Chapter 1: Quinn

The first thing Quinn noticed that morning was how hot it was.

The second was how much she didn’t care.

She wore her favorite black tank top anyway, even though she already knew what the school would say. Her shoulders were out. Her bra strap might peek through. Her skin existed, and somehow, that was a problem.

She was halfway through second period when Ms. Reynolds saw her.

“Quinn. The office. Now.”

No explanation. Just a pointed look and a voice full of judgment.

Quinn didn't argue. Arguing only made it worse. She stood up slowly, aware of the stares, the snickers, the way the room seemed to hold its breath just to watch her walk away. A few boys high-fived each other behind her. One of them whispered, “Nice,” under his breath.

No one told them to go to the office.

She passed a boy in the hallway wearing a muscle tank with gaping armholes so big you could see half his ribs. He winked at her like they were in on a joke together.

She didn’t smile back.

The office smelled like printer ink and disappointment. Ms. Reynolds handed her a paper copy of the school dress code like it was holy scripture.

“Shoulders must be covered. No exceptions.”

Quinn stared at the paper.

“But the guys—”

“They’re not girls, Quinn.”

There it was. Just like that. The unspoken rule, spoken out loud.

She left without saying another word.

She didn’t go back to class. She went outside, to the bench under the old oak tree in the courtyard. It was chipped and uneven and splintery in one spot, but it was hers. Her place.

She sat down hard, backpack thinking against the wood.

Her phone buzzed once. A notification. Not a message. No one noticed she was gone. No one ever did unless she was doing something wrong.

She opened her notes app and started typing, the words spilling out fast and angry.

Ugh. What can I even do? Not only am I dealing with an injustice—I’m dealing with it in a sexist school.

She stared at it.

Then added:

Why aren’t there rules for boys?

The phrase looped in her head, clinging like heat. Why weren’t there rules for boys? Why did she have to be the one pulled from class, embarrassed, sent to the office, handed a paper full of “don’ts” just for wearing a piece of clothing that felt comfortable?

It wasn’t about fabric.

It was about control.

She leaned back against the bench and watched a bird hop through the grass. Free. Fast. Unapologetic.

Maybe she wasn’t ready to be any of those things. Not yet.

But she was tired of feeling small.

Tired of feeling like the villain in her own story because someone decided her shoulder was a “distraction.”

Tired of feeling like the problem when she wasn’t the one making the rules.

Somewhere in the school, that boy with the muscle shirt was probably in class right now. Comfortable. Carefree. Maybe even laughing about her.

That thought made her chest tight.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t rage. Not yet.

Instead, she quietly opened a new note and gave it a title.

“Rules for Girls”

She didn’t know what she was going to write in it. But she knew it wasn’t going to be quiet.