“I don’t mean to put words into your mouth, sir,” I say. “But I think you might find these costumes obscene. If you object to our burlesque-show costumes.”

“You came to the show last year,” Nevaeh says. “Did you have anything to say about our costumes last year?”

He blurts out, “Well, they certainly weren’t this—”

“Yes, they really were,” Ellory says, her voice cutting through the room.

We trade smiles.

“Miss Lang, when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” The dean is starting to boil, losing his temper but still grasping to keep this under control.

“You might even recall that photograph of me in the costume, Dean Pembroke,” I say, calling his attention back to me. He stares at me. “The one I brought in to show you,” I clarify. “You seemed to think the costume was pretty revealing.”

“Your point,” he says stiffly. I leave it, but just for now.

“You keep telling us that showing our skin is sexual, and it’s wrong too,” Katherine says. “And you also dress us like this, year after year.”

Mr. Banerjee winces. Ms. Warren has started to smile.

Katherine squeezes my hand, and Nevaeh nods at me. I push forward. My voice is steady and clear. I’m on.

“Every time you throw us out of an academic class for showing our shoulders or our collarbones, you tell us being modest is more important than our education,” I say. “Every time you claim our skin is distracting, you turn a bunch of teenage girls into sexual objects. And then you shame us. That’s the reason we’re here, isn’t it, sir?”

Silence in the room. The dean’s face is pure fury. Ellory is nodding, and her phone is still pointed at us.

“And then you’re horrified when we take control of our own bodies,” I say. “You’re horrified when we tell you that you don’t get to decide how and when and where and why we show our skin—we do. You’re horrified when we own our beauty and our sexuality.

“We are talented. We are creative. We put on a beautiful show, and we were powerful,” I tell them. “And strong,” I say. “And fierce.” I put my hands on the table and lean forward. “And you want to turn that into something ugly, and that is what is immoral, and you are the ones degrading us.

“We snuck out after curfew,” I admit. “And that was a really, really bad choice, and that deserves punishment.

“But,” I say formally, “as for the charge of ‘immoral conduct’ that has brought us here to the honor board, we refuse to accept it.”

A burst of cheers erupts from the lobby outside, startling me, and the noise is growing.

“Ms. Grant—” the dean says loudly.