No It Gets Worse

Anna stood in the echoing, fluorescent-lit bathroom, clutching the mop in both hands. The orange safety vest, as thin as a hairnet and about as private, hung loosely from her shoulders. It barely reached the tops of her thighs in front and barely covered the upper curves of her backside, riding up even higher whenever she bent or twisted. The mesh was so porous that the lines of her breasts and the shadowed curves of her hips were visible right through the neon fabric. When she glanced down, Anna could see her bare stomach, the indent of her navel, and the smooth, pale line where the vest ended just above her shaved mound.

Every time she moved, the vest shifted, exposing more of her skin—her slim waist, the gentle swell of her hips, even a flash of underboob or the side of her chest if she stretched or twisted. The reflective yellow stripes caught the harsh light, making her feel even more spotlighted and on display.

Her legs were bare except for her knee-high white socks, now soaked to a muddy grey at the toes, and her black Mary Jane shoes splashed lightly with every anxious step. Her arms, shoulders, and sides were completely exposed; a cold current from the open window prickled goosebumps across her skin. The mesh chafed lightly over her nipples, which were plainly visible through the holes, and the thin strip of Velcro at the front hung open, providing no real closure at all.

Anna’s short brown hair was still damp, sticking to her cheeks and the sides of her neck. She felt the chill of the air as it slipped through the holes in the vest, caressing her back and sending involuntary shivers up her spine. Every little movement—stooping, stretching, wringing out the mop—made her freshly aware of what little she had left for modesty. She was acutely conscious of the way her shaved pubic mound and the subtle crease between her legs were shielded only by the suggestion of mesh. Any sudden shift or accidental tug, and even that would be gone.

When she looked up, her hazel eyes caught their reflection in the dull metal of the mop bucket, seeing herself as anyone else would: almost naked except for the ridiculous vest, her feet in sodden socks, her slim body on full display in the cruel, bright light. The vest was just a costume—an almost laughable pretense of clothing. Anna’s cheeks burned hot, her stomach twisting with humiliation and dread.

Each time the door creaked, her heart jumped into her throat, terrified another student or teacher would see her like this. The old janitor woman’s indifference only amplified the humiliation; she barely glanced at Anna as she came and went, ignoring her pleas for real clothing.

Alone again, Anna scrubbed, her knees flexing, the mesh vest riding up behind her with every reach—exposing more of her buttocks, the cool air touching places she’d never imagined she could reveal in public. There was no way to hide. Every new moment under the buzzing lights, Anna felt as if her last bit of dignity was draining away, drop by drop, through the holes in that wretched vest.