The First Layer

The leotard clings to me like a second skin, damp with sweat and shame. Around the studio, the others strip without ceremony—fabric hitting the floor, laughter bouncing off mirrors. I count the cracks in the linoleum. Three vertical, one jagged. This is Nudity Acclimatization 101, where people come to shed more than clothes.

My phone buzzes in my bag. Mom’s third text today: “Call me. We need to talk about this ... choice of yours.” I silence it. Dad’s voicemail from yesterday plays in my head: “Your mother’s crying at church group. What will people say?” My younger brother, Ethan, is the only one who texts without judgment: “Sis, you do you. But maybe warn me before you show up naked to Sunday dinner.”

At work, my desk is a fortress of cardigans. I’m a junior archivist at Hartwell & Sons, a firm older than the documents we preserve. My boss, Mrs. Peabody, peers over her bifocals whenever I adjust my turtleneck. “Professionalism is about presentation, Clara,” she sniffed last week. She doesn’t know about the registration yet. No one does—except Lila.

Lila, who’s peeling off her leotard now like its tissue paper. “For my fiancé,” she’d announced on day one, as if nudity were a romantic gesture. I envy her certainty. My fiancé, Mark, left six months ago. “I can’t fix what you hate about yourself,” he’d said. Neither could I.

Eleven Months Earlier
the registration office smelled like antiseptic and regret. I’d lied to my roommate, Jess, about where I was going. “Dentist appointment,” I’d said. She nodded, scrolling through her nursing school notes. Jess knows me better than anyone—knows I’ve worn long sleeves in July since we were teens—but even she doesn’t know about the mirror I keep facing the wall.

Eight Months Earlier
First class. First panic attack. I’d hyperventilated into a yoga mat while Mara, our instructor, lectured about “skin as social currency.” Lila brought me peppermint tea afterward. “You’re like a feral cat,” she said. “All claws and no trust.” I hated her for being right.

That night, Jess cornered me. “You’re hiding something. Is it drugs? A cult?” When I showed her the registration papers, she stared like I’d handed her a suicide note. “Clara, this is ... extreme. Why not try therapy?”
“Therapy won’t erase my skin.”
“It might help you stop seeing it as a crime scene.”

Five Months Earlier
Mrs. Peabody calls me into her office. “The partners are updating the dress code,” she says, gesturing to my turtleneck. “No more ‘excessive layers.’ Health hazard with the paper shredders.” I imagine confessing: “In 148 days, I’ll be naked permanently.” Instead, I nod.

At dinner, Mom weeps into her lasagna. “Your grandmother didn’t survive breast cancer for you to ... to flaunt yourself.” Dad’s knife screeches against his plate. “We didn’t raise you to be selfish.” Ethan kicks me under the table. “Pass the potatoes, Exhibitionist Extraordinaire?”

Two Months Earlier
Mara forces us into mirror pairs. Lila stands behind me, her chin hooked over my shoulder. “Your hips,” she says, tracing the air, “they’re like cello curves. Strong.” I see only saddlebags. “And these?” She points to my stretch marks. “Lightning strikes. You survived something.” That night, I cried in the shower. Survived myself, maybe.

Jess leaves a robe outside the bathroom. “You’re not broken,” she says through the door.

Today
the leotard pools at my ankles. My breath stutters, but I don’t faint. Don’t run. Lila catches my eye and winks. Jacks, the guy with the drug sentence, rolls his shoulders, his new registration tattoo—a thrones vine circling his bicep—still raw. Mara nods at me, a silent well done.

The air feels different today. Sharper. Or maybe I’m just softer.

The Unstitching

Three Weeks until Registration
Lila drags me to a “Bare Pride” march. Thousands of naked bodies flood the streets, drumbeats thrumming through asphalt. A woman with a colostomy bag hands me a sign: “This Body Survived.” I hold it like a shield. “You don’t have to believe it,” Lila shouts over the noise. “Just hold space for the possibility.”

At work, Mrs. Peabody corners me. “HR received a complaint. Someone saw you ... undressed at that rally.” My stomach drops. “It’s legal,” I say. “Not here,” she snaps. “We have a reputation.”

Jess helps me draft an email to HR. “Discrimination based on registration status is illegal,” she recites from the Legal Aid handbook. “Since when are you a lawyer?” I ask. “Since you decided to be a nudist,” she smirks.

One Week Earlier
Jacks misses class. When he returns, the vine tattoo is infected. “They make you pay extra for anesthetic,” he spits. That night, I dream of my skin peeled back, muscles and veins pulsing. I wake up naked, my sheets damp. I realized I forgot to dress after showering.

Ethan texts: “Mom’s telling Aunt Linda you have a skin condition. Want me to leak the truth?”

Yesterday
Mara pairs me with a new student—a girl, barely 18, her leotard sequined and trembling. “For work,” she whispers. The club where she dances mandates nudity permits. I take her hand, my palm slick. “It’s just skin,” I say, borrowing Mara’s words. They sound less hollow now.

Birthday Morning
Lila arrives at dawn with a suitcase. “Funeral for your armor,” she declares, dumping my hoodies into a bonfire. Jess tosses in a scarf. “Burn the evidence,” she grins. Jack arrives uninvited, chucks in a sock. “For symmetry,” he deadpans. The flames devour the fabric, and I laugh until I cry.

Registration Office – 3:07 PM
the clerk’s pen hovers. “Last chance to revoke.” My file photo glares back—a girl drowning in a sweater. I think of the new student’s clammy hand, of Jab’s feverish tattoo, of Lila’s stupid “cello curves.”

“Proceed,” I say.

The stamp thuds. Permanent. Nude. Registered.

Walking Home
Sunlight needles my bare shoulders. I count my breaths. In the seamstress who tailored my shame. Out: the girl who burned her armor.

A passerby stares. I stare back.

The Nerve Endings

One Month Later
Mrs. Peabody “transfers” me to the basement digitization lab. “Fewer client interactions,” she says. My coworkers—mostly temps—avoid eye contact. Except Raj, the IT guy, who brings me coffee. “Heard you’re the reason Peabody updated the firewall. Too scandalous for the upstairs printer.”

Lila sends a selfie from her honeymoon, all tan lines and grin. “Miss you, Cello Hips!”

At family dinner, Mom serves roast chicken in silence. Dad finally speaks: “Your brother’s girlfriend thinks you’re brave.” Ethan chokes on his wine. “She’s a theatre major. Take it with a grain of salt.”

Today’s Class
the new girl—Clara—removes her leotard without crying. I kneel beside her. “Your collarbones,” I say, “they’re like wings.” She blushes. Mara smiles.

I touch my ribs, the ones I used to bind. They’re just ribs. Not a cage. Not anymore.

The studio mirrors reflect a woman, flawed and fleshy and free.

I don’t look away.

The Anatomy of Resistance

Three Months Later

The basement hums with the sound of scanners devouring centuries-old ledgers. Raj leans against the doorframe, holding two coffees. “Peabody’s upstairs arguing with HR about ‘morale.’ Someone printed a nude Renaissance statue for the lobby exhibit.” He grins. “Guess who she blamed?”

I sip the coffee—black, too sweet, just how he knows I hate it. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re a terrible influence.” He nods at the box of my archived sweaters gathering dust in the corner. “Still think nudity is the weirdest thing down here? Harold in Accounting wears socks with sandals.”

Mom texts: “Aunt Carol’s 60th is Saturday. Please wear something.”