Part 5: Tuesday Morning

19. Elizabeth

The 5:38 on my alarm clock (or, as Vicky once called it, my “why-on-earth-do-you-need-an-alarm” clock) told me I had slept longer than usual. I admit that the alarm function has never been necessary in the mornings. However, I may be absorbed in an activity later in the day, requiring the use of sound to remind me of previously scheduled engagements.

I felt compelled to hurry in the bathroom. Intellectually, I knew that I had over an hour until Vicky would monopolize the mirror with her hair and makeup. However, I needed the time before school to dress, eat breakfast, check the news, and study Japanese. I made my usual wardrobe choice; it wasn’t difficult to decide between walking to school fully clothed and doing so naked.

Selecting a breakfast had never troubled me before, but this morning would be different. I needed a substantial meal which was acceptable to a stomach that seemed to be setting endurance records for somersaulting. Plain yogurt with fresh fruit would be an ideal choice under such circumstances. I wished we had some. Instead, I poured some shredded wheat into a bowl and spread peanut butter on whole wheat toast.

Even obtaining whole wheat bread in my house is a difficult task. My father enjoys what I consider squishy, airy, tasteless white bread and overly sweet cereals. His palate not only failed to grow up, it never reached adolescence. Vicky, who shares his taste in food, doesn’t mind. I decided I could make it through today if I had dinner at Sam’s as a reward.

I returned to my room for language study, followed by world news updates. Then, to calm my nerves, I started playing my cello. DFA FED CsharpEGA Bflat...

I heard a knock. “Lizzie!”

I kept playing. “Lizzie!” I didn’t stop. “Lizzie, stop it!”

“What are you doing Elizabeth?”

I yelled downstairs, “I’m trying to play my cello, Mom, but Vicky is yelling at me.”

“Vicky, stop yelling at your sister!”

“Mom, she started it! She’s playing in the morning, and it’s not even Wednesday!”

“I need to relax. This is one way I do it.”

“Vicky, let your sister relax this time. She’s going to be in the Program today!”

“Don’t remind me!”

“Does everyone in this house need to yell?”

“They’re upstairs, Chuck. How else are they supposed to hear me?”

“I’m next to you, Jan. You don’t need to yell at me!”

I wouldn’t be able to relax at home, so I decided to walk to school and get everything over with. “I’ll see you this afternoon, Vicky.”

“Shut up.”

I grabbed my cello and backpack, wished my parents a good day, and started the long three-and-a-half block trek to school. Make that four-and-a-half blocks. Because the designated disrobing zone was in front of the main entrance, the Program prohibited me from entering the building near the auditorium and leaving my instrument in one of the music rooms as usual.

As I previewed the day’s upcoming lowlights, Berlioz’ Symphonie Fantastique played in my head. No break would come between the initial strip and the sex-crazed monomaniacs of homeroom. Three periods of civilized people would come between that and the boys’ locker room. To my relief, I could hide in the library for seventh-period study hall. After that, however, Mlle Dubois would take advantage of yesterday’s incident to describe body parts, injuries, and visits to the doctor. Computer Science wouldn’t have any extra physical displays, but Sam might be in a foul mood again. Quartet practice loomed as the final disaster of the day. When I turned towards the main entrance, I could see a crowd of students anticipating the stripping of eight of their own.

Make that seven. Lily Dudek raced into the school grounds on her bicycle, wearing only a black cycling helmet, a gold bracelet, and gold and black sneakers. After yesterday morning, I figured she would probably be the first girl to participate in Program outreach. No Frank Torocsik yet, though.

I assumed the majority of the crowd would fall in one of two categories: bonobos and great whites. The former just wanted to see skin, preferably with a strip show for entertainment. The sharks, on the other hand, wanted to see a bunch of terrified students, all reduced to tears after fumbling with their clothes. I resolved not to become their chum.

Many stutterers find it easier to sing than to speak; by analogy, stripping might be easier if I could move my hands to music. Reducing the difficulty became even more crucial after I saw the male bonobos crowd around Lily. The best selection I could make for my internal soundtrack on such short notice was a waltz from Coppélia.

I turned into an automaton, moving my hands and unbuttoning my blouse in three-quarter time. I decided to fold my blouse before depositing it in the box provided to reduce wrinkles. The imaginary orchestra’s real rhythm led me to undo the button and zipper on my slacks on the emphasized beats. I lowered my slacks to the same dance, inducing the sharks to move towards the newly arrived Ron Venturi. However, more students appeared to be moving towards me. I looked behind my shoulder in an attempt to discover the new attraction.

Sam’s arrival was causing the bonobos to return.

20. Sam

I should never have opened that book in bed. Because I kept making notes about it, and thinking what to make from it, I fell asleep later than I wanted to. Therefore, when I woke up, I barely had enough time to simmer the hydromel before placing it in the refrigerator and leaving for school.

I had about an hour to prepare for school, but tonight’s beverage needed thirty minutes of cooking before it reached the boiling point, so I had to start preparing it immediately. I also needed the food processor to prepare barley flour for the maza. With only an hour between cheer practice and supper, I wouldn’t be able to create something a more attractive bread, such as panis picens. As I was already in the kitchen, I decided to have breakfast – yogurt with blueberries, mixed with heated akitakomachi rice – before my morning grooming routine.

My parents came downstairs. “What’s the smell?” Mom asked.

“Hydromel.”

My father wondered, “What’s that?”

“A drink for tonight. It’s a non-alcoholic version of mulsum, using apple juice, honey, and water. I’ll strain it when I’m done cooking and put it in the refrigerator for the day.”

They nodded. They’re used to my preparing foods they’ve never heard of. Sometimes they even sample them.

“Don’t you thing you should have something more-” He searched for the right word. “More mainstream for Elizabeth tonight?”

“No, I think she might want something different than usual. If you want to prepare something for yourself, go ahead.”

“Doing some outreach, Sam?”

“No, not at all, Mom. I just thought I’d eat first, then shower.” I had been in such a hurry to cook that I hadn’t put any clothes on yet.

“Any progress with last night’s concerns?”

“I think I’ve patched things up with Bert. I don’t know about Elizabeth and her reluctance to be touched. I could ask some of the seniors on the football team to make requests, but she doesn’t seem like the sort who likes athletes, so there’s not much chance there, with the possible exception of Big Ben.”

My father asked, “Do they have to be football players?”

“No, but they have to be ultra-confident. I tried to discuss our history presentation on the phone with her last night. She came up with two ideas, and I had no idea what either of them was about. I think one was about changing religions, and the other was the relationship between Augustus and the Danube. She doesn’t set out to make you feel stupid. She does it just by being herself.”

“So that’s why you called her intimidating.”

“Yes. I can try to work with her, but she’s out of my league.”

We sat in silence at the table for a while, then I put my lunch together before going back upstairs and showering.

It feels odd to put on makeup when you know you’ll be naked all day. There are articles on how to balance makeup with clothes, but I don’t know how to adjust it to a lack of them. Does your lipstick have to match your nipples, for example? I found it easier to select something to wear to school. A short, simple sundress would work – just undo the zipper in the back and off it’ll go. Since the dress would be on for just a short time, I decided to skip underwear today.

When I reached school, I saw Elizabeth folding her slacks. I went up to her and said, “Good morning.” She just nodded while removing a simple black sports bra. No lace, no ruffles, no patterns, just a simple utilitarian undergarment. Her panties were the same in their utter lack of sexiness.

I could at least do something about all the students just looking at her. I opened my zipper and just let my dress fall to the ground. Observers could see I hadn’t worn any undergarments. Even though I drew attention away from her, she could only stumble her way out of her panties.

Heather Fitzwater’s arrival drew the other large group of students away from someone else. Since I didn’t recognize the boy, I was able to identify him as Ron. Because two of the three boys in the Program are on the football team, and I would recognize them, it had to be Ron. The students’ movement didn’t make much sense, for those who would find a naked Ron attractive probably don’t think the same of Heather. Anyway, her mother unloaded a wheelchair from the family van, then helped her out of the van and into the chair.

The sophomore wore a short blue dress with a zipper bisecting its front. She wheeled over to a box, then pulled the zipper the whole way down, exposing her lacy, sky-blue undergarments. She removed the straps of her dress from her shoulders, then went to unhook her bra, blushing as she did so. Some of the crowd just walked away then.

“Sam, could you come over here and help me?” Heather was supposed to strip by herself, since assistance was forbidden unless two program students were to strip each other in a sexual way. However, I moved towards her, and Elizabeth followed me. “Please lift me a bit and pull the panties down.” I had just grabbed the elastic when Mr. Fontaine interrupted me.

“Sam, Heather’s supposed to undress herself.”

Elizabeth responded, “In case you haven’t seen, it’s physically difficult for her to finish the job.”

“If that’s the case, Heather, we’ll have to postpone your participation in the Program.”

Heather enunciated with a stern voice, “Oh, no, you won’t. I am going to finish this week.”

“You’re under restrictions.”

“I am going to finish this week.”

Elizabeth asked, “Mr. Fontaine, you did say that one of the Program’s goals is to foster acceptance of sexuality.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you aware that the sexuality of women with disabilities is often denied or ignored?”

“Well...”

“You do realize that there are women who use wheelchairs for mobility?”

“Yes, but-”

“Would it be unfair to preemptively exclude them from the Program?”

“I suppose.”

“Also, wouldn’t it be beneficial to other students to become comfortable with the bodies and/or sexualities of those who do not fall within the definition of typical?”

“It would.”

“Are you familiar with the Americans with Disabilities Act?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Removing her from the Program due to a temporary disability, even though she wishes to continue participation, would be a violation of her rights under the act. Is that a reasonable statement?”

“I suppose you could make that argument.”

“Are you aware that her big toe is broken?”

“Yes.”

“She is supposed to keep her right foot elevated for the next few days. You do realize that it is easier for her to do that if she receives assistance in removing her panties. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

I was very impressed. That’s the naked yet confident Elizabeth whom Heather saw yesterday. I had underestimated her potential during my phone call with Heather last night.

“This assistance may be interpreted as being necessary for someone with a recently broken toe to participate in the Program.”

“It could.”

“Therefore, Heather should be permitted to retain in the Program, and any help in removing clothes below the waist should be considered permissible under any ADA-related adjustments to the Program rules. Neither of us wants to make a federal case out of this. Correct?

“Nobody wants another lawsuit.” I interpreted the principal’s statement as permission to slide Heather’s panties down her leg and over her air cast.

The defender of the broken-toed wasn’t quite finished. “You are aware that the way I usually carry my cello may be considered as concealment by some?”

Mr. Fontaine’s face reddened. “I am aware.”

“An alternate method of carrying the cello would result in my requiring more time to deliver it to the music room, thus resulting in my being late for homeroom. Because I would not have been delayed had it not been for your potentially illicit decision to remove Heather from the Program, would you please assist me in moving my cello?”

I was trying to stifle a laugh. From the way her stomach moved in and out while she kept her lips tightly closed, I suspected Heather felt the same way.

“I suppose.” Our principal picked up Elizabeth’s instrument while she slipped into the straps of her Frozen backpack. “Elizabeth, I swear you give me more headaches than the so-called problem students.”

“Face it. You wouldn’t want to trade me in for a so-called normal student, would you?”

“No. Most principals would love having a problem like you in their school.” The duo entered the building.

Heather motioned for me to come closer, so I lowered my head. She whispered, “It’s a pity that Elizabeth’s a girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if she were a boy, I’d jump his bones right now.”

“It’s a good thing, then. We wouldn’t want you two tumbling over and you getting another toe injury.”

Anyone driving by the entrance would have wondered why two naked girls were laughing hysterically.

21. Elizabeth

“Elizabeth, I swear you give me more headaches than the so-called problem students.” Mr. Fontaine had brought this one on himself by trying to push Heather Fitzwater out of the Program. Two students removed from the Program in two days for medical reasons may be a coincidence. After all, I don’t know what Bert’s condition was, so his excusal may have been legitimate. Heather’s wasn’t. Her sexuality shouldn’t be denied merely because she’ll be different for a while.

“Face it. You wouldn’t want to trade me in for a so-called normal student, would you?” Most of the students here either lack intellectual curiosity or try to hide it. Also, my championships have provided good publicity for the school district.

“No. Most principals would love having a problem like you in their schools.” We entered the building.

“Most teachers, too.” Sometimes they have difficulty creating assignments sufficiently challenging for me. Other times, I unsettle them by challenging their lecture material. However, I satisfy their stated wish for student involvement. “I think they need the type of challenge I offer. Otherwise, they’d be either bored or frustrated, depending on which students they had. How are you doing with the cello?”

“I’m wondering how I was talked into carrying it.”

“Here’s one possible clarification to the program rules. Any Program student who moves an object in a manner identical to that performed by a normally clothed student shall not be considered to be concealing his or her body.”

“If it means I don’t have to carry this cello again, I’ll consider it.”

“That’s why I thought your decision to remove Heather from the Program was unfair. Yes, she has to conceal her buttocks in the wheelchair, but that’s the nature of wheelchairs. Furthermore, the decision would not have been fair to Ron. Judging from yesterday’s afternoon quartet practice, he needs the support of a partner as much as I do.”

“I admit thinking solely of Heather was wrong.”

“I understand, though she’s the person you should apologize to. This must be a difficult week for you, too, since you’ve never administered the Program before.”

“We all have to adjust.” The music rooms had already been opened by Ms. Walter. “I’ll just leave the cello here. Just go to homeroom before you rope me into another task.”

I refused the odd request on the way to class. One of the students called me a prude in response. If the right people came along, I could agree to their requests. They just haven’t asked yet.

In homeroom, I listened to the announcements. While they contained nothing special, this morning’s conversation would be dominated by what was left unsaid.

On Friday, voting for the homecoming court took place. There are three princesses from twelfth grade, two from eleventh, and one each from tenth and ninth. The election returns have traditionally been announced on Tuesday morning, although which senior princess becomes queen remains a secret until the game itself. The lack of results indicated Mr. Fontaine had yet another difficulty to face.

This one wasn’t my responsibility. Lily had felt that the court shouldn’t be just princesses and escorts. After all these years, it might be time for a prince. Frank was her first choice, because she thought he’d be more willing than any other ninth-grade boy to participate. He accepted, since he’ll do anything for a laugh. However, their homeroom teacher refused to add his name to the official ballot.

Even though Lily was willing to end the drive with the refusal, Frank organized a write-in campaign. He convinced most of the ninth-graders on the JV football team to add his name to the ballot. Two soccer players, Sarah Bosch and Megan Thompson, were on the official ballot; they agreed to unite behind Frank in order to reduce the possibility of team infighting. Add in a handful of rebels who wanted to disrupt the pageantry, and Frank should have been a competitive candidate. If the three remaining candidates had split the vote, then Frank just might have won. This assumed that the write-in votes were official.

Mr. Fontaine and the student government representatives must not have decided whether to count these votes. Our principal would be in a tough position: accept Princess Frank or face a possible lawsuit. Frank doesn’t seem like the type of person to take a joke campaign that far, but Mr. Fontaine doesn’t seem like he’d take the risk of yet another lawsuit, either.

As the students flooded the hall on their way to first period, the homecoming court had replaced our nudity as the main topic of conversation. The upperclassmen knew something had happened, but they had no idea what. I overheard some candidates complain they wouldn’t have time to buy dresses if the princesses’ names weren’t announced today. Because of this consternation, I reached class without being faced with requests.

In history class, Mrs. Marinus wanted to cover the 166 years from the start of Tiberius’ reign to the end of Marcus Aurelius’ in a single class period. She had only made it fifty-five years to the rise of the Flavians when she was surprised.

Sam had raised her hand. “Mrs. Marinus? After the death of Nero and the Year of the Four Emperors, Rome could have just fallen into a lengthy civil war like the ones at the end of the Republic. Why was this war so short?”