Please not the paddle

The paddling was, as school paddlings are, quick, wordless, and, to Beverly’s mind, brutal.

Mrs. Buchanan did not say another word. Beverly’s terror was intense, and she was starting to cry. Then, she felt the paddle strike her bottom—just above her thighs, on that soft spot. She yelped, and two seconds later the next one hit her, and the next, and then the next. The swats were fire, all of them in the same spot as the first. Expertly placed for maximum effect, and the effect was total. Beverly cried uncontrollably, and after the fifth, fell to her knees and sobbed, her face against the desk.

Mrs. Buchanan set the paddle down on the desk, and softly touched the top of Beverly’s weeping head. “Stand up, dear,” she said.

Beverly struggled to her feet. Mrs. Buchanan handed her a Kleenex. “Go back to class, and remember what will happen on Fridays if you misbehave, Beverly.”

Mrs. Buchanan walked her to the door. The girl outside was staring down at the floor, but looked up long enough to see Beverly weeping like a little girl. Beverly’s bottom burned, and her cheeks burned red with humiliation. She walked past the bench, and heard Mrs. Buchanan say, “Rhonda, please come in.”