A few of Chloe’s closest, meanest friends began to clap a slow rhythm. “Take it off,” one of them shouted.
The rhythm caught on. Teenagers are predatory by nature; they smell blood and they circle. Within seconds, a massive, synchronized chant echoed through the backyard.
“Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!”
They thought it was a joke. They thought it was lighthearted sibling banter. They thought I was just being a prudish, introverted killjoy who was afraid to show a little skin.
Inside the kitchen, my father placed his hand on the glass door, ready to slide it open and end the nightmare.
I caught his eye through the glass. I gave him a microscopic, subtle shake of my head. No.
The chanting grew deafening, bouncing off the brick walls of the house, a tidal wave of auditory pressure demanding my surrender.
I took a slow, shuddering breath. I closed my eyes, summoning every ounce of courage I had spent twelve years hoarding in the dark. I slowly stood up from the patio chair. My hands dropped to my waist, my trembling fingers gripping the thick cotton knot of my bathrobe belt.
I stepped out of the shadows of the awning and into the blinding, unforgiving sunlight, knowing that in exactly five seconds, the world as they all knew it was going to end…
Chapter 4: The Fire and the Truth
I walked slowly toward the edge of the sparkling blue pool, the rough concrete burning against the soles of my bare feet. The crowd parted for me, the chanting of “Take it off!” maintaining its aggressive, rhythmic pulse.
