Second Day (Monday)

Dana

I arrived at school a half hour early for our mandatory “orientation” to the Program—and came prepared. I’d researched some strategies last year, after hearing some of Tara’s comments on her time as a Participant. On the way home from Meeting, I’d had Mom stop at the sporting goods store for supplies, and even figured out how to record audio on my school-issued tablet (I was still getting used to its quirks).

Because I first stopped at my locker, I went to the Program Office’s inside door. Tomorrow was time enough for the outside entrance—the one used by Participants, and only Participants, so they could undress in privacy and, more importantly, in warmth during the five months of the year that around here we call ‘winter.’ But sufficient unto that day is the evil thereof—till I actually got naked, I wasn’t officially a Naked In School Participant. As I reached the Office, the oogah! of a horn echoed from down the hall and a voice called out, “Wait for me-e-e!”

Mike Smith raced toward me in his wheelchair, faster than I’d ever seen him go. But then, I’d never seen him with a long empty hallway.

I grinned and held the door open for him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said as he smoothly cornered and slipped straight through the doorway faster than I would have dared.

I frowned as I followed him in. He parked himself in the only out-of-the-way open spot, in front of the outside entrance. “Wait,” I said as joined him, “won’t you need a ramp?” and I nodded at the door behind him. I had a suspicion that Mike was Jim Bridger High School’s first physically disabled Participant—certainly I hadn’t seen a wheelchair ramp there during opening ceremonies.

“One’s been installed,” said Ray Alverez, the Program Coordinator. A male coordinator—his first year at Bridger. He was, of course, naked already. I did my best to ignore this. That and the thick, dark hair on his arms and legs.

Mike raised one skeptical eyebrow—he’s one of those people who can do that. “Let me guess—this weekend?”

Alverez smiled wryly. “It was finished Friday afternoon, actually. Took half a day, once we knew.”

“Heh.”

So they really did pick participants at random and only shortly beforehand. Nice to hear there was some truth to the official story. I sat in the empty chair beside Mike, between him and Teri Florez. The three of us were in math together—this could be good. Teri and I were also in chemistry, and Mike and I also in history. Better and better, having classmates who could help each other. None of the other four, sitting across the room from us, were in any of my classes, though.

Still, I’d beaten the odds: if you pick 2 Participants from each grade, with an average of 250 students, taking 6 classes scheduled at random, the chances are any given Participant shares a class with just 1 other Participant. (Technically, it’s 1.4 classes with other Participants, which gives a most likely outcome of 1. Though of course, schedules aren’t random but tracked by subject and grade.)

Wait, only seven of us? I checked the clock—I’d almost been late myself. I glanced at the adults: Alverez looking us over—Principal Skinner and Vice-Principal Jackson talking quietly over a stapled printout. At least with Jackson here, there was one woman involved.

As we waited for the girl from, it looked like, the twelfth grade, I considered the others. Nerves and excitement, from all of us. Chip was buried deeper in his headphones than I’d ever seen him. Mike had folded his lean hands in his lap, trying to sit still. The worst was Teri, though, who did not look happy—and not just nerves: fear. Body issues, I wondered? She wasn’t either the tallest or heaviest girl in the school, but in combination, she had to be the largest. Not fat, though it was hard to be sure under her oversized flannel shirt—but at least well-padded. Zaftig, Aunt Kira once called it—she said it meant ‘juicy’ in Yiddish. Though with Teri that unhappy, she didn’t look at all juicy—quite the reverse: more like her spirit had dried up.

“Okay, people,” Skinner said aloud, “enough waiting for the tardy Ms Conners. Welcome to the Naked In School Program.”

With all of us quiet, Alverez took over—the same introduction to the Program rules we’d gotten at the opening assembly, the same as in the pamphlet handed out to everyone, the same (it sounded like) as his rote training. Naked thou shalt be when entering the school, and naked thou remainest even unto thy departure. No covering up allowed, no hiding, no panic attacks. By way of educating our peers about naked bodies, we’re required to be open to “reasonable requests” to examine ours between classes. By way of “relief” from our arousal, we’re allowed to get off at the start of class, either by ourselves or with volunteer assistance. Three infractions of the rules and repeat your week.

As he wrapped up the spiel and passed out towels for sitting on and cleaning up after relief, the door behind Mike opened, and a beautiful girl danced around his wheelchair—our missing twelfth-grader. I’d seen her as a cheerleader during the opening assembly, one of the few on stage whose smile seemed genuine. In person, she was even more attractive, if you’re into standard cheerleader curviness.

“Glad you could join us, Ms Conners,” Skinner said sarcastically.

Conners just shrugged, however, and sat down on the other side of Teri. “If you want me to be early, schedule a school bus that gets me here then. Besides, I told you in my reply when I’d arrive.”

“There are early bus routes,” Alverez said while Skinner and Jackson tapped their tablets a few times.

“Not out where I live,” Conners retorted. This is a large county—some of the outlying ranches are a good hour away from town.

Skinner frowned acidly at what he read. They hadn’t actually reviewed our acknowledgments?

“Gail, this still counts as a Program demerit—” Alverez began, but she interrupted, “You received notice I’d be late and said nothing—that makes it an excused tardy.”

“Ms Conners is correct,” Jackson said, and Skinner nodded with visible reluctance.

“Don’t worry,” Gail said, “I know the Program rules cold. On my head be it, if I mess up.”

Alverez pursed his lips but dropped it. “Any more questions?”

I raised my hand.

“Yes, uh, Dana?”

“Could we introduce ourselves, just so we know who we are?” The better to help each other: a name gives more connection than just a face—or an impersonal naked body. Which was, yes, also a delaying tactic—anything to keep from thinking about the tingling on my chest and the pressure in my hands and feet.

“Uh, yeah—good idea. Why don’t you start.”

“Dana Partlow,” I said, then looked to Mike.

“Uh, okay.” He had trouble meeting my eyes, and his short, dark hair was rumpled, adding to the flustered effect. The effect was kinda cute, actually. “Mike Smith.”

Across from us, “Chip Boozman.” I knew him from Bryant Middle School, in several of my classes. He’d grown over the summer but still half-hid his round face behind bangs swept across his eyes, and headphones around his neck. He looked as disgruntled as ever with the nonmusical world.

Next to him: “Marshall Taylor-Sloane.” I’d seen him leave the homeroom across from mine—so in tenth grade. Taller, almost as thin as Mike though not as long-faced, with reddish hair and a nervous habit of adjusting his glasses.

“Maria Bustamonte.” She had a trim but modest figure, skin slightly darker than Teri, and short hair bleached blonde in front and shaved close behind.

“Jake Lipton, senior.” An extremely tall and long-armed boy with swimmer’s muscles and beard-shadowed cheeks. He’d been grinning, in a pleased-with-himself way, the whole time.

“Ray Alverez, Program Coordinator.” A young man, possibly younger than my brother—just out of college if the rumors were right.

“Michelle Jackson, Vice-Principal.” A handsome black woman with gray hair cut close.

“James Skinner, Principal. As you know.” Middle-aged with a heavyset face lined from frowning, wearing a jacket and tie that almost matched.

“Gail Conners, senior.” Her dark eyebrows suggested the blonde hair wasn’t entirely natural, but her eyes were friendly enough.

“Teri Florez.” She paused, then added, “Tenth grade.” Dark eyes, strong nose, full but unhappy mouth. Her lack of makeup and minimal styling suggested the curling hair was natural.

“Excellent,” Alverez said. “Again, welcome to the Program. Anything else?”

Deep breath. If I could speak in Meeting, I could do this. This wasn’t nearly as frightening as yesterday. And yet, the still, small voice within pointed out, it’s still a compulsion to speak.

“Two more things,” I said. When Alverez nodded, I pulled a zipped plastic baggy from my backpack and stood. “First,” and I held up a hank of lanyards, each with a whistle on it. I untangled one and handed it to Teri, starting the other direction around the room. “Everybody, take one and wear it. If you have any problems, use it.” One for Gail next to her. “Call for help.” The next one was more tangled, halfway to knotted. “The moment you start to feel uncomfortable, reach for it. Have it in hand. Don’t let someone else grab it first.”

“We no longer use whistles,” Jackson said. “They were interfering with those of coaches and referees.”

“Nonetheless,” I said, “they aren’t forbidden.” I crossed in front of her to hand the next to Jake. To my fellow Participants, I said, “The fact our administration hasn’t gotten around to finding a better distress signal doesn’t mean we should compromise our safety.”

Alverez didn’t like that statement, but didn’t know how to respond. Skinner, though, had more history: “We stopped giving them out because we were having so few incidents in the Program.”

“If hardly anyone gets mumps, that doesn’t mean vaccines don’t do any good and should be stopped,” I replied. “It means vaccines work and should still be used.”

“Hear, hear,” Gail said. “Thanks, Dana.”

A mutter of agreement from a couple other Participants.

“Don’t forget,” I added. “You can also use them to call for backup when someone else is having problems.” Mike smiled as I handed him the last whistle.

Alverez said, “So if you’re done...?”

I shook my head. “Second,” I pulled out my other baggy and held it up. Inside were rubber wrist-bands in three colors: green, yellow, and red, more than enough of each for all eight of us. I pulled out one of each color. To the Participants, I said, “This is not sanctioned by our administration—”

“—Ms Partlow—” Skinner started to say, but I went on,

“—but they cannot forbid us from wearing them. These are consent markers for reasonable requests, and they’ve found, in states where they’re used, they help a lot. If you think that being touched is a reasonable request but you insist on being asked first, put on a yellow band.” I worked the yellow I had out over my left hand and adjusted it on my wrist. “If you think it’s reasonable enough that you don’t need to be asked, wear a green. And if you do not think being touched is reasonable, wear red.”

“Keep in mind,” Alverez said quickly, “that as long as it doesn’t include penetration or cause pain, most forms of touching are and have always been considered reasonable requests.”

I immediately added, “According to our administration. You, however, may think otherwise—and this is your choice, according to the pamphlet we just went over.” I held up the red band. “Wearing this is not a free pass to avoid touching—it’s a request to your fellow students, who may or may not chose to honor it. If someone insists anyway, our administration will back that person—but they also cannot prevent you from making your desires clear.”

Skinner cleared his throat, and I turned to him and said, “According to the Supreme Court.”

“Actually,” Alverez said, “Lopez vs Westport School District was a Ninth Circuit Court ruling.” Apparently this was covered in Program training—good.

“Which the Supreme Court declined to review,” I said, “thus upholding their decision.”

I turned to Mike, switching directions again, and held the baggy open for him to choose. He pulled out a yellow. So did Chip, Marshall, and Maria, but Jake took a green with a grin. He was tall and well-muscled enough, not to mention male, he probably felt completely unthreatened.

“I had hoped,” Skinner said, “that this opening week, we could avoid any problems.”

“Which is why these,” I said, holding up my whistle.

“If I could continue?” he said sharply.

As he informed us in triplicate that consent bracelets were not sanctioned by the school, I continued around—Gail chose yellow, and Teri red. I looked her in the eyes and nodded. Her choice—and I was going help her. She looked almost petrified, but nodded back. I caught the attention of Gail, next to her, and nodded at Teri’s bracelet. She glanced at it, then nodded to me. I looked pointedly at Teri, and with a guilty start, Gail looked at her instead. “We’re with you,” she said softly.

“All of us are,” I agreed.

I wasn’t sure Teri understood. Or maybe she just didn’t believe it would help.

Mike

“I think,” Principal Skinner said, “that we can all agree we’ve wasted enough time on this—time that could have been spent getting used to being naked in privacy.”

Not to mention time he could spend looking at our skinny asses. Heh.

Mr. Alverez heard this as his cue. “It is, indeed, time for everyone to officially start their week being Naked In School—by getting naked.” Nobody moved, and after a moment, he gestured for us to stand up and get it off.

Except me, of course.

“Chose a box and put your clothing inside,” Mr. Alverez went on, gesturing to the plastic bins on the half-height shelves behind him. “They will remain here under supervision all day, but we cannot guarantee the safety of valuables, so keep your phones and wallets with you.”

Jake Lipton and Gail Conners, our two seniors, started first—almost hurrying. Two high-status seniors, I might add: I was surprised to see them putting a cheerleader and swimming star through the Program now—wouldn’t want any distractions to put the almighty jocks off their games. Though, was it even swimming season now? So maybe this was the best time for Jake. And of course, a naked cheerleader never hurts football attendance.

The rest were slower, sometimes fumbling with clothing—especially the underclassmen boys, who were clearly nervous and out of their league.

Dana Partlow, on the other hand, simply unbuttoned her blouse—not hurried, not slow. As if undressing for bed by herself, or something. Combined with being the shortest one standing, thus closest to my height, it caught my eye. She caught my eye. Short but not slight. Beneath the blouse she wore a plain but sturdy white bra, holding remarkably large breasts. They were—

I closed my eyes. I didn’t want others to stare at me—so no staring at others. Stop watching. Just get naked.

“Take a few minutes,” Mr. Alverez said, “to get used to the feeling of air on your skin. Get used to being naked among others. Look at your fellow Participants.”

Yeah, right—it was easier to unfocus and look at no one. And just do it. I’d dressed simply—gray t-shirt, deck shoes, and blue track pants. The shirt was easy—over my head and off. Pants, not so much.

“Can I help?” Dana asked, leaning topless into my line-of-sight.

Whoa—tits.

Not that they were all that large—smaller than, say, Teri Florez’s, and probably Gail’s as well. But putting them on a body that petite made them look that much the larger. I made myself look at her face—straight brown hair, shoulder-length, swept across her forehead into a plain silver clip over her left ear. Steady blue eyes were her most distinguishing feature. It took me a moment of distraction before I could reply, and it was the guilt that made me stammer. Well, and maybe a little lust.

“Uh, y-yeah. Thanks.”

I stood on my hands on the chair-seat as she deftly pulled down my pants and boxers—not even getting my erection tangled in the process. Nice. Just as deftly, she folded my clothes and, when I held out my hands, gave them to me.

All without taking note of my erect dick, or my thin, wasted legs.

And then calmly she unzipped her skirt at the hip, stepped out of it one leg at a time, and folded it on top of her blouse on her chair. Plain white cotton panties, matching her bra. And beneath them, a natural bush—thin brown, like her hair, but clearly never even trimmed. I hadn’t known anyone still did that. Well, outside of hippie earthgirls. It was—interesting. Or at least caught my attention. Not that clothed, she was unattractive, despite her mousy hair.

I looked past her to Teri, naked and seated again, hands braced on her knees, staring at the floor. Talk about contrasts—Teri is more than 30cm taller and at least twice Dana’s weight. Not that she’s, yanno, fat—but she has a few extra kilos, in a well-padded sort of way. Sure, yeah, a roll on her tummy, but the padding’s all around, so she’s got curves. Give her twenty years, and I was pretty sure Dad would try hitting on her. Or even sooner. Talk about thoughts that needed brain bleach.

But now my dick really was hard. And I, of course, did nothing about it.

Instead, I put my clothes away. The bins were, naturally, above my shoulder—I had to take one down to pry open the top. When I finished, I found all three administrators watching me.

“I’ll clear up some space on a lower shelf for you,” Mr. Alverez said.

“Ah, thanks,” I said. Something about the gesture made me bold enough, even in the face of Mr. Skinner’s scowl at my consent bracelet, to hold up my wrist. “These consent bands? They’re the right thing to do.”

“Mr. Smith,” Mr. Skinner said.

“The Program claims to be about choice,” I said, turning back toward my place. “These are about choices.”

“Right on,” Jake Lipton said, holding out his fist in invitation. I reached up to bump it as I passed.

“Gloves,” I heard Skinner say behind me. “Mr. Smith?”

I stopped, popped a wheelie to spin around, and glanced at my fingerless black gloves. “Yes?”

“All clothing must come off,” Skinner said.

“Except protective equipment,” I countered. I reached around into my bag, hanging behind my chair, and pulled out my tablet.

“I’m afraid he’s right, Mike,” Alverez said. “Only what’s necessary for physical activities and sporting events.”

“The thing is,” I said, tapping through my emails—I’d made sure last night I still had my copy, “I asked Ms Wagner this two years ago, when I first started here, and she agreed: gloves are essential protection for the physical activity of,” I held the email up to them, “wheeling my chair.”

Skinner frowned. “I don’t think—”

Ms Jackson, of all people, held up her hand to stop him. “James, have you ever tried to brake a wheelchair with your bare hands?” Which made me wonder how she knew. She hadn’t looked that wobbly during chemo last year.

Frown turned to scowl, but Skinner said nothing.

“In that case,” Alverez said hesitantly, “I concur with my predecessor’s ruling. You may wear the gloves.”

I nodded my thanks, and spun back toward my parking spot. One of eight kids, buck naked together. Eight against the world—or at least, the world of the school. Eight of us, two from each class—

Wait a sec. I stopped in front of Dana. Teri was the sophomore girl, Gail the senior, and Maria, behind me, a junior like me. That meant—

Dana cocked her head in question.

“You’re a freshman,” I accused.

She looked me in the eyes in that disconcerting way of hers and said simply, “Yes.”

“But you’re in AP History with me,” I said. “And advanced algebra.” Both junior-level classes. Well, honors-track sophomores, aiming to take calculus their senior year, also took the latter—including, I suddenly remembered, Teri. But never freshers.

Dana shrugged lightly, but didn’t look away from my eyes. “I tested up.”

Dang, girl. Who are you?

“Wait—what?” Teri said beside her. “For reals?”

Dana turned to her and said, “Real as I’ll ever be.”

“If you’re that kind of bright, maybe we could study together,” I said. I can always use help in math. I’d be in the regular algebra class if my father hadn’t pushed me.

Dana smiled at me—her first real smile that morning. “I’d like that.” A smile of—of relief, I realized. She’d been worried of what I’d think of her—that I might think she’s full of herself. Which made me feel just a touch guilty: I kinda had, for just a moment. But anyone who could do what she’d just done, talking directly to us instead of administrators, even knowing it put her on Principal Skinner’s shit-list, clearly wasn’t conceited. Just very brave. Short and spunky. And, apparently, smart as well.

As I said: Dang.

“Ms Partlow,” Skinner said, gesturing her over, “if we could have a word.”

He did not look happy. And I, more fool me, had just put him into worse mood. Me and my big mouth.

I glanced around. Maria was feeling up the sophomore next to her, Marshall—a reasonable request, I assumed. He didn’t look quite as skinny naked as I expected, from the glasses. The emo freshman next to him, Chip, looked more disgusted than ever, whether over not getting handjob himself or having to ditch the cover of headphones, I couldn’t tell. Jake and Gail were all over each other—but what else would a jock and a cheerleader do? Teri just brooded in her chair, hands on her knees, a perfect picture of a black study.

So I watched Skinner dressing down Dana. He kept his voice low, but I did hear Dana say, “If I wanted to be disruptive, I would have done in secret, not here.”

Yeah, right—doing it here was a direct challenge. Not the sort our take-charge principal likes.

But then the bell rang, ending homeroom. Time to get out there and strut our stuff—or in my case, roll it. For whatever good that would do. As we collectively gathered up our stuff, Dana called out, “Everyone? Gather together,” and gestured us Nakeds into the center of the room. She took my and Teri’s hands in hers, and I got Maria’s on my other side. When we were all in a huddle, she looked around the circle, catching everyone’s eyes in turn.

Not only not afraid of school administration but willing, as a freshman, to take charge over upperclassmen.

“We can do this,” Dana said. “We can do this together.”

“It’s just nudity,” Maria said, squeezing my hand. As if trying to convince herself.

“Even if it’s just nudity,” Dana said, “we can do it.”

Teri gulped audibly.

“Yeah,” Jake said, and the rest of us agreed.

“Let’s go,” Dana said.

We dropped hands and headed out.

Teri

We filed out of the Program Office into the usual mob—the one that Dana’s little pep-talk had given enough time to gather. And front and center, of course, prowled jocks ready to rip into the first fresh meat of the new year. With my brother and sister right there at the head of their packs.

Talk about fucked.

It took like two seconds for The Word to get used. “Oh my gawd,” a boy called out, “get a load of the fat chick.” Followed by laughter.

I had known it was going to happen. Knew it. My face burned anyway. I had to move, head to class. Barrel through, blend in, and try to ignore it all. But I froze.

I felt someone step up beside me. Someone small and naked—Dana Partlow. She just stood there to my right, looking back at the jokers and the fuckers with a steady gaze. As if she didn’t care these wolves could tear her in pieces without half trying. And don’t you know, it actually gave them pause.

Somehow, that courage gave me hope. Maybe I could get through this. Just this one week.

“Teri!” someone cried. My sister.

My heart shrank again to a cold cinder.

Sam pushed through the clot of football players, followed by one of her basketball cronies. “What you are doing here?”

I couldn’t help it—I rolled my eyes. “Waiting for a bus. Duh.”

Ricky joined her. “You didn’t tell us,” he accused.

I looked down at him—he’s still a couple centimeters shorter than me. “You didn’t ask.”

Sam broke into a grin. “Oh girl, you are going to have fun.” She turned to the jocks behind her and waved her hands. “Hey guys! This is my sister in the Program. You guys are going to show her a good time, right?”

Oh hell no.

Ricky turned to his teammates. “Got that?”

Oh. Fuck.

A chorus of “All right!” and “Yeah!”

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. The complete and total opposite of escaping under the radar.

Jocks being, of course, too precious to even consider controlling themselves. They think the point of the Program is getting their jollies—on the Naked People. And my own dear unprecious siblings had just told all their friends to fucking molest me left, right, and center, whether I wanted it or not. And the first one, one of Ricky’s guys, was already stepping up, hands reaching for my boobs.

“Excuse me!” Dana said, holding her wrist-band up in front of him. Stopping him before he could grope me. “Do you know what this means?”

“Huh?” the guy said.

“What?” Sam said, looking at it. “They don’t allow those here.”

“They cannot forbid them,” Dana said. As if she didn’t care that she, a freshman, was telling off a senior.

“Ugh—what-ever,” Sam said.

Dana shook her head. “What color is your sister wearing?”

“Huh?” Sam finally looked at my wrist. “Get out of here! No way—you,” she told me, “are going to town this week.”

Before I could panic out loud, Dana asked, “Are you ignoring the wishes of your own sister?”

Sam looked at Dana again—finally really seeing her, in that way she never did with me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who respects the desires of my fellow students,” Dana said simply.

Sam and Ricky just stared at Dana as if she was a polka-dotted alien reciting Edgar Allan Poe to bongo drums. Somewhere down the hall, Mike Smith’s horn went oogah-oogah!

Dana took my hand and pulled me back, out of their immediate range—over to Jake Lipton, still hanging around the Program Office door and joking, of all fucked-up things, with some basketball players. She tapped his arm and got him to bend down so she could speak over the hubbub—the tallest kid in the school leaning over one of the shortest. “Could you get everyone’s attention?”

He grinned, straightened way up, and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Yo! Listen up!”

“Mr. Lipton!” Principal Skinner barked, and I all but winced.

But just like Dana, Jake ignored that and waved his arms, “Guys! Yo! Announcement!”

Dana took a deep breath, then whispered to herself, “Here goes nothing.” Then to both Jake and me, “Give me a boost, please? I’m too short for this.”

Jake pulled her up, and a moment later, he had her right heel propped on his hip and I found myself holding her left foot—trying not to think about just how light she was, how delicate. Nor about her naked ass resting on my shoulder, nor the bare, warm thigh pressing on my naked breast. Dana held out her wrist-band at the crowd, and sent her voice ringing clearly through suddenly quieter hall:

“This is a reasonable request consent bracelet. All Naked In School Participants have one. Yellow like this means the wearer agrees that touching is a reasonable request but only if you ask first. Green,” and she tapped Jake to hold up his, “means you don’t have to ask. Red,” and she gestured for me to hold up mine, “means the person would prefer not to be touched—at all. We ask that everybody honor these bracelets, in the interest of making the Program work for all of us.”

The crowd muttered—possibly more in favor than against, wonder of wonders.

“Come on, guys,” Gail called out from somewhere to our left. “Let’s do this right!” Followed by a few ragged cheers from, I guess, other cheerleaders.

Dana went on, “We’re asking everyone, especially those with any influence,” and she was looking at the jocks, including Sam and Ricky, “to pass the word—and to help others honor what they mean.”

As if it would do any good. My siblings didn’t give a rat’s ass about what a freshman like Dana, especially one who didn’t do sports, wanted them to do.

And then the bell rang, starting first period. Making me already late—but, hallelujah, closing the window on unreasonable requests.

Well, it wasn’t as if I wanted relief.

Mike

I arrived late to first period, what with the usual Monday mob outside the Program Office waiting to see who’d come streaking out, or at least come out streaking. It wasn’t because anyone bothered me, though—it’s just with my wheel-base, I don’t exactly slip through a crowd. I had to honk three times.

It wasn’t till I got through the classroom door, near the end of the five-minute relief/grace period for Nakeds, that anyone actually noticed I was naked.