“As long as you don’t tell me I look like a Renaissance painting of a naked lady you once saw in a museum,” I whisper back, and we dissolve into giggles.

He’s the one that remembers the favor, when the senior curfew warning chimes.

“It’s a big project,” I tell him. “We need to get it done over the weekend.” He’s nodding. I take a deep breath. “And it’s a message.”

“I’m definitely listening,” Jack says.

We work all weekend, my friends and Jack and me. And Sunday night, the night before the hearing, we’re done.

Jack’s been staring at the monitor for hours, tweaking the photos we’ve been taking. It’s late when he turns to me. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” He puts his arms around my waist. “I love them. But I want to make sure you’re sure. Absolutely positively.”

I look over his shoulder at the picture he’s just finished adjusting, the light and shadow stark, unforgiving, beautiful.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not ashamed. And I won’t let them make me ashamed.”

“Printing is go,” he says, spinning around.

It’s done, I message the group.

I stack the flyers as they print, dozens of each photo. Just a handful of hours from now, Monday morning, we’ll slip out of the dorms as early as we’re allowed, before almost anyone is up, and plaster them all over campus, in every building, on every building, on every lamppost, to greet the whole school when they wake.

I barely sleep.

As planned, we meet, most of us sleepy-eyed, in front of the girls’ dorm. I distribute coffee, flyers, duct tape, and it takes only a couple of hours before we’re done, meeting back up in front of the administration building. We’ve plastered the double doors. Wallpapered them with my body.

That photo of me on the bulletin board started it. I’ll finish it.

My stomach, soft, stretch marked, over strong muscles. Skin pale and dimpled. No Photoshop. In big red block letters, though, the word SLUT slashes across my skin, my hands framing it.

As you say.

Jack spent hours on Saturday photographing the three of us. Close-ups of all the parts that we hate, always want to hide. Our skin and our fat and our muscles and bones, naked and on display, unretouched. Thighs, backs, hips, collarbones, foreheads, feet, arms. The words carefully spelled out in red lipstick: PROUD, BEAUTIFUL, FIERCE, ANGRY, LOUD, BRAVE, POWERFUL, STRONG, FORMIDABLE. The words SLUT, WHORE, BRAZEN, IMMORAL, DEPRAVED, PORNOGRAPHIC, DISTRACTING, OBSCENE, LEWD, SHAMEFUL.

The photos are beautiful. And soon we’ll all be inside this building, saying these words to the honor board. Defending our bodies and our choices and demanding they apologize.