Campus Unbuttoned

The zipper on my suitcase gave out before I even finished packing. I remember standing in my childhood bedroom, staring at the split seam, the teeth of the zipper splayed open like a broken smile, and thinking: this is what happens when you try to cram an entire new identity into a bag that was built for the old one.

My mother knocked twice and didn't wait for an answer. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, watching me wrestle the suitcase onto the floor. Her eyes did that slow crawl over the pile of clothes on my bed. The tank tops I'd bought at the mall two towns over, where nobody knew us. The skirts that stopped well above where she would've liked. The heels I'd hidden in the back of my closet for three months, waiting.

"You're not taking all that," she said.

"I'm not taking the yellow sweater."

"That's not what I meant."

I didn't look at her. I kept folding, rolling, stuffing. My hands knew what they were doing even if the rest of me felt like I was standing at the edge of a diving board, toes curled over the rough concrete, water too far below to see clearly.

She left eventually. They always do.

The thing about leaving for college when you've spent eighteen years being one person in one place is that you get to decide, in the space between the front door and the dorm room, who you're going to be when you arrive. I'd been invisible for most of high school. Not bullied, not popular, not anything. Just there. A face in the back row, a name the teachers had to check against the roster. I wore what my mother bought me because it was easier than arguing. I kept my hair in a ponytail because it was fast. I didn't raise my hand because I'd learned early that being noticed meant being watched, and being watched meant being judged, and being judged meant being found wanting.

But the summer before freshman year, something shifted. I got a job at a clothing store in the outlet mall, mostly for the discount, and I spent my breaks trying on things I'd never have worn before. A crop top that showed the pale stripe of my stomach. A dress with a neckline that made the mirror-me look like someone else entirely. I'd stand in the fitting room with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and turn in slow circles, watching the way fabric moved against my skin, and I'd feel something I couldn't name. Not confidence, not yet. Something more like curiosity. Like I was meeting a stranger who happened to have my face.

The first week of college, I dressed like I was apologizing for taking up space. Baggy jeans. Oversized hoodie. Hair pulled back so tight my temples ached. I sat in the back of every lecture hall, took notes in small handwriting, and tried to make myself as small as possible. Old habits. The kind that live in your bones.

But I noticed things. The way the girls in the front row crossed their legs and let their skirts ride up just enough. The way the boys' eyes followed them, not with respect exactly, but with attention. The way even the professors, the ones with wedding rings and gray hair and tenure, would pause mid-sentence when someone walked in late wearing something tight.

I noticed, and I filed it away.

The first change was small. A t-shirt that hugged my chest instead of hiding it. I wore it to a Tuesday morning seminar and spent the entire hour convinced everyone was staring at me. They weren't, not really, but the boy next to me did glance twice, and when I raised my hand to answer a question about the reading, the professor looked at me for a beat longer than necessary. That was enough. That was a door cracking open.

By October, I'd graduated to jeans that actually fit. By November, I'd bought my first pair of heels since junior prom, black ankle boots with a heel that made my calves look longer than they were. I wore them to a party at a frat house I'd never been to before, and I walked in like I owned the place, and three different guys offered to get me a drink before I'd even found the kitchen.

The thing nobody tells you about being wanted is how quickly it becomes a need. Not the attention itself, but the power in it. The way a room shifts when you walk in wearing something that makes people look. The way conversations stutter and stall when you lean forward and your neckline dips. I'd spent eighteen years being invisible, and now I was learning that visibility was a kind of currency, and I was finally, finally rich.

Sophomore year, I came back different. The summer had been long and boring and full of my mother's pointed comments about my "new look," which only made me more determined. I'd spent the break working at the same outlet mall, but this time I wasn't just trying things on in the fitting room. I was buying them. A leather skirt that barely covered my ass. A bodysuit that snapped at the crotch and required careful maneuvering to wear to the bathroom. Tops with necklines that plunged and backs that were nothing but straps.

My roommate, a girl named Dana who'd been assigned to me by the housing lottery, watched me unpack with raised eyebrows. She was nice, in a bland sort of way, the kind of nice that never surprised you. She wore cardigans and mom jeans and went to bed at ten.

"You're really going to wear that to class?" she asked, holding up a sheer blouse that I'd bought specifically to layer over a black bra.

"Maybe."

"People will stare."

I smiled at her. "I know."

The first day of sophomore year, I wore a plaid skirt that hit mid-thigh and a white button-down tied at the waist, the top three buttons undone. I did my makeup in the morning light of our dorm room, watching my reflection as I lined my eyes and painted my lips a deep red that made my teeth look whiter. Dana watched me from her bed, her textbook open but unread.

"You look like you're going to a job interview," she said. "For a job where you take your clothes off."

"Maybe I am."

She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, the kind that meant she wasn't sure if I was joking. I wasn't. Not entirely.

The walk across campus took fifteen minutes, and in those fifteen minutes, I counted seven heads that turned. Two guys who slowed their bikes to watch me pass. One girl who nudged her friend and whispered something I couldn't hear but could guess. By the time I reached the humanities building, I felt like I was vibrating, like there was electricity under my skin and everyone could see it.

My first class was a survey of American literature, taught by a man named Professor Hayes. He was older, maybe fifty, with silver hair and a wedding band that caught the light when he gestured. I'd had him for a different class the year before, and I'd spent most of that semester in the back row, invisible. This time, I sat in the front.

He noticed me immediately. Of course he did. I'd chosen the seat directly in front of his lectern, and when I crossed my legs, the skirt rode up, and I watched his eyes drop for half a second before he caught himself and looked back at his notes.

"Welcome back," he said, and his voice was steady, but his hand wasn't. He fumbled with his papers, dropped a pen, and had to bend down to pick it up. When he straightened, his face was slightly pink.

I smiled at him. "Good to be back."

That was the first time I understood what I could do. Not just the attention, but the effect. The way a man could lose his train of thought just because I'd crossed my legs. The way a professor who'd lectured for twenty years could suddenly forget what he was saying because a girl in the front row was wearing a shirt that showed the tops of her breasts.

It was a kind of power I'd never had before. And I wanted more.

The weeks that followed were a study in escalation. I'd plan my outfits the night before, laying them out on my bed like a general planning a campaign. Monday: a pencil skirt with a slit up the back, paired with a silk blouse that clung to every curve. Tuesday: a dress that wrapped around my waist and tied at the side, the kind that threatened to come undone with a single tug. Wednesday: jeans so tight they left marks on my skin when I peeled them off at night, paired with a crop top that showed the silver ring in my belly button, a souvenir from a drunken decision over the summer.

Thursday was always the day I pushed furthest. I'd learned the rhythm of the week by then, knew which professors were most easily distracted, which classrooms had the best lighting, which hallways were most crowded between classes. Thursday was the day I wore the shortest skirt, the lowest neckline, the highest heels. Thursday was the day I made sure everyone was watching.

The first time I wore a skirt that barely covered anything, I was terrified. I stood in front of the mirror in my dorm room, tugging at the hem, trying to convince myself that the black fabric covered more than it did. Dana was gone, thankfully, so there was no one to talk me out of it.

I'd bought the skirt online, from a site that specialized in clubwear, and when it arrived, I'd laughed out loud at how small it was. But I'd tried it on anyway, and the mirror-me had looked back with wide eyes and parted lips, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

The skirt was black leather, real leather, soft and supple and so short that when I bent over, I could see the bottom curve of my ass. I paired it with a white tank top that was more of a suggestion than a garment, the straps thin as spaghetti, the neckline plunging low enough to show the lace of my bra. I added the ankle boots with the four-inch heels, the ones that made my legs look like they went on forever.

When I walked out of the dorm, the October air hit my bare legs like a slap. I shivered, but I didn't go back for a jacket. I wanted them to see the goosebumps. I wanted them to wonder if I was cold, and then I wanted them to realize that I didn't care.

The walk to campus was different that day. I could feel the eyes on me like a physical weight, pressing against my skin from all sides. A group of guys in the quad stopped talking as I passed, their conversation dying mid-sentence. A girl in a sorority sweatshirt looked me up and down, her expression unreadable. A professor I didn't know, walking in the opposite direction, turned his head to watch me go by, and I heard him stumble over a crack in the sidewalk.

I didn't look back. I'd learned that much. The power was in the not-looking, the pretending I didn't notice, the acting like this was just how I dressed, like I'd rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing I found. The effort was invisible, but it was there, in every choice, every detail, every carefully calibrated inch of skin.

My Thursday class was a seminar on gender and sexuality, taught by a young professor named Dr. Chen. She was in her thirties, sharp and smart and not easily impressed. I'd been trying to get her attention for weeks, not in the way I got the male professors' attention, but in a different way. I wanted her to see me as something other than a distraction. I wanted her to take me seriously.

That day, I walked in late. On purpose. The door creaked when I pushed it open, and every head in the room turned. Dr. Chen was mid-sentence, something about Judith Butler and performativity, and she paused, her eyes flicking over me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Nice of you to join us," she said.

"Sorry. Traffic."

There was no traffic. I lived on campus. But I'd timed it perfectly, waiting in the hallway until I heard her start talking, then counting to thirty before I walked in. The late entrance was part of the outfit, the final accessory.

I took my usual seat, front row center, and crossed my legs. The skirt rode up, and I didn't bother pulling it down. Let them look. Let them all look.

Dr. Chen resumed her lecture, but her voice was different. Tighter. She kept her eyes on her notes, on the board, anywhere but the front row. I watched her struggle, and I felt a flicker of something that might have been guilt, but I pushed it down. This was the game. This was how it worked.

After class, she asked me to stay behind. I'd expected that. I leaned against her desk, my hip cocked, the leather of my skirt creaking softly as I shifted my weight.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. "You've been... different lately."

"Different how?"

She hesitated. "You know how."

I did know. But I wanted to hear her say it. I wanted to watch her struggle with the words, with the line between professional concern and something else.

"I'm just expressing myself," I said. "Isn't that what college is for?"

She looked at me for a long moment. Her eyes were dark and serious, and for a second, I thought she was going to say something that would change everything. Something that would cut through the performance and find the girl underneath.

But she didn't. She just nodded, and said, "Be careful."

I smiled and walked out, the click of my heels echoing down the empty hallway.

The thing about being wanted is that it's never enough. The first taste, the first glance, the first time a professor loses his train of thought because of you, it's a rush. But then you need more. A longer look. A bolder outfit. A bigger reaction. The bar keeps rising, and you keep jumping, and you never stop to ask yourself why you're doing it or where it ends.

By the end of sophomore year, I'd worn things that would've made my high school self blush. Dresses with cutouts that showed my ribs. Tops that were basically bras with extra fabric. Skirts so short that sitting down was a calculated risk. I'd learned which professors would stare and which would look away, which classrooms had the best angles, which hallways were most crowded at which times. I'd turned my body into a weapon, and I was using it.

But something else was happening too. Something I hadn't expected. The more I showed, the more I wanted to show. The more attention I got, the more I needed. It was like a hunger that grew with every bite, a thirst that got worse with every drink. I'd started the year wanting to be seen. By the end, I wanted to be consumed.

Junior year, I moved off campus. An apartment with a girl I'd met in a bar, a girl named Sasha who wore leather jackets and had a tongue piercing and didn't ask questions. She was three years older, a grad student in the art department, and she had a way of looking at me that made me feel like I was a painting she was thinking about buying.

"You're going to be trouble," she said the first night I moved in.

"I know."

She laughed. "Good. I like trouble."

Sasha taught me things. Not the obvious things, not the mechanics of desire, but the art of it. How to walk into a room. How to hold a gaze. How to make someone want you without saying a word. She'd spent years cultivating her own power, and she recognized mine immediately.

"You're a natural," she said one night, watching me get ready for a party. I was wearing a dress that was little more than a slip, black silk that clung to every curve and left nothing to the imagination. "But you're still thinking about it. You need to stop thinking."

"What do you mean?"

"You're performing. Every move is calculated. It works, but it's exhausting. The real power is when you stop performing and just... are."

I didn't understand then. I thought she was wrong. The performance was the point. The calculation was the point. Without it, I was just a girl in a dress. With it, I was a force.

But I started to notice the cracks. The way I'd wake up in the morning and not recognize the girl in the mirror. The way I'd catch myself planning outfits for events that hadn't happened yet, running through scenarios in my head, rehearsing reactions. The way the attention, which had once felt like a warm bath, started to feel like a spotlight, hot and unrelenting.

The first time I wore something truly revealing to class, I was terrified. It was a Thursday, of course. It was always Thursday. I'd bought a top that was essentially a bra with a sheer panel over the chest, the kind of thing you'd wear to a club, not a lecture hall. I paired it with high-waisted pants that showed the strip of skin between the hem of the top and the waistband.

I stood in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, trying to talk myself out of it. You're going too far. Someone will say something. You'll get in trouble.

But then I thought about the way Professor Hayes had looked at me last week, the way his eyes had lingered on my chest before he'd forced them up to my face. I thought about the way the boy in my statistics class had stammered when I'd leaned over his desk to ask a question. I thought about the power, the rush, the way it felt to be the center of every room I walked into.

I walked out the door.

The reaction was everything I'd hoped for and more. The walk across campus took twice as long as usual because I kept stopping to talk to people, to let them see me, to watch their eyes drop and then rise. By the time I reached my first class, I was buzzing with anticipation.

The professor, a man named Dr. Patel who taught economics and had never once looked at me twice, stopped mid-lecture when I walked in. His eyes went wide, then narrow, then wide again. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

I took my seat, crossed my legs, and smiled.

The rest of the class was a blur. I could feel the eyes on me, dozens of them, burning into my skin. I could hear the whispers, the shuffling of papers, the way people shifted in their seats to get a better look. I was the center of the universe, and I loved it.

After class, Dr. Patel asked me to stay behind. I'd expected that. What I hadn't expected was the way he looked at me when the door closed, the way his voice shook when he spoke.

"That outfit," he said. "It's not appropriate for a classroom."

"I'm sorry," I said, and I made my voice small, contrite. "I didn't realize."

"You didn't realize?"

"I was running late. I just grabbed the first thing I could find."

He looked at me for a long moment. He was younger than most of the professors, maybe thirty-five, with dark hair and dark eyes and a wedding ring that he kept twisting around his finger.

"Just... be more careful," he said finally.

"I will."

I walked out of his office and straight into the bathroom, where I locked myself in a stall and laughed until I cried. The power was intoxicating. The way he'd looked at me, the way he'd struggled to find the words, the way he'd been so obviously, painfully hard. I'd done that. Me. The invisible girl from high school, the one who'd never been noticed, had made a grown man with a PhD and a wife and a mortgage lose his composure.

But the laughter faded, and something else crept in. Something colder. Something that felt a lot like fear.

What was I doing? What was I becoming?

I pushed the thought away. I had another class in an hour, and I needed to change. Something even better. Something that would make them forget the last outfit, that would push the boundary even further.

Because that was the thing about the edge. You could never just stand at it. You had to keep moving. You had to keep pushing. And if you stopped, even for a second, you might realize that the fall was a lot closer than you thought.