An innocuous bra-baring moment in front of fellow students.

Ever since meeting Jacob and the flabbergasting moment that you realized the two of you were dating you've been self-conscious. People have always told you that you were pretty, but they never looked at you the way they looked at other, like Cheryl Ryker, or Debbie Browder back in high school.

Realizing that a man like Jacob, rich and handsome, is probably used to having the very best looking woman fawning over him was a slap in the face. It prompted you to take a long hard look at yourself and every thing about you.

"You should get your eyebrows plucked," your room-mate Ann says, jotting it onto the list.

"What the hell is this?" Cindy, Ann's friend, says, holding up a pair of panties.

"Granny panties? Seriously? We're tossing your wardrobe, honey."

Your face immediately blushes as red as your hair - another item the girls put on the list.

"You look like one of those burrs that stick to people's underwear," Ann says. "The hair has to change."

"Underwear? Since when have you had a burr stuck to your underwear? When the hell have you had the chance to have a burr stuck to your underwear and why haven't you told me all about it?" Cindy demands, and the two start to squabble, leaving you to your mortification and feelings of inadequacy.

As is typical, the squabbling ends so abruptly it confuses you, especially since both eyes are suddenly focussed on you, and they even march over towards you. Realizing this you stiffen, but your resistance is too late.

"Off with the clothes," Ann demands, grabbing an arm and pulling on your sweater

"Grab her, she's bolting!" Cindy cries, grabbing your back.

"Leave me alone!" you cry out, fighting toward the door.

"You can't wear this, it has to go!" Ann declares, successfully wrenching one arm out of the sweater.

"It's hideous!" Cindy says, pulling out your other arm.

Your hand clenches on the doorknob, twists, and just as they pull the sweater above your head you pull the door open.

Whistles greet you as you stare out at the study area opposite your room. You gawk at them, then down at your bra-clad chest, feeling that familiar tomato-red skin-color overtake you again as for the first time outside of a locker room, and less than the tenth time even including that, someone sees you in a bra.

"Ain't she gorgeous?" Ann tells the crowd.

"Except that bra. It's got to go," Debbie says, and reaches for the clasp.

With a yelp you slam the door, drop to the floor in a ball, and stay that way until the girls give up.