Chapter 5: Tuesday Morning at School

Where the morning air met my skin, it was a sharp reminder of how exposed I really was. I hesitated at the front of the school, the weight of it pressing down on me, daring me to turn back. But there was no escape. Not from this. Not from The Program. Kids streamed past, glancing my way as I struggled out of my clothes and placed them in the metal box. I felt them watching, felt my pulse quicken with every look. It would be a week of this, a week of nothing but this, and the panic wound tighter in my chest.

I held my boots in one hand, the rest of my clothes in the other, and pushed through the doors. The halls seemed to swallow me up, the noise and heat of everyone already awake to the scandal of my nakedness. I forced my feet to keep moving, one in front of the other, trying to pretend there wasn’t a part of me that felt ready to bolt.

The commons was already packed, and I saw Becky sitting where we’d been yesterday. I hurried over, feeling the familiar sting of eyes on me. The noise hummed around the room, and I wondered if they were all talking about me, about what happened and what was coming. My heart thudded louder than the chatter, echoing inside my head.

“They’re talking about Alejandro,” Becky said without me asking, nodding towards the table that the crowd was gathering around. “Heard about what you did for him in Spanish class yesterday.”

“Is this what the entire week is going to be like?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“At least it’s not Marty.” Becky said, “He’s the worst.”

“That’s not much comfort,” I said, slouching into my chair.

“You’re going to be okay, Steph. I promise,” Becky said, her voice delicate like she was holding something fragile, not wanting to break it.

“I just want it to be done,” I said, wishing I could shrink down and disappear, just for a little while.

“You’re stronger than you think.” She smiled gently, the same look of encouragement I had seen on Dr. Hughes’ face. It almost made me believe them.

I fidgeted in my seat, cold plastic against bare skin, aware of every small shift and movement. I tried to focus on Becky’s trip to her family’s cabin, on anything that wasn’t the way I felt right now. But the hum of voices, the glances and whispers, kept pulling me back.

The monitor shouted for us to head to our classes. We got up and Becky gave me a quick, supportive squeeze on the arm, like she was trying to infuse me with her own strength. “Text me if you need anything,” she said.

I watched her disappear into the crowd, feeling more alone with every step she took away from me.

I barely made it on time to English. Mr. Wilson was already at the front of the room, ready to start. I set my backpack on the floor and sat down.

“Yesterday, you were all given time to finish your persuasive writing assignments,” Mr. Wilson said, his voice full of authority. “I expect every one of them turned in today.”

I looked around the room. Some students appeared concerned, but the majority seemed to have completed their work. I was convinced it would be the same as before, with only half the class done. I grabbed my Chromebook and opened the file I hadn’t yet completed.

“Did you hear what Steph did for Alejandro?” Melanie whispered to the girl next to her. “It was so gross. She licked it up and everything.” They both giggled.

I felt my cheeks go red, heat spreading like a wildfire from my face and creeping all the way down to my chest, marking me with its traitorous blush. I stared at my screen, willing my fingers to keep typing, to pretend I was too busy to hear Melanie and her friend. But it was impossible to ignore the sharp edge of their words, the way their laughter punctuated each sentence. I forced myself to focus, to find a rhythm in the clack of the keyboard, but every word they said seemed to wrap itself around me, clinging tighter with every attempt to shake it off.

The next half hour dragged on with the persistence of a slow-motion nightmare. I tried to write, my mind bouncing between fragments of thoughts, rewriting the same sentences over and over. The whispers seemed to multiply, surrounding me even when Melanie and the others went quiet. Was everyone laughing at me? Was everyone talking about it? I checked the clock. Barely any time had passed, and the minute hand taunted me with its sluggishness. My chest tightened with the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to finish, that this would be like everything else this week—a failure.

I looked around the room. Some of the students were shuffling in their seats, relaxed and done, while I was still frantically typing. My nakedness felt even more pronounced as I sat there, so far from being able to turn anything in, feeling like an exposed target for their amusement. The clicking of keys, the scratch of pens, it all seemed to go faster than the time itself. I had nothing but a half-written essay and a red face to show for it.

Then Mr. Wilson’s voice cut through my panic.

“I want my papers in by the end of class,” Mr. Wilson announced, breaking my concentration. I looked around. Most of the other students appeared finished, but I was still far from done.

The heat of the stares and the pressure of the deadline pushed me into a panic. Each glance felt like a blaze, igniting a firestorm under my skin that spread with a ferocity I couldn’t control. My fingers hovered above the keyboard, useless for several seconds as my thoughts scattered. I tried to pull them back together, to reel my mind in from the commotion surrounding me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to gather my thoughts. The whispers still fizzled at the edges of my consciousness, clawing into my focus. I needed to write. I needed to finish, to prove I could at least do this. I could feel the tears welling up, frustration and humiliation mixing as I forced myself to keep going, to keep working despite the chaos inside me. I typed faster, my fingers stumbling over the keys, the words barely making sense to me.

I was convinced that every sentence I managed to type was barely coherent, the empty spaces in my thoughts leaving gaping holes in the writing. How was I supposed to finish this? How was I supposed to finish anything when I couldn’t even think straight? The thrum of the classroom taunted me, a constant reminder of how behind I was, how exposed. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, aware of the way the movement exposed more of me to the room and brought more prickling stares.

Check the time. Write another sentence. Careful not to let the tears fall. It was a rhythm I couldn’t control, like my entire body was moving to its own discordant beat.

I focused on the screen again, trying to ignore the way my breath hitched and my heart raced, trying to block out the laughter that came from the other side of the room. It felt like I was typing in a foreign language, nothing making sense, nothing connecting.

The bell went off, and I was still typing. I hit save and submitted what I had, hoping it would be enough. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and tried to ignore the way Melanie smirked at me as I left the room. It was no use. Her smile burned like a brand. The hallway was already filling with bodies, and I slipped through as quickly as I could, the noise and heat closing in on me.

Algebra was next, and Ms. Henderson was waiting at the door, her eyes following me as I took my seat. I expected the comments, the mock surprise when I didn’t finish. But maybe The Program was enough of a show that it didn’t even matter.

I hoped for the distraction of numbers, of lessons that required more thinking than hearing the things said about me. I couldn’t tell which was worse: the laughter that exploded in my face or the whispers that hovered just out of reach. I set my backpack on the floor and tried to keep my mind from the inevitable.

“Nice of you to join us, Stephanie,” Ms. Henderson’s voice pulled me back to the classroom. She stared down at me. “Remember, if someone asks you to do something, they expect you to do it.”

I kept my eyes on my desk as she walked to the front of the room. I was sure someone would demand I do something, demand that I make a spectacle of myself again. I sat as still as I could, waiting for the first voice to ring out, but no one said anything. I wondered if they were still talking about the video, if that was distraction enough for now.

“We’ll continue where we left off yesterday,” Ms. Henderson said.

One of the students stated loudly “I think that Steph should stand for the Pledge of Allegiance today.” The rest of the class agreed.

“Get up, freak!” someone yelled from the back.

I stayed seated, looking around the room. Must they remind me every single day? I would have stood up on my own. I knew what was going to happen when the pledge came over the PA system. I was going to have another erection, and another erection for them meant another good laugh at my expense.

The speaker crackled on with the start of the pledge. I looked around. I was the only one on my feet. I placed my hand over my heart. I hoped if I was not thinking about my dick getting hard, it wouldn’t happen this time. I was wrong. I could feel it growing and rising. By the time I finished my class’ task, my dick was fully erect.

“Look!” the same voice from the back of the room shouted. “She loves America!”

I sat back down as quickly as I could. The attention was focused on my dick, but that’s the kind of attention I still wasn’t use to. I wasn’t used to any attention. I wanted to crawl under my desk, to shrink away into nothing. But there was no escaping it. I had chosen to be here, to do this, and now I had to endure.

The announcements started. I stared at my desk, trying to focus on the sound of the words and not the buzz that still lingered from everyone’s laughter. It was the same, the same, until the end.

“These have been your Sea announcements,” the student announcer said over the PA system. “Go Pirates!”

I heard the students around me muttering about it, some of them snickering. It wasn’t any different than yesterday, but it still cut into me.

The rest of the hour dragged on. I tried to focus as Ms. Henderson went through equations, her voice droning over the noise in my mind, over the chatter and the whispers. I had to get through it. I had to. That was the only option, the only way to survive. I forced myself to pay attention to the lesson, forced myself to tune out the murmurs and the laughter that seemed to follow me everywhere.

When the bell finally rang, I darted to the hallway, hoping to slip past unnoticed. The chaos of everyone switching classes surrounded me, but I kept my head down and pushed through.

Biology with Mr. Mason was next. Wanda was sitting near the front, just as naked as I was. I remembered what happened yesterday and felt a familiar dread settle in my stomach. I took my seat as the bell went off.

“Wanda, Steph, please return to the front of the class,” Mr. Mason instructed in a calm yet authoritative voice. Wanda and I exchanged a quick, nervous glance, our eyes mirroring the anxiety that churned in our stomachs. With hesitant steps, we made our way back to the front of the classroom, where he once more had us turn to face our peers, their eyes curious and expectant.

“Today, we will learn how to properly apply a condom,” Mr. Mason announced, holding up a small, square packet of Trojan condom for everyone to see. The shiny wrapper caught the fluorescent lights, reflecting it back like a mirror. “Wanda will demonstrate by putting it on Steph.” He handed the packet to Wanda, who took it with a slightly trembling hand. As I stood there, I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, acutely aware that my body had betrayed me; my erection stood firm, all four inches of it prominently on display. Why did this have to happen now, turning an already mortifying situation into something even more embarrassing?

Wanda hesitated, her fingers clumsy as she tore open the packet. She looked at me with a mix of apology and embarrassment, then back at the class. I tried to focus on the ceiling tiles, counting the little holes as if they might somehow save me from this.

With careful, deliberate movements, and under the scrutinizing gaze of every person in the room, Wanda began to roll the latex down the length of my penis. Mr. Mason’s instructions were precise and clinical, like a lab technician overseeing an experiment. The snugness made me flinch at Wanda’s touch, a spasmodic twitch that brought out snickers from the back of the room. A swell of nervous chatter rippled through the class as everyone watched, transfixed by the spectacle. My humiliation felt like a living thing, a beast clawing through my chest and into my throat. It was as though every whisper, every suppressed laugh, every wide-eyed stare fed that beast, urging it to consume me completely.