Nude Day falls on the last day of every school year. Today is my first. I put on a brand-new pair of panties and my best bra so that whichever boy undresses me will see nice things. I go into the kitchen in my peasant blouse and retro pleated skirt, but I can’t eat.

The protest sign is so bulky that Mom drives me to Darwin High. I put it up near the main entrance, next to the clothes lockers. The other seven girls join me, and we huddle behind it. Soon, other students begin to arrive. Those that are already naked go directly into the school. The rest disrobe and lock their clothes up first.

There are a lot of nude couples, mostly upperclassmen. As one pair goes by, they are talking about the Exploratorium. I guess they were lucky enough in the school lottery to snag a time slot today. I’ve never been inside, but they say the Ex is the best place in school to make love because the principal put in real nice beds, and there’s a shower and all.

Of course, for legal reasons, a Federal Nudity Inspector monitors couples via closed circuit. But I’ve heard that the cam can be turned off if both students face it and clearly state their consent.

I know all five of the clothed and boisterous freshmen boys who are standing in front of our sign. They’re reading it, nudging each other, laughing, getting their courage up.

PROTEST!

WE ARE OPPOSED TO THE PRACTICE OF NUDE DAY; THEREFORE, WE WILL NOT TAKE OFF OUR CLOTHES. IN THE SPIRIT OF PASSIVE RESISTANCE, WE WILL ALLOW OTHERS TO REMOVE THEM, BUT WE ASK THAT YOU NOT SHAME YOURSELVES BY DOING THIS.

Of course, we pretty much know it isn’t going to work, but sometimes you protest just to make a point. Even in the unlikely event that the boys do leave us alone, sooner or later, we’ll have to undress ourselves. The law says anyone who doesn’t participate on Nude Day must repeat the whole school year. You’d never graduate! So that’s why, when we discussed how we were going to protest, we couldn’t go with Civil Disobedience.

So we went with the Gandhi thing. He believed that people of good conscience will desist from immoral behavior when gently shown the right path. Uh-huh. Teen boys. Girls to be stripped. Conscience. Looking at the boys, I know the whole protest is way lame. They probably think we are just teasing them.

The boys are rowdy now. They want to know why we think we are better than the other girls. We’re all wearing skirts as a sign of solidarity. Bruce orders us to pull them up so he can see if we are wearing anything underneath, and Dawn even starts to comply. Finally, Jason just walks around the sign and up to Marci, and as he unzips her skirt, he says, “I can do this, right?” She nods, terrified. He pops the button and pulls the skirt right off, and there she is in her panties, and all the boys are staring. And then he reaches forward and does something really naughty. I suppose Gandhi would not have slapped him, but Marci is not Gandhi.

Now the boys are surging forward, each picking a victim, but no one chooses me. Fingers fumble nervously with unfamiliar closures. Soon, five girls stand blushing in their underthings. The boys hesitate, momentarily awed. Do they feel shame? Jason again takes the lead. He kneels before Marci and slowly lowers her panties, inch by inch. She bites her lip and looks at the sky. The other boys crowd close, eyes burning. They speak indecorously. They turn on the remaining girls.

Some boys tear at panties and bras, while others, like Jason, prefer a slow, delicious unveiling. In the end, it does not matter. When all the girls are naked, the boys line them up and walk around them in a circle, comparing, I guess, whispering to each other, and laughing. Then each boy picks up his victim’s clothes and goes to a locker. They undress. Pitched clothing merges, panties entwine with boxers and briefs. When the boys turn around, the girls gasp. The ten of them enter the school.

The other two girls can’t stand the tension of waiting to be stripped. They go to the lockers, disrobe, and go inside. I’m all alone with my sign, and I know I can’t stay clothed long. More boys are coming up the walk all the time. I spot a tall boy just as he sees the sign.

I don’t know his name, but he’s a senior on the swim team. He’s showing a sense of humor by coming dressed in tighty-whities and nothing else. He has that nice swimmer’s build with broad shoulders and well-defined pecs, a tight stomach, a narrow waist, and a nice tan. As he reads our lame sign, he starts laughing, catches my eye, and winks. I’m laughing, too.

“I’m Bill.”

“Cassie.”

“Will you raise your arms to help me get it off?” His hands are already on my blouse.

“Sorry, no, I’m going to stick with the plan.”

“Then if I raise your arms, will you keep them up?” I nod.

He brings them up and lifts off the blouse as gently as if he were undressing a child. He reaches behind me and, with precise, experienced hands, unhooks my bra and draws it off easily, like it’s no big thing for him. Now my breasts tumble out into the sun, and there they are for all the world to see. He looks at them with a gentle smile, not staring, just enjoying himself. He looks in my eyes, too, but just for a second because I lower mine. He steps away for a moment to put my stuff in a locker.

But I need him back right away because coming up the walk, strutting bare and swinging obscenely from side to side, is that little snot Quentin Snow. Quentin is this rotten freshman who likes to talk dirty to girls. Plus, he has a mean streak. He thinks a girl will be turned on if he asks her stuff like, “Does she masturbate with one hand or two?” And then he wonders why no one will go out with him.

Yesterday, he stood in front of my locker and asked me my cup size. When I wouldn’t tell him, he laughed and held up his hands and said he was going to find out in person on Nude Day. Now, as Quentin approaches, his eyes are fixed on my chest. I’m glad I’m not bottomless yet. Bill comes back just in time. I whisper in his ear.

“Quick, put your hands on my breasts.”

Bill’s delighted, but not grabby. He puts his palms square on my nipples with his fingers spread lightly. Quentin stops dead. I smile sweetly at him.

“Sorry, Quentin, but Bill is feeling me up right now. Maybe later in the day, you can catch me and get that measurement.” (When pigs fly!)

Quentin is intimidated by Bill’s size. He mumbles something unintelligible and disappears into the school.

“Thank you! That little piece of trash has been after me all semester. Bill, I need to ask a big favor.”

“Sure, what?”

“I need you to stick with me all day to protect me from that rodent, and from some of the others, too.”