Community service

"Four hundred hours of community service. To be served immediately." The judge’s eyes gleamed. "And since you seem so comfortable without clothes, you’ll perform them just as you are now."

My stomach dropped. "You can’t be serious—"

"Oh, I assure you, I am." The judge nodded to a bailiff. "Escort her back to her cell. She's got a long day ahead of her."

A few weeks into my sentence, and already this town had wrung every last shred of dignity I never thought I’d miss.

Most of the time I was cleaning Pedro's manor, under the stern supervision of his strict housekeeper, Mrs Vasquez, who was quick to spank me with a wooden spoon if I so much as moved the duster at the wrong angle.

Other times I was a barmaid at the Rusty Trout, which had a strict “dollar-dance” policy—every time a tip hit the jar, I had to dance a merry jig, or pose for photographs. It hadn't been thirty minutes into my first shift before the bartender congratulated me on earning $400 worth of tips so quickly, like it was a world record I should be proud of.

Other times, I was stationed at the dunk tank on the Pier, smack-dab in the middle of the boardwalk where every tourist, toddler, and local drunk could take a shot at drenching my bare body. To their credit, they actually put in effort on that machine, though it did mean that the long intervals between being dunked meant I never got used to the frigid cold water.

There was even one time when I was set up as a sushi girl to promote a discount at the local fishmongers, with the fish rolls strategically placed so as to expose my intimates instead of covering them (The fishermen and their wives seemed the most satisfied with that punishment).

But at least those jobs were limited to the one location. Trash picking was the worst assignment, as it always took me on a full tour of the town. The reacher-grabber tool was a joke. A flimsy metal claw on a stick, barely strong enough to pinch a soda can, let alone scoop up the greasy fast-food wrappers and cigarette butts littering the sidewalk. Every time I squeezed the handle, the mechanism groaned like it was seconds from snapping.

The cop shadowing me—Officer Nichols—had the gall to lean against a lamppost, arms crossed, smirking as I worked. She didn’t lift a finger to stop the tourists gawking, the phones flashing, the kids pointing and giggling as I bent over for the umpteenth time to snag a crumpled napkin. My bare ass was practically a local landmark at this point.

"Hey, aren’t you that activist from the pier?" A woman in a sunhat and floral dress nudged her husband, who was too busy adjusting his camera zoom to answer. "You were so brave, standing up for those fish!"

I clenched my jaw and stabbed the grabber at a burger bag. "Mmm-hmm."

"Can we get a selfie? For my niece—she’s super into nature conservation!"

Nichols snorted but didn’t intervene. The couple shuffled closer, the husband’s elbow brushing my ribs as he angled the phone.

"Smile!" the woman chirped.

I didn’t. The flash went off anyway.

The do-gooders were always the worst, patting my arm like I was some noble martyr, then walking away without offering so much as a spare T-shirt. If this was how people treated social activism, then no wonder the Queen had resorted to such ****- no, screw that. I'm not excusing that bitch.

A group of teenagers loitering outside the arcade started a slow clap as I moved down the block. One of them lobbed a half-empty soda cup at my feet.

I flipped them off, and tried to ignore their hollering as I bent over to pick it up. Perhaps I spoke too soon. At least the sympathizers didn't make extra work for me.

Nichols checked her watch. "Two more blocks, García. Try not to start a riot."

A toddler pointed at me. "Mommy, why’s that lady naked?"

"Because," her mother said, steering him away, "some people don’t know how to behave in public."

I hurled a wadded-up chip bag into my sack with more **** than necessary.

My one consolation? When this was over, the Queen would be enduring tenfold what I had endured. I wasn't her patsy, I was Laura Goddamn Garcia, and she was going to regret making a nemesis out of me.