Jake rounded the corner into the main courtyard and discovered that reality had decided to completely dismantle its own wardrobe.
The scene hit him with the force of a locomotive that had just discovered physics was optional.
Sunlight spilled over a sea of students—hundreds of them—all rendered in the original, unedited version of humanity.
It was a tableau of total, unvarnished exposure, as if the entire academy had been collectively abducted by a very avant-garde alien race that had a strange obsession with dermatology.
There were no uniforms, no fabric-based pretenses, and, most alarmingly, no apparent shame.
People were engaging in the mundane activities of campus life—reading, stretching, complaining about the curriculum—with a level of breezy indifference that suggested the sudden disappearance of trousers was merely a minor clerical change in the handbook.
A group of students near the fountain were engaged in a synchronized stretching routine, their bodies moving with a fluid, rhythmic quality that Jake found deeply distracting.
Nearby, a student was reclining on a bench, studying a textbook with the sort of intense focus one usually reserves for a high-stakes exam, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was currently offering a full anatomical presentation to the passing world.
Then, there was Mayuko.
She stood near the cafeteria steps, appearing as if she had been sculpted from marble and then politely asked to exist in public.
Her hair cascaded down her back, and her presence possessed that gravitational pull usually reserved for small moons or exceptionally good bakeries.
She was laughing at something, a motion that caused the laws of physics to perform a quiet, respectful bow.
Jake’s breath decided to exit his lungs and go on a permanent vacation.
The sight was, in a word, catastrophic.
She was there, she was real, and she was entirely unencumbered by the tyranny of cloth.
His body, lacking the social grace to handle such a development, immediately staged a mutiny.
The dormant adrenaline in his system surged, and his anatomy, perhaps sensing it was finally its time to shine, launched itself into a state of rigid, undeniable attention.
“Oh, that is remarkably unhelpful,” Jake wheezed, his eyes widening as he realized his current predicament was rapidly becoming public knowledge.
He scanned the courtyard with the frantic desperation of a man attempting to hide a nuclear device in a coat closet.
He spotted a massive, decorative potted palm near the Liberal Arts entrance.
He lunged toward it, adopting a hunched-over, crab-like gait that was intended to be subtle but was, in practice, merely suspicious.
He dove behind the foliage just as a group of students wandered past.
He pressed his back against the cool ceramic of the pot, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He looked down and was greeted by the sight of an erection that seemed to believe it was currently being launched into low-earth orbit.
Stay down, he pleaded with his own biology.
You are a treasonous appendage, and I am currently in the middle of a delicate geopolitical crisis.
He reached for a leaf to fan his overheating face, but as his hand neared the plant, a noise emerged from the greenery—a low, mechanical buzz that sounded remarkably like a declaration of war.
A wasp, clearly the self-appointed guardian of this botanical arrangement, launched itself at his nose.
Jake let out a sound that would have been better suited to a tea kettle in distress, flailed with the grace of a landed fish, and accidentally vaulted over a nearby hedge.
He landed in the middle of the path, his face achieving a shade of red usually reserved for volcanic eruptions.
He looked up to find an official-looking placard bolted to the brickwork, which read:
NO UNIFORM DAY: CAMPUS CONDUCT POLICY
1.
Total nudity is mandatory for all students.
2.
Respectful behavior is required at all times.
3.
AROUSAL IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE CORRECTION.
Jake’s jaw dropped so far it was practically in his shoes.
“Immediate…
correction?
Does that involve a ruler?
Or a very stern lecture involving visual aids?”
He scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the second-floor balcony, his lungs burning with the fire of a thousand suns.
He collapsed against the railing, feeling a momentary lapse in his terror.
Below him, the courtyard was a paradise of movement, a chaotic, unclad ballet of students completely oblivious to the fact that he was currently having a nervous breakdown of epic proportions.
But as he leaned over to observe the view, the ‘dangerous twitch’ returned with the enthusiasm of a long-lost relative.
The blood flow was, once again, moving in the wrong direction with terrifying speed.
Think of things that aren’t sexy, he hissed at himself, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated calculation.
Think of geometry.
Think of the concept of a tax audit.
Think of lukewarm, lumpy, unsalted porridge left out in the rain.
He gripped the railing until his knuckles turned a ghostly white.
“Three point one four one five nine,” he recited to the empty air, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to visualize a dumpster fire fueled entirely by gray, lukewarm cereal.
“Two six five three five.”
He needed the library.
He needed the sanctuary of the books.
He began to shuffle through the crowd, hunched over, moving with the distinct air of a man trying to apologize to the floor for existing.
“Excuse me.
Pardon me.
Sorry.
Just passing through with my internal crisis.”
Suddenly, the hallway fell into an oppressive silence.
A student monitor—a senior with eyes like flint and a laser pointer that looked far too much like a weapon—was walking down the hall, scanning the crowd for any signs of ‘disrespectful behavior.’
Jake’s heart hammered.
He was five feet away.
Eight nine seven nine!
Eight nine!
Stop looking at her legs!
Look at the porridge!
The gray, lumpy, depressing porridge!