A new class and new rules

“Good morning, Miss Chapell,” said the class representative, still standing, in a tone that merely mimicked politeness.

“Good morning. Sit down. That goes for all of you.”

The door slammed shut, harder than necessary. “Sit down,” said Victoria.

Twenty pupils did not obey immediately. A chair creaked deliberately. Someone dropped their bag.

A girl at the back said, “You’re new. You can’t shout at us like that.”

“I’m not shouting. I’m establishing order. On the first day. Anyone who doesn’t want that can leave. The corridor’s clear.”

No one left. Of course not. Victoria stood in front of the first row, not at the desk.

“One week. A crash course. You’ve failed the written exam. I’m here to get you through the oral. You don’t need my friendly face for that. You need discipline. Punctuality. Rules. Everyone sticks to them. Me too. Anyone who interrupts is speaking out against the course.”

“Rules from who?” shouted a boy. “From 1970? That’s ridiculous.”

“From the booklet lying on your desks. And from the agreement we’re making today. One week. No cheating. No being late. No ‘that doesn’t apply to me’.”

Sandra flicked the book open, too loudly.

“And what if the rules are nonsense?”

“Then they still apply as soon as we accept them. We’ll discuss the nonsense after the exam. Until then, attendance and participation are mandatory.”

“You can’t tell us what to do,” said another. “We’re of age.”

“That’s precisely why you can leave. You’re staying because you want the qualification. Anyone who stays must keep quiet when I give an instruction, or raise their hand. Talking back without raising your hand is disruption.”

Laughter. Brief. Mean-spirited.

“Disruption and excuses. Sounds like primary school.”

The class representative remained half-upright.

“And if we don’t sign?”

“Then you’re not in this course. No lessons. No exam. Get out.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can. That’s my job. One week of intensive study. Anyone who steps out of line has to leave.”

Five voices at once, jumbled, sharp:

“You’re showing off.”

“Discipline won’t get us a mark.”

“You’re not really going to sign it yourself, are you?”

“If the rules apply to you, we’ll laugh our heads off.”

Victoria took the pen, didn’t slam it down, but pressed it firmly onto the paper.

“Then watch this.”

She signed ostentatiously, turning the sheet towards the class, writing her name in large letters.

**Victoria Chapell.**

“Anyone who thinks this is a charade, leave. Anyone staying must sign their name below. Five of you want to argue. Fine. Argue it out. Then sign or get out.”

The argument grew loud. Victoria cut off each voice, one by one.

“The penalties are in the book. Anyone who accepts the agreement must also accept the penalties. And yes: if a rule is broken, the penalty applies to me too. There’s only one exception. If minors are involved. Then the other party gets one wish, provided it’s within the rules. I think it’s a good idea, which is why I’m signing first. So you can see that I won’t wriggle out of it when things get awkward.”

The five of them were still standing. Then one sat down, as if someone had taken his breath away. Then the next. The signatures came down hard, almost angrily, names like rubber stamps.

The rest followed, because nobody wanted to be the only one left standing by the door.

Sandra raised her hand. “And when do the rules come into effect?”

Victoria opened the booklet. The preface. The sentence that left no room for mercy.

“As it says here. From the very first minute.”

Sandra glanced at her watch.

The first minute was over.

Someone muttered: “So they’re already in force.”

She had directly challenged the class. She wasn’t going to make it as easy for them as she had in the last course. That was why the book lay open on the desk, visible, heavy, a threat made of paper. Sandra raised her hand.

“One question. How do the penalties work?”

“Anyone who notices an offence can speak up and point it out,” said Victoria. “Without fear of being penalised themselves. Those who speak up will not be punished for doing so.”

Sandra nodded. Her hand didn’t stay down for long.

“Then I’d like to report an offence. These five pupils have broken a rule.” She read aloud, clearly, without hesitation. “Anyone who speaks inappropriately, laughs or contradicts the teacher during a lesson, or raises their voice, must remove the topmost item of clothing as a sign of humility. Each subsequent offence costs the next item. After the last item, the body itself serves as a memorial until the end of the day.”

Victoria was taken aback. She didn’t recognise that passage like that. The sentence sounded like Maya and 1970 all at once. The five who’d been arguing turned pale.

But she’d signed up. Right from the very first minute.

“Yes,” said Victoria. “That’s right. Class representative. Please collect the top item of clothing from each of the five. Lock it away at the back of the cupboard. The items will be handed out tomorrow.”

He did so. Jackets. A hoodie. Five items in the cupboard. The five of them suddenly sat there looking smaller, not naked, just stripped of their pride. Victoria wanted to savour the victory and move on to the subject at hand.

“Today’s art class. We’re doing something modern. Take out your mobile phones. When I say so, you may photograph a subject. Then we’ll use materials to make a collage. At the end, you’ll describe the art form. We’ll exhibit the pieces on the final day and ask you questions about them in the exam.”

Sandra raised her hand again.

“One more question about the rules. If the rules apply to everyone, then surely they apply to you too?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Good. Then I’d like to report that you’ve broken the rules at least five times. You raised your voice. You spoke in a manner highly unbecoming of a teacher when you were arguing with the five pupils.”

The teacher felt a rush of heat and a chill. The class representative was already standing in front of her. Not grinning. Businesslike. His hand outstretched, as if waiting for a piece of fabric. Victoria knew she would be naked again. But she’d thought: not completely naked. And not today. Not after ten minutes.

Five items of clothing. Blazer. Skirt. Blouse. Bra. Knickers.

She reached for the blazer first. Her fingers trembled, only on the inside. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, heavy, expensive, her last uniform. She didn’t fold it. She handed it over. That alone was embarrassing: twenty pairs of eyes, and she’d taken the first step herself.

The skirt. The zip at the back got stuck. She had to twist her arms, her face flushing as she bent forwards and the blouse stretched tight. The skirt fell over her hips. The blouse was still long enough. For a breath.

‘Carry on,’ said Sandra quietly. ‘Five offences.’

The blouse. Button by button. Victoria felt how ridiculously thorough her hands were, as if care could lessen the shame. Beneath it, the bra: black, plain, no frills. The class was so silent that she could hear herself swallow.

She reached behind her back. The clasp. A sound, very faint, as the bra gave way and her breasts fell free, heavy, warm, her nipples already hard from the air and from being on display. She wanted to raise her arms but didn’t. A reminder. A contract.

Finally, the knickers. That was the worst part. Not because being naked was worse than being almost naked. But because pulling them down was a gesture that no one could mistake for a lesson. She slid the fabric over her hips, over her bottom, over her smooth pubic mound. The knickers landed in the class representative’s hand like a piece of evidence.

Not even ten minutes.

Victoria Chapell stood naked in front of her new class. Her breasts full, her waist narrow, her stomach restless. Beneath, her shaved slit, exposed, her labia visible because she wasn’t allowed to close her thighs without looking as though she were fleeing. Her bottom bare. Her cheeks burning. It felt to her as though every face was seeing not a teacher, but a woman who’d undressed herself because she’d been too loud.

She taught anyway.

Her voice came out hoarse.

Sandra again.

“But we can’t go out for a meal together like this, can we? Do we get a wish now?”

Victoria just nodded.

“Then I’d like you to model for us. Poses. For our art project.’

It couldn’t have been any more humiliating. She nodded again.

‘But no face.’

Everyone fetched their phones.

Sandra placed hers on the teacher’s desk, her handbag beside it, her hair swept over her shoulder, her head turned away. Forty poses. Forty instructions, polite yet relentless.

“Hands behind your head. Chest out.”

“Sit on the desk. Knees up. Next.”

“Bend down. Towards your shoes. Hold.”

“On all fours. Look at the blackboard.”

“On your back. Tuck your legs in. Spread them.”

“Bum towards the class. Back straight. Hold still.”

Victoria obeyed. Every pose was a minor execution in the name of art. The cameras clicked. Even without her face, there was still plenty to see: the curve of her chest, the dark hollow beneath her eye, the wet sheen between her lips that she didn’t want to explain; her open mouth in profile, because Sandra had said, ‘Breathe, don’t clench your teeth’; the hair that everyone at school would recognise; the bag with her initials; the desk where she’d signed her name.

Forty.

After that, the rest was like something out of a film.

They used the school printers. The paper reeked of toner. Collages sprang up on the walls: bare hips next to chalk, a back facing the blackboard, breasts behind a cropped contractual clause. Always faceless. Always with features that left no room for doubt. Had she not been naked, it would have been a really good piece of work. Composition. Repetition. Concept.

The worst picture hung above the door.

A large enlargement. Her mouth, open. Beneath it, tightly cropped, her pussy, the lips slightly parted. Next to it, even more tightly cropped, her arsehole, close-up, relentless—a detail Sandra called a ‘study of form’. Title in block capitals:

**EVERYTHING A MAN COULD WISH FOR.**

Victoria stood naked beneath it, the monument until the end of the day, and said only:

‘Describe the art form. Whoever hangs the picture also hangs the name beneath it. Not mine. Yours.’

Sandra smiled.

‘Conceptual art,’ she said. ‘And house rules. From the very first minute.’