Strictly Nude Dancing

Strictly Nude Dancing 3

[10,738 words]

* * * * *
This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

* * * * *

Strictly nude dancing chapter 3

By Firefish

Note by Andrey: This chapter was inspired by my Strictly nude dancing story chapter 1 and shared with me by another writer who gave his permission to share it with you under my profile. If you like it, feel free to give shout out to Firefish through my email and I will pass it on to him

Bobby's breath came in ragged gasps, each exhalation catching in his throat as he stood backstage, as bare as a newborn. His nakedness felt sharp and violent against the dark shadows that swayed with the motion of the stage lights. Goosebumps pimpled his pale skin. In the auditorium, women of various ages leaned forward in their seats, eager for the performance to begin. Mrs. Connelly, resplendent in the front row, smiled with calm expectation. Bobby's dance partner, Emma, approached him gently, her gloved hand touching his trembling shoulder. He flinched away from her as if her reassurance were a blow. Her tutu was pristine. The stage manager jabbed a finger in their direction: next up. The gesture cleaved Bobby's chest in two, and his mind stuttered over how exposed he was, how he was meant to dance like this, his thin arms trying to hide what could not be hidden.

He peered through the thick curtain, the lights so bright they hurt his eyes, making his nudity feel even more acute, a raw wound against the fabric's soft darkness. Rows of women filled the auditorium, their faces intent, their hands clutching programs. Their collective presence pressed in on him, a suffocating tide of expectation. Mrs. Connelly sat poised, her long, elegant neck rising from the emerald silk of her gown. She seemed almost regal, her face fixed in a satisfied smile, as if his suffering were a mere prologue to the night's entertainment. Bobby's stomach flipped at the thought of them all watching him, seeing him like this, every flaw exposed. His thin arms wrapped around his torso in a futile attempt to protect what was already laid bare.

The air felt heavy and close. Bobby's ribs rose and fell with each shallow breath. He imagined the moment they stepped onstage, the sound of laughter and derision crashing over him. He could see the scene so clearly: Emma poised and elegant, her tutu a froth of perfection, and himself beside her, a scarecrow figure shivering under the lights.

Emma's voice was soft, a gentle caress against the hardness of his panic. "We can do this, Bobby," she said, her words threading through the thick fog of his fear. She stood there, unflinching, her costume gleaming with promise and certainty. It was as if she didn't understand the violence of what they asked him to do, to be exposed in this way, to perform in a state so raw and unfinished. The perfection of her outfit only heightened his sense of being undone, a work half-completed, thrust into the world too soon.

The stage manager's hand was a quick, impatient cut through the air, a reminder that the world waited, that their moment was upon them. It should have been exhilarating—a young dancer's dream of taking the stage at the year's biggest gala—but Bobby felt only the dry panic of his lungs and the weak fluttering of his heart. His mind slipped in and out of focus, caught between the physical reality of his nudity and the distant, impossible idea of dancing like this.

"Just breathe," Emma whispered, but her voice was a distant echo, and Bobby felt trapped in a glass cage, his breath fogging up the sides. The long shadow of Mrs. Connelly's expectations stretched toward him, an insistent reminder of the school's rules, the commitment he had made, the absurd bargain he couldn't quite believe he had agreed to. This was supposed to be an honor. Instead, it felt like a punishment, the harshest kind of spotlight.

The long moments stretched and bent, each second expanding until time itself seemed to throb with the pulse of his fear. He could see the flicker of impatience on the stage manager's face, the barely suppressed sighs of others waiting in the wings. His humiliation grew, swelling inside him until he thought it might crack him open. Every part of his body screamed to be covered, every instinct fought against what he was being asked to do. Yet he stood, naked, trembling, and inching forward toward the light.

Emma reached for his hand, her voice a thread connecting them in the growing silence. "Together, Bobby," she said, and the word hung between them, fragile as spun glass. His muscles locked and unlocked, joints unsure whether to bend or flee, but he followed her lead, stepping into the abyss of his own humiliation.

The brightness seemed to burst inside his head, filling him up with noise and light. He caught another glimpse of the audience, imagined them seeing him, seeing everything. It was too late to turn back. Each step forward felt like walking into a burning, exposing fire. The applause greeted them, tepid and curious. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. All that existed was the thin barrier between himself and them, and the terrible weight of knowing that any moment now, that barrier would disappear.

The stage was an alien landscape under the bright, unyielding lights. Bobby squinted against the brilliance, his body feeling foreign and exposed, a thin, strange thing amid Emma's confidence and grace. They walked into an unexpected hush. The polite applause gave way to gasps, murmurs, a woman's soft, shocked laughter. Bobby fought the urge to cover himself, every instinct pulling him toward shelter that did not exist. His feet were blocks of lead. He struggled to find his place, to even remember where the dance was meant to begin. The music was supposed to help, to ground him. He heard the first strains, but they sounded distant, dreamlike, as if coming from underwater. His mind was blank. Emma was speaking to him, words coming as a faint echo. He blinked at her, and her lips moved again. "Focus on me, not them," she seemed to say, but all Bobby could see was the burning lamp of the spotlight, the judging eyes of the crowd. His body stumbled against itself, a nervous twitch, then slowly, painfully, began to move.

The voices from the auditorium seeped into his consciousness, each whisper a needle against his fragile resolve. "He's just a child," he heard, and "Where are his clothes?" Bobby's cheeks flushed with the sharp heat of shame, his arms pulling instinctively across his body before he forced them back to position. It was a fight with himself, an awkward wrestling match between the desire to hide and the need to continue. Emma moved smoothly beside him, her form perfect, the lines of her body cutting through the air with practiced ease. Bobby willed himself to remember the steps, to let the hours of rehearsal replace the uncertainty in his limbs.

The music floated around him, wrapping him in a fog that refused to clear. Each note slipped away just as he reached for it, a distant echo in a vast, indifferent hall. He was outside himself, watching his own failure from a place above and beyond. The spotlight bore down like an unblinking eye, casting long shadows that danced more gracefully than he could. He stumbled again, his bare feet skidding against the slick stage.

Emma's voice pulled him back, a slender thread tying him to reality. "Focus on me, not them," she repeated, and her words found their way through the din, settling into the rhythm of his heart. Her eyes met his, a steady, unjudging presence in the sea of uncertainty. Bobby blinked the sweat from his eyes, the humiliation from his mind. He took a breath that felt like a beginning and pushed away the thoughts that clawed at his edges.

The first movements came haltingly, his body jerking into action with the awkwardness of a marionette. But beneath the chaos, something began to stir. Bobby forced his focus inward, into the tight coils of muscle memory that lived under the embarrassment. Each step, each extension of his arms, was a question at first, a tentative plea for control. But slowly, haltingly, answers came. His body remembered. The routines carved into his bones pushed against the fear that threatened to unmake him.

The audience's whispers ebbed and flowed, an unpredictable tide of sound that washed over him, through him. "This is disgraceful," someone said, and Bobby felt the words like a slap. "Give the boy some clothes," said another, a strange mix of compassion and condescension. Laughter bubbled up from the back of the auditorium, light and sharp, but Bobby clenched his jaw, his fists, his mind, and forced himself to move. His feet were no longer lead, only heavy stone, and he felt the grit of determination behind his eyes.

His muscles stretched and flexed, sometimes in perfect obedience, sometimes rebelling against him. Bobby heard the sound of his own breathing, shallow and quick, like the rhythm of a caged bird. He pushed against the confinement, the suffocating knowledge of his own bareness. A small part of him broke free, a fledgling thing that allowed for grace in the most fleeting of moments. The rush of this, of defiance in the face of his own skin, thrilled and terrified him in equal measure.

Emma was a constant beside him, a fixture of calm certainty that drew his focus away from the hostile brightness. She moved with the same precision, the same dedication they had shared in rehearsal, and Bobby latched onto this like a lifeline. The audience faded into a blur of sound and light. He danced toward her, his movements sharper, more controlled.

There were moments now, slivers of time where the steps flowed from him with the ease of habit. In those moments, Bobby was the dancer he was meant to be. Then the whispers, the soft, stabbing giggles, pierced him again, and he felt his body recoil, his focus split by the jagged edge of his own self-consciousness. He stumbled through the cracks, through the heavy pauses where everything could have fallen apart, but kept moving.

The stage felt different now, more solid under his bare feet. He filled the space, not with the breadth of his body, but with the tenacity of his spirit. Every mistake was followed by a near-perfect recovery, a stubborn refusal to be undone by the white-hot gaze of the audience. His thin frame cut through the air, slicing through the thick, judgmental silence with a grace that was both defiant and fragile. Bobby was still exposed, still vulnerable, but as he danced, he found something unexpected. Beneath the layers of fear, under the trembling skin of a boy's shame, was a core of steely resolve.

Bobby felt it, those fleeting seconds where the world melted away and he was nothing but movement and music. In those moments, the audience disappeared. He was pure, unfettered grace, his body cutting through the air with a precision that seemed impossible minutes before. But then a laugh, a whisper, pulled him back. His awareness snapped into place like a trap. His nudity returned with crushing clarity. Bobby's focus wavered, and his hands slipped against Emma's waist in a particularly difficult lift. Sweat made his grip falter. Emma's eyes widened with fear, but they managed to recover. Barely. The slip rattled him, the tremor moving through his limbs and into his bones. He turned toward the wings and saw Damon, his rival, leaning casually with an amused, cutting grin. Humiliation threatened to swallow him whole, but anger flared up like a bright and sudden flame. Bobby's back straightened with newfound determination. He moved with daring precision, turning self-doubt into audacity. His technique was fierce and flawless. The audience leaned in, first surprised, then appreciative. For a moment, Bobby was no longer a naked boy. He was an artist. But then the music shifted, and he saw Mrs. Connelly's appraising stare. His bravado cracked, and he felt his youth and bareness again, wondering if that's all they saw.

When Bobby found those rare, exhilarating moments of focus, he danced like there was no audience, no gala, nothing but the rhythm pulsing through his veins. Each movement became a symphony, limbs reaching into space with a confidence that filled the vast stage. He soared through the choreography as if buoyed by air alone, and in those seconds, the tight coil of anxiety unwound, and the applause he imagined was not for a spectacle, but for art.

Yet these moments were fragile, glass towers teetering in the wind. The laughter—a sudden, brittle noise—cut into him, and he could almost feel the audience's eyes tracing the lines of his body, measuring him, weighing him. The applause faded from his mind, replaced by the awareness of his own raw skin, of the vulnerability that draped him more heavily than any costume. The certainty slipped, and with it, his fingers on Emma's waist.

The lift was meant to be seamless, a perfect arch of her body in midair. Instead, it lurched into a dangerous, unscripted move. Bobby felt the moisture in his palms, the way it slicked over his skin like oil. Emma's face flashed with panic, a mirror to his own. But they found each other, found the strength to make the slip look almost intentional.

Bobby's heart raced, an erratic drumbeat that threatened to drown out the music. He caught his breath, his mind, his focus, and his eyes landed on Damon. The older boy lounged in the wings, arms crossed, the knowing smirk of someone watching a lesser rival crash and burn. Something hot and angry surged through Bobby, a wave of indignation that lifted him up.

He was on fire, burning with a resolve as fierce and bright as the lights. Bobby poured everything into the next steps, his body a flash of pure technique and emotion. He dared the audience to look, to really see, not just a boy without clothes, but a dancer laying bare his soul.

His energy was relentless, unyielding, as if daring Damon, the audience, and even himself to doubt him now. He twisted the shame of his nakedness into a driving force, each turn and leap an act of defiance. The air around him crackled with the electricity of his intention. He was a wire pulled taut and singing, ready to snap.

Surprise rippled through the rows of women like a silent gasp, giving way to murmured admiration, then applause that carried him higher. They saw him, truly saw him, if only for that bright, blinding moment. Bobby danced like the boy he could be, the boy he wanted to be. The one no one expected, least of all himself.

But the next movement brought him around, back to the cold reality of the audience, to the harsh clarity of judgment in every face. Mrs. Connelly's expression loomed in his mind, her gaze a scalpel that dissected him, picking apart the talent from the imperfection, the promise from the unformed. Her face was impossible to read: satisfaction, disappointment, a blend of both.

Bobby's brief escape from awareness folded in on itself, the walls of his exposure closing back in. He felt again the harsh scrutiny of his age, his development, the merciless competition he had been thrust into. Every step was heavy with it, every breath tainted by the air of expectation. Yet still he pushed forward, defiant, resolved to finish.

He was naked, still, even after all of it, but he was not just a bare-skinned child. He was a dancer in the making, an artist with nothing to hide. The final moments bore down like the weight of a million eyes. He would not let them break him.

The final sequence unfolded like a dream of the perfect dance. Bobby and Emma were fluid, flawless, the choreography carrying them away on the demands of its timing. The world shrank down to this: two dancers moving as one. For an impossibly pure moment, nothing else existed. Bobby soared through the air, a leap so powerful and clean it hung in the brightness like magic. The sound from the audience was a chorus of delight. But the instant his feet touched the stage, he saw them: a row of girls his age, cruelly amused. Their laughter sliced into him, a physical thing that pulled the floor out from under him. Everything faltered. The grand finale was unraveling. Bobby's foot landed on Emma's with painful accuracy. He saw her wince, heard her gasp, felt his heart plummet. He moved, too late, and caught her just as the music cut out. They held the final pose, but it was fragile, fractured, like his composure. The applause was a veneer of politeness over a deeper disappointment. Damon watched from the wings, grinning at Bobby's failure. When Bobby and Emma finally exited the stage, his body was exhausted, his skin burned with shame, and his mind was a wild, racing thing.

For one glorious, breathtaking stretch of time, Bobby felt his earlier triumph returning. He and Emma glided through the steps with a grace that seemed both effortless and hard-won. The tempo increased, but their movements stayed smooth, the urgency of the final moments pushing them faster, pulling them closer to a perfect ending. It was almost there, right within reach.

In the brilliance of the spotlight, Bobby felt the thrill of possibility. He executed the leap, his muscles tensing, releasing, catapulting him high above the stage. Time stretched with him, suspended in an awed gasp. His chest swelled with exhilaration. This was his, this bright moment. He had claimed it.

Then he landed. The moment splintered. He saw them, a clutch of girls perched in the third row, eyes alight with malicious humor. They whispered behind their hands, gestures exaggerated and cruel. The high of his jump dissolved in an acid wash of humiliation. The sound of their giggles tore into him, as cutting as any blade.

Bobby's thoughts scrambled for purchase, but the slip was quick and steep. He lost his footing, his sense of place. The music's beat fell away from him, and he struggled to find his way back. Emma spun, arms reaching, and he missed the cue. In an instant of horrifying clarity, he watched his foot come down on hers. He saw the pain flash across her face, heard the choked breath of her surprise.

Everything collapsed inward, the space that had been a playground of movement becoming tight, small, impossible to navigate. The perfect finale unraveled like a dropped spool of thread. Bobby reached for Emma, their timing shattered, and pulled her toward him just as the music stuttered into silence.

The final pose was a shadow of what it should have been. They stood there, caught in the amber of expectation, trying to hold together the pieces of a dance that had already broken. The shame was a weight, a physical burden that bent Bobby toward the ground. He wanted to disappear, to be anywhere but here, at the end of a performance that was supposed to be his proving ground, but was instead a showcase of failure.

The applause that met them was thin, stretched, a polite mask over the disappointment that Bobby felt thrumming from every seat. He could barely stand it, the sound and the silence, the blend of them cutting him in two. The urge to run, to flee the weight of all those eyes, was overwhelming, but he stayed, rooted by Emma's steady presence.

Damon's laughter wasn't audible, but Bobby heard it anyway. The grin on his rival's face was loud enough. The image of it imprinted on Bobby's mind as he and Emma left the stage, a brand he would wear through the rest of the night. It was more than the mistake, more than the bruise of imperfect execution. It was what Damon and everyone else had seen. The bare, unvarnished truth of his own inadequacy.

Backstage, Bobby's lungs heaved for air, and his heart hammered with a mix of adrenaline and fear. The applause faded into an anxious, dreadful silence. There were still more dances, more rounds of judgment, but the night already felt like a collapse. He shivered, not from cold but from the anticipation of what lay ahead.

He knew the gala wasn't over. There would be more performances, more eyes measuring and evaluating. More chances to prove himself. But the weight of what had happened here, on this stage, was a knot in his stomach, a burning thing that refused to be ignored. As he sat, Bobby felt every bit the boy they saw, and wondered how many more dances it would take to outgrow this skin.

The dim backstage was a world unto itself, the air thick with nervous energy and teenage sweat. Bobby drifted through the crowd of nude boys, his body frail and unsure amidst the boldness of the older, more developed dancers. His eyes stayed glued to the floor, each step tentative and shy. This wasn't his scene, and the look of determination on his face didn't quite mask the twist of dread in his stomach. Damon found him like a shark sensing blood. He'd lost to Bobby last year, and he wouldn't let him forget it. The words hit hard, digging at Bobby's most fragile insecurities, but he surprised even himself with his defiant reply: "I'll beat you again this year."

The sentence hung in the air, and for a moment Bobby thought Damon might actually hit him. Instead, Damon stepped closer, leaning in until their noses nearly touched. He was a full head taller and seemed twice as wide. Bobby's breath came shallow as Damon stared him down, eyes cold as polished steel. Around them, the room grew hushed. Bobby didn't have to look up to know that every other boy in the room was watching. He could feel their eyes on him, a dozen wolves waiting for him to flinch. But he couldn't back down. He'd come too far. This had to be his year.

When Damon spoke, his voice was a low growl, just loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's make this interesting," he said. "Loser has to attend school naked for the rest of the year." A collective gasp broke the silence, and the other boys erupted into whispers. Bobby felt the words strike like a physical blow, leaving him breathless. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. Damon had backed him into a corner, and now he just stood there with a smirk on his face, waiting for Bobby to back down.

Bobby wanted to run. He wanted to hide, but he couldn't move, couldn't even speak. He just stood there, too stunned to react, while Damon turned and made his way toward the stage. The woman with the clipboard was still checking off names when Damon approached. Bobby snapped back to life, a rush of panic propelling him forward. He had to stop Damon, had to explain that it was just talk, not a real bet. The older boys parted to let him pass, and Bobby dashed after Damon, ignoring their snickers and whispers. But Damon was already talking to the speaker by the time Bobby caught up.

She was a middle-aged woman with gray hair and glasses, wearing a dark blue suit that matched the decor. She looked up from her clipboard, surprised to find herself face-to-face with a nude, panting teen. Bobby could see her mind working, could almost hear the wheels turning. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was already too late. "We've got a bet," Damon said, his voice brimming with confidence. "Loser goes to school naked for the rest of the year." The woman blinked and then gave a slight nod. Bobby watched in horror as she took out a pen and scribbled something down.

She headed for the stage, and Bobby wanted to sink into the floor. But there was nowhere to hide. He was naked, exposed, caught in a trap with no way out. The room was buzzing with excitement now, and Bobby felt every eye on him as the woman picked up a microphone. He stood frozen, disbelief mixing with humiliation as the sound system crackled to life. The rest of the world fell silent, waiting for her to speak. Bobby didn't think it was possible to feel more vulnerable than he already did, but when her voice rang out over the loudspeakers, he was proved wrong.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a special announcement!" she said. "Two of our male soloists have just raised the stakes with an intriguing wager!" A rumble of laughter spread through the audience, and Bobby's cheeks burned as hot as the sun. He didn't hear the rest of what she said, didn't need to. The room had already exploded into chaos, boys yelling, hooting, chanting his name. The entire audience was in on it now. The bet was public. It was real. There was no backing out. He stood helpless, the world spinning around him, and the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely was the grim determination that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

He was naked. His small, undeveloped body was exposed to the other dancers and crew members as he stood backstage, hugging himself against the chill. Bobby tried to convince himself it was just another competition, but he couldn’t stop shivering. He could hear the audience applauding for the previous dancer, each clap a reminder of what was coming. He wanted to curl up and hide, but instead he took a deep breath. He was a dancer, and this was the only way to do it.

Standing nude made him feel more vulnerable than he had anticipated. Any passing glance from the other performers felt like a spotlight, and he caught some whispering, eyes flicking over his bare skin. Bobby reminded himself why he had chosen to perform this way: pure dance, without distraction or artifice, a statement of complete vulnerability and trust. The intention seemed noble, but in the moment, the fear of exposure overwhelmed the artistry. He felt sick, his stomach churning as he fought the instinct to run.

He closed his eyes, blocking out the backstage chaos, and focused on his mental preparation. The familiar steps of his choreography filled his mind, each movement a lifeline to sanity. He imagined the sweeping arcs and delicate footwork of Swan Lake, letting the phantom music carry him to a safer place. In his mind, he saw himself dancing with grace and emotional intensity, the epitome of a swan's transformation. His visualization became a shield against his fear, wrapping around him as the final applause for the previous performer echoed.

Backstage was a flurry of noise and movement, dancers and crew whispering, giving instructions, adjusting costumes. Bobby felt alone amidst the chaos, each sound amplifying his isolation. He concentrated on his breathing, steadying himself as he stood completely exposed, willing his body to ignore the chill that made his skin prickle and hair stand on end. He heard feet shuffling, stagehands prepping, but tried to block it all out, focusing instead on the perfect performance he saw in his head.

He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to channel the swan's story and lose himself in it. He imagined himself shedding fear and vulnerability, becoming the bird in his dance, every muscle remembering its part. The transformation filled his mind as he pushed away distractions, fighting to keep his determination stronger than his doubt.

Then his name echoed across the PA system, startling him back to reality. Bobby felt his heart slam against his ribcage as he took one last breath and stepped onto the stage. The glaring lights blinded him, and for a moment, he was paralyzed. Hundreds of eyes fixed on his nude form, his legs suddenly leaden and unresponsive.

He squinted into the spotlight, its intensity making him more aware of his nakedness. The cool stage beneath his feet felt both real and distant, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggled with the enormity of what he was doing. It was one thing to imagine such exposure and another to stand fully revealed, each second an eternity.

Tchaikovsky's composition began to play, a savior in musical form. The familiarity of the first notes melted his paralysis, even as he fought against the panic clawing at him. The music swelled, and the stage transformed from a place of fear to a canvas for his artistry.

He took his first hesitant steps, finding his footing both physically and emotionally. The routine called to him, and Bobby took another breath, surrendering to the dance.

Tchaikovsky’s music flooded the stage like a rush of light. Bobby’s small frame cast long shadows as he danced, the spotlight warming his bare skin. The initial stiffness in his muscles melted away, and he surrendered to the familiar choreography, each movement growing more fluid and expressive. The vulnerability he felt moments before started to dissolve as the music swept over him.

His confidence blossomed with every step, the rhythm of his body matching the soaring notes. The audience’s eyes shifted from his nakedness to his raw talent, watching the dancer rather than the child. Fear slipped away, replaced by the exhilaration of artistic immersion. He moved with a newfound freedom, losing himself completely in the performance he had visualized so many times.

Bobby felt an intense connection to the music, an emotional and physical union that fueled his dance. He was the swan, every line of his body capturing its transformation. The cool stage beneath his bare feet grounded him, the warmth of the spotlight wrapped him in a cocoon of focus, and he thrilled at the sensation of pure, uninhibited movement.

His body moved with unexpected power, turns and leaps executed with precision that belied his fragile appearance. Each gesture conveyed the essence of the swan, vulnerability giving way to grace and strength. He pushed beyond his limits, letting the music drive him to heights he had never reached before.

The world outside the performance disappeared, leaving only Bobby and the music, an intimate dialogue between soul and sound. His body responded to every nuance of the composition, physical sensations and emotions blending into a singular experience. He forgot the eyes on him, aware only of the profound connection with his art.

With each perfect movement, his confidence soared. The harmony between his body and the choreography was complete, a dance that existed beyond fear and self-doubt. Earlier anxieties were distant memories, replaced by the freedom and joy of his performance.

The audience's attention was riveted on his transformation. Bobby’s vulnerability had turned to strength, his small frame embodying a story that unfolded with every motion. They were captivated by the grace and intensity of his dance, absorbed by the narrative he wove through movement.

As Bobby’s connection with the music deepened, he transcended the stage. The transformation he had visualized became his own, insecurities dissolving in the face of pure expression. Confidence overpowered everything else, leaving him only the dance.

Joy and abandon carried him. His body was no longer exposed but liberated, his spirit unrestrained and soaring with the music. He was more than the dance, and for a moment, he was everything.

He was too absorbed in the music to notice at first. It started as a tingling sensation, a faint buzzing beneath his skin, until his body's unexpected response could no longer be ignored. Bobby felt his small penis begin to stiffen, and horror mounted as he realized what was happening. He willed the sensation to stop, tried to push it out of his mind and focus only on the dance. But as the blood rushed to his cheeks, he knew it was no use.

Panic bubbled beneath the surface as he tried to ignore it, the familiar thrill of the performance now tainted by his awareness of each pulse and throb. His unwanted arousal grew more pronounced, every movement emphasizing his condition rather than concealing it. Bobby's desperation deepened with every second.

His heart pounded furiously as he tried to adjust the choreography, to obscure rather than display his body. The attempt backfired, drawing even more attention as his movements lost their fluidity and grace. Each modified step felt like a spotlight on his shame.

He caught sight of the audience, whispers and pointed fingers piercing through his faltering concentration. His face burned crimson, mortification threatening to swallow him whole. He wanted to run, to hide, but he forced himself to keep dancing.

Bobby struggled to maintain composure, each step more difficult to execute. It was like drowning, the dance slipping away as he fought against the current of humiliation. He felt that they could see every ounce of his fear and shame.

He fought to continue, hoping the erection would subside, praying it was only a fleeting betrayal. But it only got worse, standing more rigidly, defying his mental efforts to suppress it. His body seemed intent on humiliating him in the most public way possible.

The audience’s reaction shifted again, from interest to disbelief and amusement. He felt their eyes tracking his every move, waiting to see if he would falter. Giggles erupted from younger members, compounding his sense of exposure.

Bobby’s tears were dangerously close as he persisted. He couldn’t let them see him break, couldn’t let them know just how badly his small form was betraying him. Each movement became stiff and awkward, the confidence he felt moments before now a distant memory.

His determination to finish burned through his embarrassment, even as his emotional state threatened to undo him. He danced with the weight of shame on his shoulders, refusing to let them crush him.

Despite every mental effort to suppress it, his erection became impossible to ignore. Fully erect, Bobby's small penis pointed upwards, bouncing slightly with each movement. His heart thundered as humiliation threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to keep dancing. The music was his only anchor, though even that started to slip away as he realized just how visible he was.

He caught sight of the audience again, the room awash in reactions. Some whispered behind cupped hands, others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. He saw every glance, felt each murmur like a knife twisting deeper. Tears welled up, but he refused to let them fall. Bobby’s shame deepened as the focus on his nudity intensified, but he fought to continue, knowing he had to finish.

His movements became charged with raw emotion, the grace of the earlier performance now replaced by a frantic need to channel his shame into the dance. Each step was a battle between despair and determination, and he threw himself into the choreography, even as he felt it slipping from his control.

The erection dominated the stage, prominent and undeniable. It bobbed with every jump and turn, each bounce a reminder of his inability to conceal it. He felt as if the entire room was watching nothing but his small, stiff member. His face burned with humiliation, every second stretching into eternity.

He was on the verge of breaking down, of stopping and fleeing, but something inside him refused to let go. The music’s emotional climax was near, and he was determined to reach it. He couldn’t let them see him break, couldn’t give up before the end.

Then the release happened, unexpectedly and completely beyond his control. As Bobby executed a spin, his small body betrayed him fully, ejaculating in a spasm that left droplets spattered across the stage. A gasp escaped his lips, heard clearly by the front rows. The audience froze, caught between shock and disbelief.

Reactions rippled through the room, shock and embarrassment visible in every expression. Bobby felt a horrible mix of relief and horror as his body went limp, the urgency of the arousal finally spent. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and for a moment he stood motionless, overwhelmed by what had just occurred.

Every instinct told him to curl up, to disappear, but instead he forced himself to keep moving. He couldn't let it end this way. Tears streamed unchecked down his face, and he funneled everything he had into the remaining moments of his dance, refusing to stop despite the ultimate humiliation.

Bobby finished the challenging spins with raw intensity, pushing his exhausted body past its breaking point. The shame and shock fueled his desperation, and his movements became more erratic and emotionally charged, reflecting the chaos inside him. He didn’t stop.

It was a nightmare, but one he refused to wake from. His face burned with shame as Bobby felt warm fluid cooling on his thighs, saw the small puddle on the stage, and knew he had to keep dancing. Each breath was a gasp, each moment an eternity as he pushed past the mortification of what had just happened. He couldn’t stop, not now, not when it was so close to over.

His face was a mask of both shame and determination, the raw edges of his humiliation cutting deep. The audience's shock and discomfort were palpable, a wave crashing over him with every move. But he fought to execute his choreography, clinging to the music as his only lifeline in a sea of disbelief.

His movements were mechanical, stiff and jerky, devoid of the grace and emotion they held moments before. He saw the slick spot too late and felt his foot skid, a desperate windmilling of arms as he tried to maintain balance. He stumbled badly, nearly falling, but somehow stayed upright.

The slip cost him precious seconds, throwing him off beat and disrupting the routine. Bobby felt exposed and broken, like his body and the dance had turned against him. But still, he refused to stop. The release had humiliated him, but not ended him.

Each movement was rigid, lacking the fluidity that once carried him. The music was relentless, pushing him harder, faster, demanding he keep up despite the impossible odds. Tears mixed with sweat, blurring his vision, but he forced himself onward, unwilling to let go.

The audience sat in stunned silence, caught between shock and morbid fascination. Bobby felt every gaze burning into him, every whispered word about his disgrace. But he also felt a flicker of defiance. He wouldn’t give up.

His emotions were raw, on the verge of overwhelming him, but his resolve was stronger. Bobby completed the routine with intense determination, pushing through the physical and emotional pain, through the unbearable weight of their stares. He wouldn’t let them see him crumble.

The final moments were chaotic, a tangle of tears and movement, but they were powerful. Bobby finished with tear-streaked cheeks and a dancer’s resolve, the devastation visible but not all-consuming. He’d made it through.

The auditorium purred with anticipation as Mrs. Connelly stepped onto the stage, her figure briefly silhouetted by the bright lights before dissolving into their glare. The audience shuffled into their seats, a low sea of excitement swelling toward the rows of empty chairs reserved for winners. Eager eyes focused on the podium and its promise of trophies, while female spectators, many having reveled in the nude display of male dancers, watched with particular zeal. Backstage, Bobby's hands quivered as he tried to cover his small frame, the earlier humiliation still hot against his skin. He felt dwarfed by the others, especially by Damon, whose confident posture seemed to mock him from a few feet away.

Backstage, the air felt thick with sweat and tension. Bobby shifted uncomfortably, his small, underdeveloped body an island in the sea of muscular competitors. Each accidental touch of bare skin sent him flinching, a stark reminder of his earlier stumble that had laid him figuratively—and literally—bare. He huddled into himself, hands a futile shield against the embarrassing truth of his figure, while next to him Damon stood at ease, tall and assured, glancing over with an infuriating smirk. The other boys seemed relaxed, whispering jokes, patting each other on the back. Bobby felt alone, consumed by the fear of what would come.

Mrs. Connelly's voice rose above the building tension. "Thank you for your patience," she said, smiling with a kind of knowing elegance. "And now, without further ado..." The lights dimmed, a gradual descent that plunged the room into a hushed, intimate sphere. Bobby's breath quickened, a rush of air and nerves as the moment drew dangerously close. The audience seemed to lean forward in unison, an organic wave of bodies and suspense.

Doubt seeped into Bobby's thoughts. His mind raced back to the slip, the cruel shock of laughter, the way he'd scrambled to finish his piece, his heart bruised but stubbornly beating. Winning had never felt so necessary, nor so impossibly out of reach.

On stage, the lights glimmered against the polished surface of the trophies, each gleam a reminder of what was at stake. Bobby swallowed hard, his throat tight with fear and hope. Would the judges see past his failure? Was second place even an option, or was it victory or nothing? He felt the heat of the moment swelling around him, an inescapable current pulling him toward whatever fate had been decided. Damon's certainty gnawed at him, the bet he'd foolishly agreed to now a specter of potential humiliation.

Mrs. Connelly raised her hand, poised to reveal the outcome that would define Bobby's year, if not his life. The tension was thick, electrifying, an invisible thread winding tighter and tighter until it seemed it must finally, irrevocably, snap.

The unclaimed trophies gleamed, reflecting the hopes of every boy waiting backstage. Bobby held his breath, feeling the jagged edge of each moment. Mrs. Connelly's voice, calm and measured, sliced through the thick air. "Sixth place goes to Lucas Hastings." A boy to Bobby's left sagged with relief or resignation, impossible to tell which, before shuffling forward to receive his due. Lucas' name had been like a lifeline, cutting Bobby loose from his fears, but leaving him afloat in an ocean of raw nerves.

"In fifth place," Mrs. Connelly continued, the silence before each word an endless expanse of possibilities. "Grant Willows." Another body pulled away, another name that wasn't Bobby's. Was that good or bad? Relief and anxiety battled within him, each refusing to give an inch.

"In fourth place... Emilio Sanchez." Bobby's pulse accelerated, racing against the ticking countdown of remaining names. Not him. Not yet. A small ember of hope kindled somewhere deep inside him, but he couldn't afford to trust it.

The third-place announcement loomed, massive and terrifying in its implications. Mrs. Connelly let the moment hang, her presence commanding the rapt attention of the auditorium. Bobby's heart was an erratic drummer, the tempo impossibly fast and fragile. If his name came next, would it be the end of his dreams or the salvation of his pride?

"And in third place," Mrs. Connelly said, her pause like the held breath of everyone present. "Charlie Meyers!"

Bobby couldn't believe it. The shock reverberated through him, electric and wild. He was either first or second, either champion or runner-up to his rival. It was happening. This was real. His chest heaved with rapid breaths, struggling to process the narrowing odds.

Mrs. Connelly's hand rested on the remaining envelopes, her composure unflinching in the face of so much need. The auditorium felt charged, the silence heavy, the tension reaching an unbearable crescendo.

"And in second place..." Another cruel pause, a heartbeat in which the entire world teetered. "Bobby!"

His mind went blank with the impact. Second place. Not first. Not Damon. But not a total failure. His body moved on instinct, stepping into the bright lights, the applause wrapping around him like a thin, insubstantial echo of what he had wanted. Pride and despair collided in his gut, a nauseating mix.

Damon bounded onto the stage with triumphant ease, his smile stretching wide, his steps the perfect blend of confidence and grace. Champion. The word followed him like a fanfare, an unspoken truth reflected in the judges' pleased expressions.

The two boys stood side by side, their differences stark and merciless. Damon was all muscle and poise, his developed physique an accusation against Bobby's small, fragile form. The light sculpted Damon's maturity, while Bobby appeared as if he'd stumbled in from another category altogether.

Bobby's emotions twisted painfully. He'd achieved so much more than he'd feared, yet so much less than he'd hoped. As Damon raised his trophy in victory, Bobby's mind darted back to the unspoken stakes. He could see the agreement as clearly as if it were written across the walls. Second place was a devastating reminder of the humiliation that awaited him.

Around him, the other competitors began to react, their responses as varied and layered as Bobby's own feelings. A few nodded with respect, acknowledging the uphill battle he'd fought. Others smirked, clearly reveling in his near-win and the embarrassment they suspected was attached to it.

The audience's applause was genuine, though the collective glance toward Damon told Bobby exactly where their true admiration lay. Damon's effortless superiority cast a long shadow, one Bobby could feel stretching across his thoughts, wrapping around his slender frame.

Bobby's thoughts spiraled through the implications, the relief of second place a thin veneer over the harsher truth. He had placed, but not won. He had proved himself, but still lost. Damon's final glance said everything his rival needed to say without words. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. Bobby's heart sunk, heavy with the knowledge of what second place truly meant, what tomorrow would bring.

Next day

"Like a newborn," someone called, but Bobby knew this wasn’t true. The hands he shifted around his naked body belonged to a loser. His cheeks burned and his flesh prickled with shame as the first bell rang and kids streamed past, gasping and snickering at his shriveled exposure. He felt raw and brittle in the fall air, aware of how small he must seem among the swarms of backpacks and puffer coats. An older boy elbowed his friend. “Isn’t that the little champ?” he said, but his tone was more about the little than the champ, and his friend laughed. He wobbled on scrawny legs as more students jostled by, the outgrown dance star with nothing to wear but the bets he had lost.

It had all started with a cruel smile and an offer that seemed impossible to refuse. Standing here now, Bobby could see just how impossible it had been. A gap-toothed kid shoved his phone camera into the pitiful sight of Bobby’s half-covered crotch, and a gangly, long-armed kid shot over his shoulder. A group of older girls, tights stretched over curves Bobby would never have, mocked him as they moved by in their flawless lines. "A bit chilly, huh?" a tall boy said, shaking his head in disgusted wonder. Bobby tried to wrap his arms more securely around his goosebumped body. A gust of wind cut through his stick-thin legs, and he curled in on himself, defeated, just as a teacher barked: "Not like that! Terms are terms." His spindly arms drooped to his sides, then, trembling with the effort of following through, or maybe just from the morning cold.

He had seen that smirk on Damon's face before. Bobby shivered, recalling the moment after they’d shook on it. He knew even then he'd never be able to back out, but there had been a time when he'd thought it was a fair game, and he hated himself now for having trusted the look in his so-called friend’s eyes. “Is that why he lost the dance-off?” a girl giggled, and the phrase was picked up and parroted, "That's the loser from the competition." It reached an even wider circle of kids who only laughed harder at the words. Loser, loser. His stomach clenched, and his legs felt like they might give out as the pack thinned and then thickened again, his scrawny limbs only skeleton keys to the sick joke he’d become. "The kid with the baby dick, right?" said one. "Can't believe he used to be the champion," said another, voices trailing into gales of laughter that reverberated in the cool morning air.

He’d done the unthinkable by putting his reputation on the line. But the idea of earning Damon’s respect—maybe regaining his place—had gotten the better of him, and Bobby cursed his own stupidity. Now the shrill beeps of phone cameras and the snatches of whispers—"Can you believe it?," "Someone get him a diaper," "Wow, just wow"—bounced off his thin skin. Each quick turn of a head and sidelong glance dug into him like thumbs into his ribs.

“What's with his junk?" a squat kid called. "Did he get in the cold pool?" More cruel laughs erupted, the sound stabbing at him until his thoughts themselves took up the taunt. He fought the urge to cover himself again, and even the words that weren't aimed at him sounded like “loser” and “shame.” As a pudgy sixth grader rushed by, Bobby heard “Must suck to have such a small one," before the kid and his friends took up the term and fled. A group of girls circled him, turning his nakedness into a game of double-dutch jump rope, and their phones whipped past in a dizzying blur. Bobby felt his bare feet start to give out beneath him, the whispers rising to meet his downturned head. "The champion," someone shouted, their sarcasm drowning him.

It had all happened so quickly, and the impossible game, the humiliation, all of it had taken shape around him before he'd even had a chance to react. "Could use some clothes, huh?" said a blue-haired girl, her eyes dragging over him with surgical precision. He looked past her to a knot of students gathered under a maple tree, and even at that distance he could hear them laughing as they took turns aiming their cameras.

He turned inward, trying to blot out their smirking faces, and thought about what it had been like last year when the bet wouldn’t have even seemed necessary. He’d been the first to hear his name called in competitions, the one the others looked up to. No one would have dared... but here he was, so far behind that he'd never catch up. He stood shivering in the chilly autumn air, each burst of laughter pressing harder on his body, as the last surge of students passed him by. Bobby was the "little champ" now, and he knew it.

The second bell startled Bobby out of his freezing daze. Like a dazed soldier, he knew he had to keep moving if he wanted to survive. His legs felt wobbly, and his smooth skin stood out against the jostling hall full of clothed kids. He pushed through the noise and laughter and stuffed hallways until he reached his first class. When he opened the door, twenty pairs of eyes widened as they took him in. “He’s really doing it,” one boy said, and the room exploded in snickers and taunts. Bobby couldn’t believe how cold the seat felt against his naked body, but he couldn’t let himself flinch. If he let that stop him, what would Damon’s triumphant look do?

He hunched his shoulders and slumped into the room, his eyes on the floor, on the far wall, anywhere but on his classmates. Even with their heads turned to each other, snickering into their sleeves and staring open-mouthed at the impossible sight, he could feel them. Bobby managed a small breath and sunk down at his desk, his exposed skin burning against the icy plastic. "Incredible," said a tall girl with wide-set eyes. "How is he not dead of embarrassment?" She shot a look across the room to make sure everyone heard, then dropped into her chair. The comments came faster, an avalanche of sneering voices: "Never thought he'd actually go through with it," "Pretty sad," "Loser central." Bobby forced himself to sit up a little straighter and tried to block out the noise. Even here, even without the biting wind, it felt like there was no place to hide.

The loud murmur in the room dropped a notch when the teacher shuffled in. Bobby glanced up to see if he would be called out, sent to the office, given a trash bag to put over his head. But Mr. Harmon seemed as confused as the rest of them, and he coughed into his fist, looking everywhere but at Bobby as he shuffled through his notes. "Ahem," he said, when no one seemed to pay him any attention. "Everyone, ahem, take your seats." But no one seemed to listen. Bobby shifted, unsteady on the slick surface, his thin arms pulled tight around his bony knees. When he saw kids sneak phones out to snap pictures, he felt himself going numb, his mind somewhere outside the room where no one could see him. "I can't believe he's sitting like that," a girl behind him said, her voice sharp and gleeful. He clenched his teeth and stayed quiet.

The rattle of chairs pulled Bobby back into the room as other students took their seats. Their backs seemed impossibly broad and protected in hoodies and jackets, while his own skinny back felt too small, a flimsy target. He let himself drift, let his eyes go out of focus, but he could hear how quick they were to throw out cruel terms for him: loser, pathetic, idiot. And he could hear something else, too: the whispered edges of disbelief. Maybe that would keep him from breaking, at least for the hour.

Mr. Harmon was trying again to get their attention, clearing his throat and tapping his pencil. "Let's, ahem, let's go ahead and get started," he said, his eyes darting toward Bobby. "Page, uh, 37, please?" A few kids flipped open their books. Most kept their eyes trained on Bobby, smirking and whispering. It was the same in his head, in the whirlwind of thought that wouldn’t slow down: words he'd said, stupid decisions he'd made, the echo of his own idiotic certainty. And on top of it all, a different kind of cold than the plastic seat or the morning air—an isolation that spread through him as he realized just how much he had lost.

Former friends didn’t even try to talk to him, and Bobby knew what that meant. They were on Damon's side. He'd expected them to ignore him in the hallway, but even here they wouldn’t meet his eyes. This was supposed to be the one place they couldn't hide. Bobby clenched his jaw to stop it from trembling, to stop everything from trembling, and leaned forward to rest his bare arms on the desk. The smooth surface sent another shock through him, but he didn't pull back. He needed to get through this without being the first to fold. The impossible idea of tomorrow—or the next day, or the rest of the week, month, year—buzzed around his head, and he swatted it away.

He knew the instant Damon walked in, late and with enough noise to remind everyone of it. “So it’s true!” Damon said, pointing a finger at Bobby's chest as if to mark his territory. He gave a few kids high-fives on the way to his seat, and they shot congratulatory glances at him, as if he'd made them a gift of Bobby's shame. Damon swung into the desk next to Bobby, his eyes alive with laughter. “Like I always say, a bet’s a bet,” he said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “How you liking it down there, huh?” Bobby couldn’t let himself look at him, but he felt the slow, rising burn of his taunt. He bit his lip until he thought it might bleed. His body felt fragile and brittle, and his mind even more so.

The comments flared up again, circling back to their most painful points. “Are we even allowed to see this much?” someone said, and the word we made Bobby's shoulders droop even lower. We: as if they were all in it together. “Maybe he really is a man,” said another, and Bobby heard a sarcastic pause between the is and the a. “He must really need this grade," Damon quipped, and Bobby’s mind skittered away from the thought of doing this in every class, every hour, every day.

When Mr. Harmon made them take turns reading aloud, it was worse than Bobby had imagined. "Page 37," the teacher repeated, even though the page was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Bobby could hardly open the book, the hard edges a battlefield for his naked hands. When he fumbled and let his pencil roll off the desk, his mind went blank. What if he had to lean over to pick it up? What if they laughed even harder? He stared at it like a snake, coiled on the floor where they all could see. But no one offered to help, so he had to slink to his knees, the blood pounding in his ears as he reached for it. “Is he begging for mercy?” Damon crowed, his laugh punching through Bobby’s thin skin.

Mr. Harmon shifted his feet and looked the other way, and even Bobby knew when he had lost control. He wished for it to be over, for anything to be over, even before he could bring himself back up to the desk. It took years to turn a single page, years and years before he could pretend to read along with the other kids, his face burning. Every second felt endless, a million more opportunities for Damon to win.

Bobby had thought it couldn’t get any worse, but now he knew how wrong he’d been. At lunch there was nowhere to hide. If the morning was an ambush, this was the kill zone, and it felt like the entire school had him in their sights. It wasn't just his own class anymore. Kids from all grades streamed by to get a look. He saw them laughing and whispering, pointing at his bare skin and pitiful attempt at dignity. The cold cafeteria seat seemed to glue him to the spot. He couldn’t eat, but leaving was even worse. He would have to stand and expose himself to everyone, to every brutal, ruthless one of them.

The long table, meant to fit as many students as possible, seemed to go on forever, empty except for Bobby and the stares of passing kids. Younger ones pointed with frank astonishment, while older ones cast amused, dismissive looks. His face flushed as hot as the seat beneath him was cold. The noise swelled around him, but Bobby felt like he was floating somewhere outside of himself, untouchable only in the most literal sense. If he left, the motion itself would draw every eye, but staying still was its own slow death. “Is he going to do it all year?” a gangly ninth grader said, letting the term stretch out to make it sting more. Bobby pretended not to hear, even as it sank in: day after day, week after week, nothing left of him by the time it was over.

He tried to tune out the noise and pretend he was back in class. If he focused on the emptiness, on the sense that he'd already left his body behind, maybe he could get through this without running. A cluster of older girls, tight-knit and brutally sharp, cut through his concentration and his thin resolve. “Poor little guy,” one of them said as she chewed, and Bobby heard her mean more than he could stand. They all had wild hair that made Bobby look even smaller, tighter, more controlled than he felt. “Put him out of his misery,” another one said, and they broke into giggles, their eyes traveling over him like a set of coordinated searches. He let his gaze drop to the plate in front of him, unable to choke down a single bite, though the food wasn't the thing stuck in his throat.

He thought the girls would be the worst of it, but their taunts only made room for more, and the sudden rush of noise startled him as if he'd thought it was possible for him to get used to it. "How hasn't he run away crying?" "Pretty tough for a coward." Bobby's vision blurred as he imagined himself moving, actually getting up from the table and away from the laughing and the pointing and the pounding blood in his ears. But he couldn’t do it. That would be admitting it, letting them win the way Damon had won.

If he waited, maybe it would let up. Maybe. And what if it didn't? What if he got up and ran and they still caught him in the act, his skinny legs taking him only as far as their cell phone cameras could reach? His mind was dizzy with the thought of having no way out, and his head dropped into his arms, his knees shaking in silence. If only he could vanish before it got any worse.

That was when a teacher he didn't know, her voice stiff with pity, asked if he was all right. Bobby looked up, unsure what the right answer could be. Was it more humiliating to admit that he wasn't okay, or to lie and pretend like he could keep doing this? "I'm fine," he said, his voice dull and heavy in his own ears. "Just, uh." The words failed him, like everything else had today. "Fine." He sounded as pathetic as he looked, and he could see from the doubtful look on the teacher’s face that she knew it, too. When she shrugged and moved on, it was almost a relief. He hunched even lower, and this time it wasn’t so he could cover himself. He wanted nothing more than to be away, to be anywhere else in the world, but moving meant breaking the fragile shell that barely held him together.

Bobby waited until the teacher’s back was turned and then decided he couldn’t stand another second. He didn't care anymore about leaving or about how much worse it might be. He was a broken thing and needed to get out. But even his desperation betrayed him. A student passing by stuck out his foot, and Bobby went down hard, sprawling in a pale tangle on the lunchroom floor.

He lay there, frozen, and saw them all turn toward him at once. Everything went still for a breath. Everything went still for two. Then the noise came back with a crash, and he couldn't move fast enough to escape it. Laughter pummeled him, and Bobby gathered himself up, slow and heavy and even more exposed. They were louder now, convinced they had him. Maybe they did. "Gonna cry now?" someone shouted, and that felt as true as anything he'd ever heard. The cameras circled him like hunters.

It wasn't just laughter. He heard some kid say, "Nice dive, champ," and the same sarcastic note he'd heard all day split his fragile self wide open. Wasn't that why he'd done this? To get that stupid word back? But he couldn't, and everyone knew it. Maybe he could stand this for another hour. Maybe. But how could he get through this until June? His hands shook, and his voice came out in a cracked whisper that no one could hear: "I can't."

Every part of him hurt as if he'd fallen harder than he'd thought, and when he slunk back to his seat, the plastic felt colder than ever. He was filthy and naked and alone, but most of all alone. No teacher, no friend, no one could get him out of this, so he stayed there until the last bell rang and left him the only kid in the cafeteria. Even then, he couldn't bring himself to move until he knew the halls were empty. When he finally stepped into them, Bobby remembered what it was like to have hope, even just for a minute. He thought it was over, this nightmare that started with a handshake. But the voice of a teacher calling out reminders sent a chill through him: "No excuses for being late," she said. "I know you're all excited, but it's just the first day!" It hit him, then. He was the loser again.

(End of File)