Part 1: Monday Morning

1. Sam

As the first student to enter the Program in the history of Hammondston High School, I am supposed to keep a journal of my experiences in order to evaluate its virtues and flaws. That’s what the administrators told me, at least, expecting me to show them at least an edited copy. I’m Sam Brown, and this is a record of my Program week.

Just before school started on Monday, I was talking with some friends on the football team and cheerleading squad about the previous weekend’s events and the upcoming homecoming dance when Principal Fontaine came along. He told Bert Radford and me to see him in his office.

“Couldn’t this wait until school starts?” I replied.

“I need to see some students before first period. Since you and Bert are the two seniors involved, I want to see you first.”

“Seniors?”

“Two representatives from each class.”

“Fine. I suppose it’s important.” I followed the balding man, and Bert followed as best he could. He was our team’s starting running back, but he had an injury during Saturday’s loss at Fiddlehead Valley, so he was on crutches.

When we arrived at the office, Mr. Fontaine told us why this matter was important. “Sam, Bert, Hammondston has decided to institute the Program this year. We had planned to begin it during the first week of school, but we required several weeks of planning to create some changes required by special circumstances which are believed to be unique to our district. Hence the delay.”

The Program. For those not familiar with it, two students from each grade, one boy and one girl, would be required to be naked in school for an entire week, from Monday morning to Sunday evening, and this included almost all school-related events. I say “almost all” because athletes were exempt during games. There was no way Hammondston would let football players go out there naked, and the school wasn’t going to have someone stuck on the bench during a game just because he happened to be in the Program. Football is big in this area.

“Details? So people are going to touch us?” This is where the nerves started up. Looks-wise, I have nothing to worry about. I’m head cheerleader this year, and was last year as well. I’m 5’8” with curly shoulder-length red hair, green eyes, a cute smile, curves in all the right places, and a nice set of legs. But my logic wasn’t entirely effective against fear, so I decided to put up a brave front. “With all the boys wanting to touch me, how will I ever be able to get to class on time?” Brad, who was several inches taller and well-muscled with dark brown hair and eyes, didn’t look as pleased.

Mr. Fontaine replied, “If time’s short, rely on the anti-drug slogan from several decades ago: ‘Just Say No.’” However, we’ve changed the rules here so that students in the Program can refuse requests. Consent matters. If it’s wrong to stroke a concealed breast in a t-shirt without asking for permission, then it’s just as wrong to stroke a naked breast without asking.”

I couldn’t believe what I said next. “I was hoping to be touched.”

“They can ask, and you can say yes if you choose. But it’s not a requirement.” He was saying all of this in his usual monotone.

“Well, let’s get started.” What can I say? I may be part nervous, but I also have an exhibitionist streak that I’ve kept hidden from most. “Where do I put my clothes?”

The principal pointed to a box in the corner. Meanwhile, Bert remained silent, reading the Program pamphlet that Mr. Fontaine put in front of him. He – Bert, not Mr. Fontaine – is my on-again, off-again, and now on-again boyfriend, so I’m lucky to have him as a Program partner this week. (Does anyone think I’d be attracted to a slightly overweight man in his fifties?) There’s nothing Brad hasn’t seen.

I started to remove my clothing. “One sleeveless green blouse, check,” tossing it towards the box. “One knee-length black skirt, check,” dropping it to the floor. “One green bra, check,” unhooking it. No response from Mr. Fontaine, whose round face could be made of marble for all of the emotion it shows. There wasn’t much response from Bert either, which was odd. “One pair of lacy green panties, check,” stepping out of them. I kicked the underwear into the box.

Bert still wasn’t paying attention. “Earth to Bert, Earth to Bert, your turn.”

Bert wasn’t laughing. He looked at Mr. Fontaine and sheepishly asked if clothing needed for physical support was permitted.

“If it’s a medical necessity, then yes,” answered the principal.

Bert pulled out some papers. “My injury during the game was pretty bad. My right thigh needs wrapped up, there are some stitches on my scrotum that ought to be kept covered, and I’m on medication to, uh, keep me from, uh,” - Bert was wincing - “going up, if you know what I mean.”

Mr. Fontaine was looking through the papers when he asked, “Can you still show your penis?”

Bert struggled to stand up, and pulled his pants down a bit. “It’s still swollen.” His scrotum, about the size of a baseball, was colored purple and red instead of white. I moved back, as a foul odor came out of his pants.

“Pull it back up!” I yelled.

The principal’s face was not made of stone, as I saw him wrinkle his nose, lifting his glasses in the process. “Bert, I dink we have to postpone your weed in de pwograb. If you can’t get ewect an it stinks, it defeats da puhpose.”

Without stopping to think, I threw the drapes back and lifted the window open. That’s when I became nervous again, since I could see people staring at me. They were learning I was a natural redhead.

“What about my partner? It’s one thing to have someone else getting some of the attention, but the Program doesn’t call for sending me out there alone!”

“I’ll think of something by first period,” replied Mr. Fontaine. “In the meantime, both of you should go to your homeroom.”

Naked me left the office shaking a little, but the still-clothed Bert was shaking a lot. His leg must be pretty bad. While walking, I heard a call over the intercom for Jill Hogarth and Tim Anderson. They’re juniors – Jill’s on the volleyball team and Tim’s a linebacker. Then the voices in the hall started.

“Looking good, Sam!” “May I hug you?” Yes, Eddie, you may. “Can you twirl for us?” OK, do it now, and it’ll be more comfortable when I do it later. “I like the hairdo,” one underclassman said, and he wasn’t looking at my head. That made me feel a little like a piece of meat. The voices continued in homeroom. Maria Benton gasped, “Wow. I wished I looked like that.” Tom Thurber agreed, “Yes, she’s a work of art come to life.” I felt better.

A little later, two sophomores were called to the office: Ron Venturi and Heather Fitzwater. I don’t know much about Ron, as we don’t move in the same circles. I’m more familiar with Heather, as she’s a JV cheerleader. She’s usually perky, with blue eyes, short blond hair, and a cute button nose, but she’s not very confident about her body, and wishes her bust size was larger. She’s going to be embarrassed at tonight’s JV football game. Because the school does not consider cheerleading to be a sport, she has to perform her routines wearing just her skin. She’s technically permitted sneakers, but they don’t cover much.

Jen Torocsik told me, “I can’t believe you’re that confident!” She’s one of my friends on the squad. “I’d die if they made me walk around like that.”

Heather Rosario, who’s also on the squad, added, “Yes, that’s because you wouldn’t be able to show us the clothes you bought over the weekend.”

“I bet you wouldn’t be too composed, either,” responded Jen. I think Heather R would be confident enough to handle the Program. Also, she’s compact and muscular, which means that fashions aren’t designed with figures like hers in mind. Therefore, she would actually look more attractive naked. Heather seemed to agree with Jen, however.

“It might be scary, but there wouldn’t be a boy in school that wouldn’t be turned on by either one of you.” I hoped my comment would boost their spirits.

Just before the bell to leave homeroom rang, two ninth-graders were called: Frank Torocsik and Lily Dudek. Frank, Jen’s brother, is tall and lean with black hair, just like her. From the times I’ve been at her house, he seems outgoing with lots of friends. Jen developed a devious grin on our face at the mention of his name.

I’m afraid the cheerleading squad isn’t going to be too friendly towards Lily. She’s the reason cheerleading isn’t a sport, and therefore responsible for each member of the squad having to go naked during at least one game. During the fall, we have football for the boys, and the school balanced that with volleyball and cheerleading for the girls. The winter featured basketball for both sexes, wrestling for the boys, and cheerleading for the girls. Two years ago, she, her parents, and another soccer player challenged the school district, saying that girls didn’t have the same athletic opportunities boys did. We argued that cheerleading was a sport, but they said it wasn’t. The courts agreed with them, and added girls’ soccer in the fall and girls’ swimming in the winter. They are two of Lily’s three favorite sports. Track’s the other, and we already had track for both sexes in the spring, along with the softball/baseball combination.

While I was heading to my first period World History class, I passed a very nervous Heather Fitzwater in the hall. She stopped me to ask, “How can you be so confident? I know I’ll mess everything up at the game tonight. There’s nowhere to hide, and people who would usually watch the game will be watching me instead. And they won’t be looking at my face.”

As captain of the varsity cheerleaders, I had to help here. “Here’s a secret, Heather. I’m not totally confident, but I’m acting that way. There are two ways of looking at the Program: Everybody is looking at me, or everybody is looking at me. You’re very attractive, so of course people will look at you.” She smiled a bit. “I’ll go to tonight’s game to support you. You aren’t going to be the only naked cheerleader there.”

She gave a tentative thumbs-up. “Good. Most of them will look at you instead.”

“Need a hug?”

“Later, but thanks,” she responded.

I continued to class. As I took my seat for World History, I wondered who my partner would be. Too bad Bert was injured; I could have had some good times with him later in the week. Maybe I can have some fun with the guy they pick for me. Bert would understand it’s only Program outreach, wouldn’t he?

2. Elizabeth

Because I am the only person in my homeroom to pass the office on the way to a first period class, I have the responsibility of delivering the absentee list and any other morning paperwork to the front desk. When I arrived, Mrs. Jenkins, one of the secretaries, told me to proceed to the principal’s office.

Upon entering the office, I saw Lily Dudek and Frank Torocsik sitting at the near end of Mr. Fontaine’s desk. I wondered why all three of us were present. Lily, for one, has the rare ability to transcend cliques. If it weren’t for my presence, she would have the best academic record in the ninth grade, so she fits in with the brains. She’s also earned jock status with the three sports she plays, and falls in with the artsy crowd with her flute-playing and writing. Also, she reputedly has enough of a wild streak to fit in with the rebels, although I am not familiar with the particulars. Her presence did little to narrow the list of possibilities.

While Lily and I have academic achievement in common, what Frank and I share, with the exception of being ninth-graders, remains a mystery. He’s the only student in the class on the varsity football team; the newspapers say that he is the school’s punter and kicker. This would indicate jockdom, but Frank is also the class clown. As a comedian, he becomes Switzerland, the trustworthy neutral, in any conflict between cliques.

Mr. Fontaine demanded that I sit down, so I did.

“I assume all of you have looked at the Program pamphlet previously.” All three of us students nodded, one more weakly than the others. I had studied it when it arrived in as a pdf attachment in an e-mail file, and I assumed Lily also had, but I was unsure whether Frank knew its contents. Now that I knew why I was there, I was not looking forward to leaving the office.

“We don’t have to let anyone touch us if we don’t want to?” I whispered timidly.

“That’s right,” the principal declared with authority. “Consent issues.” I suspected the alteration was made to protect the football team. It might be embarrassing if one of the members were to ejaculate from the touch of another boy. “Any other questions before the disrobing begins?”

Frank quipped, “Got sunscreen?” lifting his eyebrows along with his voice at the end of the question. I laughed.

Lily just stated, “I don’t want to miss too much Spanish,” as she began to remove her clothes with ease. I wasn’t too worried about how her fellow ninth-graders would treat her, but I had some concerns regarding the upperclassmen. Lily’s father may be Polish-American, but her mother is Korean-American, and historically, Hammondston has not been very welcoming to people of color.

I should point out that, back in the 1920s, whites in the county seat of Harrison tried to drive African-Americans out of town. They were only partially successful there. However, census records indicate that in our town, the number of Blacks declined from fifteen in 1920 to zero in 1930. About eight years ago, the Parsons bought a small motel, moved into town, and added a restaurant, becoming the first African-American family to live in Hammondston in decades. There are very few Asian-Americans here, too. When her father Tony Dudek, a former football hero, returned to town to run the local radio station, his wife, Ms. Park, came with him. Yes, everyone, including Lily, calls him Tony. If it weren’t for that connection, the mother would have found life here uncomfortable. The Doctors Patel arrived in town to work in a clinic for a year, then remained when their stint was over; I believe their children are in elementary school now. Hammondston was a sundown town for many years, and only recently started to change.

Returning to the present, it took Lily about ten to fifteen seconds to remove everything, after which she lifted her arms, proclaiming, “I am Lily the Tiger, hear me roar.” She’s beautiful, tall for her age, has long black hair with what looks like a purple streak to match the eyeshadow over her dark eyes, nice B-cup breasts that framed a silver and gold yin-yang symbol dangling from her necklace, a flat stomach and lean but muscular legs, with a trimmed triangle of hair providing the only cover between that necklace and the black sandals on her feet. She lowered her arms, turned her head, and simply said, “Your turn, Frank.”

Frank, in turn, looked at Mr. Fontaine and asked, “Do you really expect me to strip in front of these two girls without providing appropriate music to enhance their entertainment?”

I tried to get into the mood by adding, “Salome by Strauss?” Lily smiled brightly, but Frank missed the reference. He started to hum something else as he unbuttoned his shirt, moving it back and forth after each button, before finally removing the it, twirling it, and tossing it into the clothes box. Now bare-chested, he slowly removed his trousers, then twirled and tossed them as he did with his shirt. He performed a 180-degree turn, bent down to remove his underwear, then turned around to face us again. “The general salutes you, Lily,” he concluded as he showed his erection. Lily smiled again.

Now it was time for me to undress. I remember fumbling with the buttons on my blouse and almost falling down when I removed my underwear, but I was too dazed to remember the details. Then Lily and Frank applauded. “I knew you could do it,” approved Lily.

Then I thought of something. “Mr. Fontaine, I think those two are partners. But I don’t have lunch with either one of them. All I have with Lily is physical education, and my only class with Frank is health. Who’s my partner? Who will provide support?”

The response came quickly. “You’re paired up with Sam Brown. Let her know when you get to your World History class.” Great, I get paired up with the head cheerleader. All we have in common are five classes and lunch. The sole benefit is that the attention given to her body will be directed away from mine.

Frank piped up, “Hey, Elizabeth, could you get me a lottery ticket?”

“Why? I’m not old enough.”

“You just hit the jackpot. You’re partners with the varsity cheerleading captain. Any boy would take that in instant.”

Lily chimed in, “Better the head cheerleader than the head chauvinist pig.”

Frank then grabbed a pen and wrote on a piece of paper. When he held it up, it said, “Eat turkey, not pork.”

Lily deadpanned, “For you, either comes very close to cannibalism.”

“Either way, ‘Gobble Gobble Gobble’ works for my personal coat of arms. Just like ‘George Washington slept here’ works for you.” The repartee reminded me of the feud between Charlie McCarthy and W.C. Fields, except that Frank and Lily genuinely like each other. Frank is average academically, but don’t let that fool you. I think he appreciates having someone around who can keep up with his comedic insults, as I’ve never seen him direct them at anybody who can’t return fire with some of their own. I was starting to laugh.

“That’s enough for now, you two,” interrupted Mr. Fontaine. “Save it for the comedy club. I’m writing hall passes for all three of you. Now get to class.”

As I was leaving, the principal directed a statement to me. “You left your backpack here.” I must have been extremely flustered. I made a few steps to retrieve it.

When we returned to the hallway, it was empty. That was a relief. “See you later,” Lily said. She and Frank were waving goodbye. I turned to the right and proceeded toward my class. My good feeling vanished as my stomach went into free fall. I was quivering like a leaf in a hurricane as I knocked on the door to Mrs. Marinus’ room.

“Permission to come in?” I asked, as my opened the door and looked into the room.

“Permission granted.”

This was yet another moment of truth. Remembering to keep my hands to my sides, I hurried in and scrambled to my usual seat in the front row. I turned to Sam, waved my hand with an amplitude of at most two centimeters, and barely emitted a “Hello, partner.”

3. Sam

I thought Heather Fitzwater would have a difficult time with her Program week, until I saw an absolutely stripped and defenseless Elizabeth Dugan enter the class – all 5’0” of her. Heather has other cheerleaders to support her. As far as anybody knows, Elizabeth is facing the week alone.

Intellectually, she’s on a completely different plane from the rest of us students. I’ll bring up one instance from our sophomore year U.S. History class with Mr. Shea. Late in the year, he assigned us a standard essay question: was the use of the bomb on Japan to end the war justifiable? There was no right or wrong answer, but he did demand support for whichever one was chosen. Mr. Shea is in his sixties, and he thought he was prepared for anything in those essays.

He wasn’t prepared for what Elizabeth did.

Faced with the usual choice between two options, she rejected both of them. She attacked the premise of the question, claiming that the events at Hiroshima and Nagasaki were of little or no importance in ending the war. Instead, she argued that the Japanese surrender was caused by the entry of the Soviet Union into the Pacific theater. Apparently Japan’s diplomatic and military strategies were both based on Stalin staying neutral until 1946. Furthermore, the Manchurian campaign showed that, while Japan may or may not have been well-prepared for an American invasion of the islands, they were utterly unprepared for a Russian one. I don’t recollect most of the other details. Mr. Shea wasn’t sure how to handle this argument, so he contacted a professor from St. George’s College for help.

The professor must have been intrigued, since, a few days later, the entire class period consisted of Mr. Shea and the professor talking with Elizabeth about her paper. Our teacher justified skipping a lecture by saying that historians had disputes about many things, and this discussion would show how they could reach new conclusions. Our visitor was impressed, saying that viewing World War II as a three-sided conflict could provide new insights on strategies. Mr. Shea said that he’d include Elizabeth’s arguments in the following year’s lectures. Elizabeth got an A+, and the rest of us got to sit back and do nothing for a whole period if we wanted to.

The kicker? Remember that I said it was a sophomore history class? Elizabeth was in the freaking seventh grade at the time. And history might not even be her best subject. In both seventh and eighth grades, she won the state MATHCOUNTS title. George Crawford’s at the top of the senior class rankings, and this ninth-grader outperforms him in our classes.

On the other hand, she doesn’t seem to have any social life. Nobody’s ever seen her at a sporting event, a school dance, or even an ordinary party. Her extracurriculars involve either academic competition or the cello. I think she spends more time talking with the teachers than with her fellow students. She probably has more in common with them.

Fashion? Forget it. Her brown hair is pulled back into an unstyled ponytail. She’s always wearing long-sleeved blouses and dress slacks. Not today, obviously, and I suppose she has to change for phys ed, but I don’t remember seeing her in short sleeves, a t-shirt, shorts, skirts, dresses, or even jeans. Sometimes she’ll add a solid black tie or a suit jacket to the usual outfit. And this week the school is forcing her out of her uniform altogether. Not that we have school uniforms, but she dresses as though we do.

I said she’s just five feet tall, didn’t I? Her breasts are small bumps – saying they’re A cups would be pushing it. She doesn’t wear any makeup or jewelry. Her watch is purely functional, featuring an adjustable cloth band without any bling. Her Frozen backpack is the only indication that she knows anything about pop culture. She might be fourteen, but I’d bet restaurants still offer her the kids’ menu when she comes in.

If I could describe Elizabeth in one sentence, it would be this: the personality of a little girl and the brain of an adult merged into a young teenager’s body. She can’t fit in anywhere, so it wouldn’t surprised me if she had simply stopped trying somewhere along the line.

Because I hadn’t heard her name over the intercom, I had no clue who her partner might be. I knew my replacement partner would be a senior-class boy, but I hadn’t heard any of their names called yet. I wondered which poor sap would be stuck with Elizabeth.

Then she turned towards me, raised her right palm up, and said, “Hello, partner.”

Crud. I had gone from Bert Radford, boyfriend and hot football stud, to a generic, nameless boy, and finally to Little Miss Petrified.

“Partner?”

“Mr. Fontaine ... told ... me to ... let ... you know...”

“That we’re Program partners?”

No verbal response, just a nod.

I suspected a professional psychiatrist would have major problems helping her through this week. I was way out of my league with her, in more ways than one.

Mrs. Marinus returned to her lecture after this incident. We concentrated on the Roman Republic last week, so we’re proceeding to the Roman Empire this week. She focused on the establishment of the empire and the reign of Augustus. Elizabeth managed to stammer out one concern: what kept the Senate from reasserting its traditional power once the First Citizen had stabilized the situation? Yes, she used “First Citizen” instead of “Emperor,” even though it’s not in the textbook.

At the end of class, the teacher made a further announcement. For the past few Fridays, two students each week had worked together on presentation related to the week’s theme. From now on, any Program students in the class would be among the two students assigned the weekly presentation. I didn’t know it was possible for Elizabeth’s face to turn any paler. With her nerves, the only role she could fill in a presentation would be as a newly captured virgin being presented at a sex slave auction for Roman brothel owners.

Then I thought of something – wasn’t pairing her up with me a violation of Program rules? As the class was dismissed, I caught up with her. “Elizabeth?”

She turned her head and stared at me.

“I think I know how to get you out of this mess.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I’ve been looking through the pamphlet. After they announced the other two ninth-graders, they shouldn’t have put you into the Program. That was a rule violation on their part.”

I barely understood her mumbling. “It’s too late...” She tensed up further. “They’ve seen ... seen ... everything.”

How do you respond to that? She doesn’t want to be remembered. Telling her that her body’s utterly forgettable wouldn’t improve her self-esteem one bit. It would also be useless, as she would consider it a lie. I can’t unsee someone that petrified.

“Elizabeth,” I said sternly, “I am going to go to that office and demand that they follow the rules. Are you going to join me?”

She nodded.

We went towards the office, me confidently, her nervously. One boy, a freshman or sophomore, started to ask, “Elizabeth, can I touch y-” I glared at him, and he shut up.

No one dares to annoy an angry redheaded woman, if only because they want a life expectancy that exceeds 24 hours.

I strode to the front desk and stated, “I demand to see Mr. Fontaine about a Program violation.”

“Just a moment,” replied Mrs. Jenkins.

A few moments later, the principal invited two naked students into his office.

4. Elizabeth

I don’t know why I followed Sam to the office. I may have entered a fugue state once I had been thrust into the halls naked again. Perhaps I wanted to see what she had planned, or just wanted to learn what the violation was.

Mr. Fontaine invited us to sit, so we did.

Sam started immediately upon sitting. “Mr. Fontaine, I have looked at the Program pamphlet. I assume you are familiar with the rules for Program partners.” He nodded. “I am a girl in the senior class, and my partner should be a senior boy. As you can clearly see, Elizabeth Dugan is neither a member of the senior class nor a male.”

I raised my index finger and, in a low voice, said “Objection?” Both of them looked at me. “You can’t actually determine grade level by looking at a student, so more evidence would be needed to reach that conclusion ... I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

“Anyway,” Sam said, “you can tell that she is not a male.” I thought of my unclad self as exhibit A in a trial, and started to shake more violently. “As a ninth-grade female, she is to be paired with a ninth-grade male.” She paused.

The principal started to open his mouth, but Sam resumed before he could make a sound. “Furthermore, Program partners should have lunch and a minimum of ten periods a week in common. Elizabeth, show us your schedule.” I pulled it out of my backpack and gave it to her. “I have five classes with her, and I can state that she is the only ninth-grader in any of them. Economics is a new class which requires Algebra II and U.S. History as prerequisites. The latter is a sophomore class, so there would be no tenth-graders, let alone other ninth-graders, in Economics. Correct?” I nodded. “Then we have French II. I understand the school created a placement test so she could skip French I. Therefore, she’s also the only ninth-grader in that class. Correct?” This time, Mr. Fontaine agreed. “That leaves two other periods a day, or ten a week. Two of those are physics lab, which leaves us with eight periods.”

Sam stood up. “This means she has a maximum of eight periods a week that can be shared with another ningth-grader. Therefore, no ninth-grader meets the requirements to be her partner.”

I turned to Sam, but forgot to lift my head, and I saw Sam’s navel and pubic hair. Look up, Elizabeth, look up, I told myself.

“Since no Program partner can be found for her, and the Program requires a partner for all participants, she cannot be in the Program. I rest my case.”

The principal laced his fingers together. “That was an impressive argument, Ms. Brown. I had wondered if you were able to assemble one like that. But I would like to issue a rebuttal. First, Superintendent Keller and I were perfectly aware that Elizabeth is a special case.”

“I’m right here,” I blurted out.

“Oh, yes, right.” Ms. Brown’s speech didn’t fluster him, but my reminder did. “Elizabeth, we had to get special permission from the state government to make adaptations to the rules. That’s why we had to wait several weeks to start the Program this year. Otherwise, we would have begun it when the school year began. First, since most of your classes are with seniors, we decided you should be classified as one.