Each year, as summer sweltered and the annual Oakhaven Festival approached, so too did Miss Pimm’s annual protest. The “Splash for the Squad” wet tee-shirt contest, inaugurated years ago to raise funds for the struggling high school football team, was, to her, an abomination.
“It’s depraved!” she’d declare, her voice a reedy whisper that somehow pierced through the boisterous planning meetings. “A public display of… licentiousness! For a school team, no less! There are other ways to raise money, respectable ways!”
Her protests, delivered via politely worded letters to the town council, impassioned pleas to the PTA, and pointed glares at anyone discussing the event with undue enthusiasm, had, over the years, gone from being a quaint eccentricity to a genuine irritation. The football team, despite their losing streak, was Oakhaven’s pride. The contest, crude as it might be, filled the coffers. Miss Pimm, with her unwavering indignation, was simply a fly in the communal ointment.
This year, the irritation had festered into resentment. Coach Miller, a man built like a defensive tackle, had lost his temper publicly. “She needs to mind her own business! This is for the kids!” he’d bellowed at the Rotary Club meeting. The sentiment, muttered in taverns and whispered over fences, solidified into a hardened resolve. Oakhaven, a village tired of being tutored in morality by its own librarian, decided it was time for Miss Pimm to learn a lesson instead.
The day of the festival dawned bright and sweltering. The “Splash for the Squad” stage was set up in the town square, a makeshift platform draped with a crudely painted banner depicting a football helmet. Miss Pimm was there, of course, standing at the very edge of the crowd, a silent, disapproving sentinel.
As the first contestant, a giggling girl in a too-tight t-shirt, mounted the stage to a wave of hoots and cheers, a murmur started. It grew, became a chant. “Agatha! Agatha!” Miss Pimm stiffened, her spine ramrod straight. She pretended not to hear.
But the crowd parted, and suddenly, two burly men from the volunteer fire department, their faces grimly determined, were moving towards her. Before she could utter a protest, before she could even shriek, strong hands clamped onto her arms. A gasp caught in her throat.
"This is for the team, Miss Pimm," one of them mumbled, not meeting her eyes.
She was not dragged, not exactly, but propelled with an irresistible force through the bewildered onlookers, up the steps, and onto the sun-baked stage. The cheers erupted into a roar, a wave of cruel, gleeful anticipation. The stage lights, meant for the contestants, suddenly felt like a spotlight of shame. She blinked, disoriented, staring out at the sea of faces she knew, faces now twisted into expressions of mockery and satisfaction.
Before she could regain her footing, a large bucket materialized. Its contents, ice water, sloshed precariously. There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd, then a triumphant roar as the bucket tilted.
The arctic shock hit her with a physical blow. It was like being plunged into a glacial lake. Her thin blouse, a modest, pale cotton, instantly plastered itself to her skin. Her hair, so tightly wound, sprang loose in damp tendrils around her shocked face. A gasp, ragged and involuntary, escaped her lips.
As the water streamed from her, the fabric became utterly transparent. Her utterly flat chest, usually obscured by sensible wool and starched cotton, was starkly, cruelly visible. A wave of laughter, sharp and derisive, swept through the crowd. Men hooted, women giggled behind their hands, and even a few children pointed, mimicking the adults.
Someone stepped forward, a smirk on his face. It was Mr. Henderson, the baker, a man who always bought her library’s discarded paperbacks. In his hand was a ridiculously large, gaudily painted plastic football. He placed it on her head, like a crown.
“And for our special, uninvited guest,” he announced, his voice booming over the microphone, “Oakhaven proudly presents the inaugural ‘Boobless Booby Prize!’”
The laughter escalated, a deafening tide of humiliation. Miss Pimm stood frozen, water dripping from her nose, her clothes clinging like a second skin. Her face, usually so composed, was white, her eyes wide with shock and a dawning, terrible understanding. The applause for the "prize" was thunderous, louder than for any winning touchdown.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply stood there, dripping and exposed, as the jeering crowd absorbed their lesson in public shaming. When the last echo of cruel laughter faded, she would walk off that stage, a thin, gaunt woman drenched in ice water.
