An Abuse of Power

We get to patrol the school grounds just over once a week.   The schedule is for one sixth of the faculty every school day, so your day “on” is not the same day every week.

I had volunteered Car Park supervision – my class room is close to the car park, which would save time when the first period started.

I teach bookkeeping at Wilton High School, and I have a very high success rate for final exams.   Some say it is because the course is an easy-A:  but I think that is just professional jealousy from other staff members who do not get the exam results my students get.

I checked in the mirror that my hair was neatly pinned, and that I had not put on too much lipstick that morning.   I don’t really hold with makeup, but all the other female teachers wore it, and I did not want to be too independent.

I walked across to car park.  A car park for students!  In my day the very idea would have been laughable, but now it was 1971, and times had certainly changed.   Wilton High itself was one of those newfangled buildings – all white façade.   It looked more like a hospital than a school, if anyone had asked me for an opinion.

The car park was divided into lanes by grassy strips, with trees on them.   The trees were in full leaf – it was early May, and summer was almost upon us.

I stood on one of the central knolls, so that I could keep an eye on several of the parking areas.   Litter was the problem with the youth of today, and a detention per piece of litter helped to keep the problem in check.

A big red flashy Corvair roared to a halt twenty yards or so away from me.   I recognized that car as the one that Victoria Moore drove.   Moore!   An insufferable buffoon who thought that the art of bookkeeping was nothing more than finding “short cuts”.   No stamina to write things out properly – a scrawl rather than penmanship:  and so very, very smug that she could get to the correct arithmetical result without making all the necessary ledger entries.

At least I would be rid of her forever at the end of this academic year.   Class of 71 my foot!

I looked with a disinterested sneer in her direction.   And I could not believe what I saw.   She was smoking a cigarette…

---oo0oo---

It was a glorious morning as I drown down Vesper Avenue – the sun was high in a pale pastel-blue sky, and it promised to be a hot – even sultry – afternoon.   The cherry trees that lined the road had almost lost their entire blossom, and just the odd bloom now drifted down in the light breeze.

As I approach the entrance to Wilton High, I shifted down a gear, and used the powerful engine of my Chevy Corvair to slow me down to take the turn.  For a high school senior, I was not that bad a driver:  but then, my dad did own the local driving school.

The school buildings gleamed bright white in the strong sunlight – I was sure this was going to be a good day.

Three weeks to final exams.  And prom dance.   And graduation.   So close that you could almost touch them.   Just three more weeks of classroom, assignments and homework and then on to the long, long break while waiting for a good college place to turn up.

I pulled into the student car park, parked squarely between two painted white lines, put the gear stick into neutral, and switched off the engine.   I took one last puff at my cigarette, and stubbed it out.

I climbed out, shut the door with a side swipe of my hip, locked it and dropped the keys in my purse.

Suddenly, so sudden she startled me, Miss Grey was directly in front of me – her face screwed up in the way some old women do when they are looking for a confrontation.   Miss Grey – what a very appropriate name for an old withered woman who could even suck the colors out of flowers.

Small, frail, with grey hair and grey specked complexion – how someone so past their retirement date could continue to teach was beyond me.   I had three more weeks of her class and she would be out of my life forever.   And good riddance too.   She had not given me a single A for any assignment or homework for the entire semester.   And yet A’s were freely available to those who handed in trial balances that did not balance, provided the calligraphy was up to her standard.  Fortunately, final exams were graded by external assessors:  I would get an A then, and that was the only one that mattered.

“Moore!   You were smoking!” she barked at me.

“I was still in my car, Miss Grey.    I put the cigarette out before getting out of it.”

“Hah!   You admit it!   You were smoking!   You report to Mister Harris.   Go get your things from your locker, and then go straight to his office.”  She was almost spluttering with rage.

“Mister Harris?   What on earth are you talking about?”

“Just you get yourself there, Moore.   And don’t you dawdle about it.”

I walked rather slowly to the lockers on either side of the main hall, and took out my books for period one.   

And then set off on the long trek to the admin block, close to the school entrance, far from the hurly burly of the central corridor.  I held my books in front of me, across my chest, as if protecting myself.

At least I would not get a tardy by being late to class, if the cause of such lateness was due to a visit to the Principal’s Office.

I entered the outer office, and placed my books on an empty chair.

“I am here to see Mister Harris,” I said to a somewhat plump school administrator, dark clothed for  such a bright office,  her hair tied back in a bun.   She simply nodded in the general direction of the principal’s office, and returned to the document she was studying.

My meeting with Mister Harris was quite perfunctory.

A tap on the door, a bid to enter and I stepped into his office.   The room was paneled in Walnut, repeating the light and breezy air the architects thought suitable for a modern school.   Mister Harris sat behind a large desk, white short sleeved shirt open at the neck.   He did not invite me to sit down.

I think he recognized me instantly – probably expecting me -  for he simply asked “When is your first free period?”   On being told that it was the second period, he said “Come back then – we have a matter of discipline to discuss.”  And then I was dismissed.   Just like that – not a word of what was going on his mind.

Back in the classroom, my math  teacher attempted to instill some understanding of the relationship between Sine and Cosine as part of the exam preparation.   But my mind kept drifting to the upcoming meeting with Mister Harris and the question of discipline.   I was not unduly concerned – one single detention in nearly four years made me one of a very select group of goody two-shoes.  But the downside was that meant Mister Harris was an unknown quantity to me.

How he ever got to be a Principal was unfathomable.   He was an ex-Football Coach with the academic acumen of a library door stop.   His only credential was his powerful physique which kept all students in check.   If your misdeeds led to a meeting with his paddle, it was an experience you would never want to repeat.   Wilton High School once had a bad reputation for discipline - before he arrived.   That reputation had long been replaced.   The Board of Supervisors was happy with its choice, and if they were happy, what did it matter what the school kids thought?

At the end of first period, I took a short cut through the central hall to get back to my locker.   The walls were starting to be decorated with ribbons and posters, all proclaiming that the Class of 71 was the best class ever to graduate from Wilton High.

As I approached Mister Harris’s office for the second time that day, I wiped the palms of my hands dry on the seat of my jeans, checked that my blouse was properly fastened at its top, and knocked on the door.

“Enter!”

---oo0oo---

I was signing off vouchers and chits for the PTA in respect of the upcoming school prom.   The bell had gone to sound the start of second period, so when there was a tap on my office door.   I kind of guessed it had to be Moore.

She was a slip of a girl.   Five feet seven, perhaps 120 pounds, may be 125.  Pony tail.   Big eyes.   Ran track if I recalled right – certainly not an outstanding athlete.

On the other hand, I still carry an athletic body, even though I am well past the age of 40.

She stood in front of my desk and faced me, lips pursed.   “Sir?”  she said, all demure

 I hoped that I would get the chance to take that smirk off her face, one way or another, before this interview was done.   And I knew precisely which way would be most satisfying for me, if not for her hide.

“Miss Grey tells me she caught you smoking on school premises,”  I said, calm, matter of fact, as if I had not already decided what I was going to her.

“I was in my car!” she snapped – almost a hint of anger.   This was not the time nor the place to have the luxury of anger.

“Why would Miss Grey tell me you were smoking on school premises, if you were in your car?” I asked in a voice full of sweet innocence.

“Because Miss Grey is a stupid bitch.   Hiding in the car park, stirring up trouble!”  And there it was.   Raw, open anger.   Good.   That suited my plan very well.

“So you were in the car park at the time Miss Grey saw you?”  I said with cold deliberation

“But I was still in my car!” she protested, clenching and unclenching her fists.

“Your car was on school property.   Ergo, you were on school property.   It seems to me, Moore, that Miss Grey told it exactly the way it was.”  Ice cold.   Check mate.

“This is so unfair…” 

The smirk had gone.   This looked as if it might be easy pickings.   I led her into the impossible choice.

“You have broken the rules, and you will now pay the price.   You can choose between a week’s suspension …” I paused and looked straight into her big hazel eyes.   Let’s see what she made of that opening salvo.

“A week?   A week’s suspension so near to finals?   For what I did, a day would be too much.   This deserves a detention at the very most…”

She was right.  A single detention would have been appropriate in most other circumstances.   But I set the sentence, and if I said it was a week’s suspension, there was no court of appeal to overturn me.   And now on to the coup de grace, as the French say.

“A week’s suspension -  or you get paddled.    Here and now.   A paddling.   Your choice.”  I leaned back and waited, almost holding my breath waiting for her reply

It looked to me as if she was trying to blink back tears.   I bet the seat of her jeans had tightened as she clenched her cheeks at the offer I had just made.   That always happens at this stage.

“Mister Harris, I have a perfect discipline record.   That must count for something?”  She was caving in.

“Rules are rules, Moore.   What is it to be?”   I was fairly confident it was not going to be the suspension.

“You know I have no choice.   I cannot take a hit to my GPA like that.   How many swats will I get?”

“This is not a time for negotiation.   Are you taking a paddling?”   Truth time.   I had her now, there was no way out for her.

“Yes sir.”

Yes!   I could have done a high five, if such a thing was far too undignified for a principal to do.

“Then I shall tell you how many swats you are going to get.”   I paused for effect, to prolong her suspense.    

“You are going to get eight.”  

“Eight swats for smoking in my car?”  She was genuinely astounded.

“Six swats for smoking on school premises.   You get one extra for calling Miss Grey a bitch, and one extra for arguing with me about it.”   Got you, you little madam.   I knew that I was going to enjoy the next couple of minutes far more than she was.  

And her face carried the unmistakable mixture of defeat and horror as she realized just what she had let herself in for.

---oo0oo---

This cannot be happening, I thought to myself.   The fear deep inside me started to make my legs tremble.

“Now, this is what we are going to do.”   He stood up, opened a draw on his side of the desk, and produced the paddle.   It had a round handle, about six inches long, and then a blade twenty four inches long, half an inch thick.   Four holes had been drilled along its center line.

I stared at it aghast.   He was going to hit me with THAT?

I was almost in shock as I heard him continue.  “You are going to bend over my desk, and grab the opposite side with both hands.”

I paused for a second, to collect my wits, and somehow made myself step forward.   I lay my upper body down on the inlaid leather surface of his desk.   Then I grabbed the opposite side with both hands.

“Move your hands farther apart, until your arms are straight” 

I did so, like an automaton, and made a Y over his desk top.

“Good.   Now move your feet backwards, until your legs are straight.”  

I sort of walked my feet backwards until they could go back no farther.  I was laid out straight, totally vulnerable.   Then i felt the paddle resting against my taught, strained bottom.   I think I would have sold my soul to the devil to end the torment right at this point.

“Right.   Eight swats.   If you move so much as a finger from that position, we start over from the beginning again.   Clear?”

I nodded.

He gave me a very light tap on my bottom.  It made me twitch.

“I said “Clear?”

“Yes, sir, it is clear,” I answered

“You can yell as much as you like – no law against yelling – but you are not to move.”

“Yes, sir.”  You won’t make me yell, Mister Harris! I thought.   I am damned if I will give you that satisfaction.

The first swat landed – the swing had made little noise, but the crack of its arrival was like a pistol going off.    

The sensation to my bottom cheeks was similar to that when you accidently touch a hot iron – a nasty little sting that makes you want to pull you hand away quickly.   But when you are lying across a desk, you cannot pull away when the nasty little sting is across your bottom.   And to add to its nastiness is the knowledge that it is merely the first of many.  All you can do is grit up your determination and count off a silent “one.”  I counted them all off.   It helped me keep myself under control.

As the pain increased with each stroke, it became like hundreds and hundreds of individual spots of intense pain – almost as if a swarm of bees were stinging at my buttocks in frenzied rage after a hive had been knocked over.

My refusal to yell seem to really annoy Mister Harris – as if I was defying his authority or some such nonsense by keeping quiet!  The last couple of strokes were delivered so hard, I would bet that they were with as much strength as he could muster.  They both forced a mewl of pain out of me – but suppressed by clenched teeth and thereby controlled in volume to a quiet grunt.

He stood back away from me, breathing heavily.   I looked back and up at him.   He was smiling - a smile of quiet victory.   

I stood up very gingerly, taking care to show him no undue signs of distress.  He expected to me to bawling like a child by now.   He was not going to get that satisfaction.

“May I go now, sir?”

“Yes.   And don’t get yourself sent to me again, Moore” he said quite smugly.

“I shall not.  Thank you, sir,”

As soon as I had closed the door behind me, I clutched the seat of my jeans with both hands, and started to massage in some relief.

I made it slowly and carefully to the rest room, and filled a washbasin with cold water.

Then I found that I could not pull down my jeans.   The pressure of the waist area against the fresh bruises was too much for me to bear.  I looked into the mirror and saw that a single tear was running down my right cheek.   If only I had worn a dress today – I had actually planned on wearing a dress today – now I would have cool air and cold water to apply to my bottom.   Instead, it was encased in tight denim, denim that was holding the heat in good and proper.

So I simply stood still, both hands propped against the wash basin, with my head bowed and waited for the sting to ease.

Eventually, the bell announcing end of second period rang through the P.A. system.   It was now time to make my way to Period 3.   Everyone would be able to tell I had been paddled.   The limp, the wince when I sat down, the inability to hold still in one place while sitting – they were the telltale signs.

Everybody would know.

Damn Mister Harris.   Damn him to hell.