,” I hissed, trying to pull away.

“I know. And now they’re everyone’s. Let them see what they’re really laughing at. Let them see the girl who wished for this.” Her eyes were hard, intense. “This is the game, Annie. You don’t get to hide anymore.”

She released my wrist and walked away, leaving me standing there, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with my lack of clothes.

Lunchtime: The Pivot

The cafeteria was the main event. The room fell into a hush as I walked in, a thousand conversations dying mid-sentence. I felt like a specimen under a microscope. I made for an empty table in the corner, my head down, and the weight of the stares a physical pressure.

Then, from the debate team table, a slow clap started.

Ethan Langford stood up, raising his carton of chocolate milk like a toast. “To Annabel Hamilton,” he announced, his voice carrying across the silent room. “Who just made the rest of us look like a bunch of cowards in polo shirts?”

A beat of silence, and then a dozen other cartons of milk were raised in response. A few whoops. Even some of Victor’s lacrosse buddies, after a nudge from Ethan, reluctantly raised their drinks. Victor himself just scowled into his turkey sandwich, the betting pool sheet now crumpled on the table beside him.

Sarah appeared at my elbow, pressing a cold water bottle into my hand. “Told you,” she whispered, a genuine smile playing on her lips for the first time all day. “They don’t know what to do with you. You broke their script.”

I sat at the table, the plastic seat no less cold, but the atmosphere had changed. The stares were still there, but they were different, less leering and more curious. A freshman girl from the Women’s Empowerment Club shyly approached and asked if I’d consider speaking at their next meeting. The art teacher, Mr. Sterling, stopped by and formally requested that I model for his advanced figure drawing class. “You have excellent lines,” he said, with complete artistic sincerity.

The Realization

By the final bell, something fundamental had shifted. The walk to my locker was no longer a gauntlet, but a passage. People still looked, but they also nodded. They made eye contact. I was no longer just the Naked Heiress; I was a person who had done something no one else had the nerve to do.

As I packed my bag, Victor appeared at his locker next to mine. He didn’t speak at first, just shoved his books inside with more force than necessary. Finally, he slammed the locker shut and looked at me, his expression unreadable.

“You’re fucking insane, Hamilton,” he muttered.

But he held the door open for me on his way out.

Aftermath: The Mirror

That night, I stood once more before my bedroom mirror. The girl reflected was different from the one this morning. Her shoulders, while tired, were straight. Her eyes, while shadowed, held a new kind of clarity. The sunburn was more pronounced, a badge of honor. The memory of the leaked journal pages still stung, a raw, open wound, but the sting was now mixed with a defiant pride. They were my words. My choice.

Sarah’s text buzzed on my nightstand. Media requests are pouring in. A feminist blog wants an interview. You’ve started a movement, Annie.

I didn’t reply. I traced my collarbone in the glass, the gesture now one of ownership, not uncertainty. The dangerous thought that had been a whisper at the Garden Café was now a clear, resonant voice in my head.

What if this wasn’t a punishment?

What if this were a revolution?

I was its only, unclothed, general. Tomorrow, the world would spin forward again. And for the first time, I felt like I was the one making it turn.

The document was a ghost in my desk drawer. It haunted the space between my socks (or where my socks used to be) and my stash of foreign currency, a sheaf of poisoned paper that seemed to emit a low, psychic hum. For three nights, I’d lain awake, its final clause burning behind my eyelids.