– Part I: “Too Smart for My Own Good” –

You might think having a score of 155 on the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children (WISC) would be an advantage. If you’re not into test scores, the WISC is an intelligence test for kids that I took in the first grade. A score of 155 is very high. A score of 130 or higher means you’re “very superior.” You can get into Mensa, that elite snobby little club for so-called “geniuses,” with a score of 130. In college once, I went to a Mensa meeting. They didn’t seem all that bright to me. Then again, 130 and 155 really aren’t all that close together.

I went to a rural school high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the 1970s when they didn’t have anything like “special tracking” or “accelerated learning” programs for smart kids. Like kids with mental retardation, I was “mainstreamed” simply because the teachers and the school didn’t know what else to do.

Because of the construction of a large hydroelectric dam and plant in the high mountains above where we lived, our little rural school grew by about 25% when all the kids from the construction project (mostly Mormons) showed up. So there were two fifth grade classes. I got Mrs. Crandall, a rather kind, easy-going teacher that my mom had known for years. (Mom taught kindergarten at the same elementary school.) Mr. Levier, a new teacher that nobody knew much about, taught the other fifth graders.

I didn’t dislike school; I just felt bored all the time. Like Mrs. Crandall would give us an assignment and I would finish it in about five minutes. Then I wouldn’t have anything to do for the rest of the hour.

For example, I remember in the third grade, we had to memorize the multiplication tables. You know, 2 X 2 = 4, 2 X 3 = 6, 2 X 4 = 8. So on and so on. We had to memorize through the 12s, so that meant memorizing 144 separate “math facts,” as our teacher called them. Of course, that’s treating 2 X 3 = 6 as different from 3 X 2 = 6, which of course it isn’t. It’s the same math fact in a different order. We each got 12 sheets of paper, the mimeograph kind with purple ink and that really neat-smelling fluid on it. I used to like sniffing fresh mimeograph sheets. We got it on a Friday and I thought it would be kind of fun to try to memorize them over the weekend. Our teacher was pretty impressed that I knew all 144 math facts on Monday. But then I didn’t have anything to do for the next six months while I waited for the other kids to catch up.

For me, memorizing stuff wasn’t any big deal. Later in high school, they tested me and found out that I had eidetic or photographic memory. When I was four or five, I used to go around memorizing TV commercials and repeating them over and over. Cute at first, Mom finally begged me to stop, because commercials are annoying enough just coming from the TV. It’s maddening, I suppose, to have your child prodigy repeating Madison Avenue babble verbatim.

Finally, Mom convinced Dad to have a “heart-to-heart talk” about mimicking those annoying commercials. We went for a walk in the forested area behind our house—away from the county road. Dad sat on a tree stump, draped me over his lap and spanked me on the panties. He helped me up, wiped my eyes and nose with his handkerchief, and told me he was sorry he had to spank me. But he wanted me to understand that, although I was a very smart little girl, I still must obey my mother. I sniffled that I understood.

He said I needed another spanking—just to make sure I remembered. I wish I could have explained to him back then that I have an eidetic memory and that a second spanking really wasn’t necessary. I would remember that first spanking just fine. But I didn’t have my facts in order, so Dad spanked me again. Not super-hard or anything. But I’ll always remember that double spanking out in the woods. That’s the last spanking I got before Dad died.

I probably would have never ended up in Mr. Levier’s class if Mrs. Crandall didn’t get a burst appendix. We got a substitute for almost a month. The poor substitute had her hands full with all the regular kids. Remember, these classes were bursting at the seams because of all the Mormon kids from the dam project. So Mom asked Mr. Levier if I could transfer over to his class—at least until Mrs. Crandall recovered.

When I showed up before school the first day in Mr. Levier’s class, he told me that his name was Mr. Lev-YEAH. He insisted that I repeat it back. Of course, I memorized it right away, even if it looked like “Levy-ear” on paper. He must have been in his early 20s, fresh out of student teaching. He wore his hair cut very close to his round head. He had a prominent nose. He wore a bow tie and seemed much more serious about everything than Mrs. Crandall.

That first morning in class, one of the boys whispered to another, “I wonder what Mr. Levy-ear wants us to do today?”

Mr. Levier heard the remark and called the boy to the front. Mr. Levier took a two-foot paddle from his desk drawer and told the boy to bend over.

POP!

“How do you say my name, Jeffrey?”

“Mr. Lev-YEAH!” he quickly replied.

POP!

“Excellent, Jeffrey. Do you think you can remember how to pronounce my name correctly?”

POP!

“Yes, sir!”

POP!

“Very well, Jeffrey. You may sit down. Does anyone else need to come up here and have a little tutorial in pronunciation?”

We all knew rhetorical questions when we heard them, even if we didn’t know what to call them. Nobody volunteered for a tutorial.

You have to understand that, back in the 1970s in rural California, things were kind of like the Deep South. Most of the people had come to rural California during the Depression from Oklahoma, Texas, and other places South. So paddling children in the classroom was pretty common. However, some teachers like Mrs. Crandall never paddled her students. Others like Mrs. Worley, my second grade teacher, sometimes did paddle in front of the class. While a girl could also get paddled in principle, I never saw any of my girl classmates paddled. So for me, paddlings were an abstract threat and something of a spectator sport.

I paid attention to what Mr. Levier had to say and did my assignments. But I got bored and sort of stared out the window. I could see birds flying about in a big tree outside the window. If I concentrated on the birds, I could forget how utterly bored I was.

“Miss Bracken!” he snapped at me several times. “Direct your attention to your work!”

After school, he asked me to stay behind. He seemed in a really grumpy mood.

“You don’t seem to find my assignments very entertaining, Miss Bracken,” he said. “So I see you choose to amuse yourself by watching the flora and fauna outside. I suggest you direct your attention to our studies, if you know what’s good for you.”

I remember his exact words, because—like I said—I’ve got photographic memory. But gosh! Mrs. Crandall never seemed to mind me looking out the window. I decided I didn’t like Mr. Levier one bit. I couldn’t wait for Mrs. Crandall to get better so I could go back to her class.

I did my homework while watching cartoons. Unfortunately, I didn’t put it in my book bag. The next morning when I realized my mistake, I went up to Mr. Levier to explain. He seemed really annoyed. I said I’d stay in at recess and do it again. He said I’d need at least 45 minutes to do it, but agreed to let me stay in anyway. He gave me the blank homework sheets, still smelling of mimeograph fluid.

Five minutes after recess began, I found Mr. Levier on the playground and showed him my homework. He eyed me suspiciously and told me he wanted to talk to me after school. After the final bell, I waited around at my desk. Mr. Levier was writing something at his desk, almost like he was ignoring me.

I walked up to his desk, “You wanted to talk to me, Mr. Levier?”

He looked up at me. “Did I call you up, Miss Bracken?”

“No, Mr. Levier.”

“Does it not appear that I am working on something else at the moment?”

“Yes, Mr. Levier.”

“Then would you mind sitting down and folding your hands until I’m ready to deal with you?”

“Yes, Mr. Levier. I mean no. I mean yes I’ll sit and no I don’t mind.”

“Good!” he said with a tight smile. “We finally understand each other.”

So I sat at my desk with my hands folded, waiting for Mr. Levier. Mostly I felt bored (as usual), but I also felt strangely anxious. Mr. Levier made me feel the way I used to when I got in trouble with Dad. I started think about Dad. Mom said he went to Heaven, but I had already begun to doubt that such a place existed. Like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, some things are just too good to be true. But in the fourth grade, I began thinking about Heaven like another dimension. Maybe there’s some kind of energy that passes over into that other dimension. Now that’s a possibility...

“Miss Bracken, step forward.”

I snapped back to reality. As I walked forward, expecting a stupid lecture about something or other, Mr. Levier came around his desk and took me firmly by the upper arm. He led me to a small worktable next to the chalkboard.

“Reach over and grab the other side of the table.”

I had to stand on tiptoes to grip the other side, facing the chalkboard. Although it was late September, that year we had an Indian summer. So I wore a short blue cotton jumper with a white flower print. I felt kind of embarrassed, because I feared maybe Mr. Levier might see my undies.

“Look over at the map of the United States,” he said, standing behind me. “Start with the upper left. Tell me the name of each state and its capital.”

So this was going to be a pop quiz, I decided. I didn’t see why I had to bend over but I turned my head away from his desk and toward the map on the wall. I couldn’t see anything but the shape of the states. Besides, that particular map showed mountains and rivers and stuff like that, not the names of cities and such. However, I memorized all of them one afternoon about a month before, so this was no big deal for me.

“The capital of Washington is Olympia,” I began, my tone no doubt sounding utterly bored. “The capital of Oregon is Salem.”

Mr. Levier went back to his desk and I just kept rattling off states and capitals. I guess Mr. Levier had something he needed to read at his desk. I wasn’t even sure he was listening.

But finally he came back over as I squinted at the map, trying to make out the tiny states in the eastern U.S.

“The capital of Rhode Island is Providence. The capital of...”

POP!

“Aiieee!”

I leapt up and grabbed my buns, turning to face Mr. Levier and seeing for the first time what my buns had already felt. Mr. Levier had his paddle in hand.

“Why?” I said, batting back tears, more from the shock than the pain.

“Did I tell you to let go of the table?” he replied with a question rather than an answer. “Did I tell you to stand up?”

Still clutching my bottom, I shook my head.

“Then I suggest resuming your position and continuing your recitation of states and capitals.”

I bent over and grabbed the far side of table, feeling confused and betrayed. He tugged up my dress in back so there was no question in my mind that he could see my undies. At least I wore clean undies. Mom always impressed upon me the importance of clean underwear. But I’d never had anybody actually see my undies before.

“The capital of Connecticut is Hartford...”

POP!

I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth.

Don’t cry... Don’t you dare cry... I repeated over and over in my head.

“What about New Jersey, Miss Bracken?”

I paused and then softly replied, “Trenton.”

POP!

I dug my fingernails into the edge of the wooden table and ground my molars. My buns were really starting to sting.

Finally I continued, “The capital of Delaware is...”

I closed my eyes and braced myself. “...Dover.”

POP!

Painfully, I worked my way down the eastern seaboard, through Annapolis, Richmond, Raleigh, Atlanta, and finally Tallahassee.

Mr. Levier felt compelled to punctuate all my sentences for me.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

I stood up, but I refused to let him see me rub my buns like a child. I balled my fists and held my arms stiffly at my side. Mr. Levier took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my tears and made me blow my nose. I kept my teeth clenched so I never cried or anything, but a lot of cry-snot came out when I blew.

“I commend you for maintaining position, Miss Bracken,” he said, putting the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Unfortunately, you have paid a discourtesy to the newest additions to this great nation of ours.”

“Al-Alaska and H-Hawaii?” I managed to mutter, without breaking down and crying like a baby.

He nodded and tapped the table. I bent over and told him about Juneau and Honolulu. He rewarded me with two additional paddle pops, these a tad harder than the rest.

This time when I stood, I rubbed my buns. I didn’t care if he did see me. Out came his handkerchief to wipe my eyes and blow my nose again.

“From now on, Miss Bracken, remember to bring your homework. And keep your eyes inside the classroom.”

He turned away and returned to his desk. He began writing almost immediately. I stood staring at him, rubbing my bottom.

You mean, MEAN man! I kept thinking. You have no right...

I can see it if some kid doesn’t bring his homework day after day. But just one day?? I’d never heard of anything so mean in my entire ten years. And paddling a girl? I know there’s no rule against paddling girls. But why me?

“That’s all, Miss Bracken,” he said looking up. “You may go. And stop rubbing your bottom. That’s very unladylike.”

I grabbed my book bag and headed for Mom’s classroom. But the minute I got out of Mr. Levier’s classroom, I needed a place to be alone. I ducked into a girl’s restroom and locked the door of my toilet stall.

I pulled down my panties and sat down. Then I bawled my head off. Not just from pain, even though my buns felt hot and throbbing. I cried over the injustice of what he had done to me.

I sat there sniffling, devising a plan. I would tell Mom. She would agree that Mr. Levier had no right to paddle me because I forgot my homework just this one time. Mom would get me out of Mr. Levier’s classroom and back in Mrs. Crandall’s fifth grade. Maybe I could get Mr. Levier fired. I hated his mean, stupid guts!

I washed my face and tried to make myself look like I hadn’t been crying for the last ten minutes.

As I walked toward Mom’s kindergarten classroom and my ride home, I heard footsteps behind me.

“Miss Bracken!”

I spun to see Mr. Levier, briefcase in hand, pausing on his way to the teacher’s parking lot.

“You did quite well on your homework even though it was late,” he said. “Also, good job on the state capitals. See you tomorrow.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. When I recovered from my shock, I said “Thank you!” to the spot where he once stood.

Walking to Mom’s classroom, I felt so confused! Mr. Levier had no right to paddle me. Or did he? Why did he pick on me? The funny thing is, no other teacher had ever disciplined me by word or act for anything. Maybe because they knew I was smart or maybe because Mom teaches, all my teachers let me pretty much entertain myself.

“She’s probably just bored,” my teachers and Mom would agree when I got B’s and even C’s on my report card.

When I got all A’s on my report card, Mom would point out my 155 on the WISC and shrug.

“You have a gift, Grace,” Mom would say about my perfect report card, tapping the top of my head with her finger. “Don’t ever be boastful or prideful. Other children earn much better grades without the advantage of your intelligence.”

Well, for one thing, when I get straight A’s, there’s no possible way to do “better” than me because it’s mathematically impossible. I always figured Mom just didn’t understand, because she only teaches kindergarten. Much later, I figured out her Catholicism makes her say things like that.

As mean as he was, Mr. Levier seemed to expect something from me. He reminded me of somebody, although I couldn’t put my finger on exactly who.

“How was your day?” Mom asked with a cheery smile when I opened her door.

“Fine!” I smiled, still aglow from Mr. Levier’s compliment moments before. “I think I really like Mr. Levier.”

I couldn’t believe what I just said! The words popped out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to work on them.

“I hear he’s pretty strict,” she replied. “Why are your eyes all puffy, honey?”

“Hay fever,” I lied, then sneezed for special effect.

– Part II: “The Deal with Mr. Levier” –

My first day in Mr. Levier’s fifth grade class, he paddled me for forgetting my homework. I stayed in from recess and did it again, but Mr. Levier paddled me anyway right after school. Is that any way to treat a child prodigy with an IQ of 155? No way, right? I mean, teachers simply didn’t paddle girls at my school, even if they did something really bad. Just the boys got it. That just goes to prove that Mr. Levier was a mean, mean, MEAN man.

But that same afternoon, after I got done crying in the girl’s restroom, I saw Mr. Levier as he was leaving school. “You did quite well on your homework even though it was late,” he had said. “Also, good job on the state capitals. See you tomorrow.”

Oh, yeah. He had made me recite the capitals of all the states on the East Coast—plus Alaska and Hawaii—while he was whacking my panties with that big paddle of his.

When I got to her classroom, I don’t know why I told Mom maybe I liked Mr. Levier. Maybe because he paid me a compliment? Maybe because he didn’t go all gaga because I’m smarter than any other kids around, like other teachers do? Maybe because he wasn’t impressed that I could re-do 45 minutes of homework in 10 minutes?

I dunno.

I lay awake in my bed that night, thinking about Mr. Levier. I got up twice to look at my spanked bottom in the mirror. I liked checking my bottom when Dad used to spank me before he died. But that was five years ago and five years is a long time between spankings. I wanted to see the paddle marks and—boy!—those red splotches weren’t going away anytime soon. Ouch!

When I got to school the next day, I decided to make a bold move.

“Mr. Levier?” I said, poking my head in the classroom door. “Can I talk to you?”

“Are you asking me whether you have the ability to move your lips and make words come out of your mouth, Miss Bracken? Or are you asking permission to speak to me?”

What a grouch! I thought.

“Permission to speak, Mr. Levier. “May I?”

OK, I got the vocabulary correction. I’m not stupid. And I’m pretty good at sarcasm for a girl my age, if I do say so myself.

“You’re pretty good at sarcasm, Miss Bracken. I’ll permit you this one error in your judgment. But NEVER speak to me the way again!”

He slammed his palm on his desk and pointed his finger at me. It vibrated with anger. I looked in his eyes and felt immediately scared.

“Yes, sir!”

I don’t call anybody “sir.” But it seemed like a good idea under the circumstances.

“Well, Miss Bracken, speak! I haven’t all day.”

I screwed up the courage to make the little speech I concocted while I stood in the bathroom the night before, rubbing the big red paddle marks on my buns.

“Mr. Levier, I was thinking maybe I would transfer over to your class. You know, permanently. But, Mr. Levier, I really wish you wouldn’t paddle me. I really am a good girl and I don’t need to be punished for little things. Like yesterday.”

I stood in front of Mr. Levier’s desk, my hands folded in front, digging my fingernails into the back of my hand. Now that the words were out of my mouth, I couldn’t take them back.

I had figured out everything to say beforehand. I made sure I said everything in a respectful way. Please don’t paddle me for little tiny things. I mean, is that too much to ask?

But Mr. Levier just stared at me across his desk, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. I tried to look back at him. Mom says never look down when you’re talking to an adult, unless you are ashamed of yourself. After awhile, I couldn’t do it. I stared down at my shoes.

“Miss Bracken, you have absolutely no say regarding whether you stay in my class or return to Mrs. Crandall’s fifth grade. This school is not run by the inmates. As far as my class is concerned, I’m only interested in students who want to work hard. I do not like lazy children, Miss Bracken. When Mrs. Crandall returns to work, you are going back.”

“But why?”

“Because I don’t want you in my class, Miss Bracken.”

Mr. Levier returned to the papers he was grading. I stood in front of his desk, stunned. I couldn’t believe it.

“School officially starts in 20 minutes, Miss Bracken,” he said looking up briefly. “At that time, you become my responsibility. Until then, I have no desire to be your baby-sitter. You are dismissed.”

Mr. Levier returned to grading and I beat a hasty retreat. Outside, I didn’t know what to do. I ended up in the girl’s restroom. I found the same stall where I cried my eyes out yesterday, after Mr. Levier paddled me. I sat down on the toilet like an old friend and began sobbing. I think I cried harder than I did after yesterday’s spanking.

In class, Mr. Levier ignored me. I did everything I was supposed to do. I didn’t look out the window once. I filled out the sheets of paper. I raised my hand when he asked questions, because I always knew the answer. But he ignored me. After lunch during science, Mr. Levier asked a really interesting question that I knew none of the others could answer. I was so excited I waved my hand.

“Miss Bracken, I’m sure you know the answer,” said Mr. Levier, giving me a stern look. “We all know how quickly your little brain memorizes facts and figures. But parrots can memorize, too. Would you like to be the class parrot, Miss Bracken?”

Everybody laughed at me and I put my hand down. Mr. Levier’s remark turned my face as red has his paddle made my bottom the day before. I kept my hand down for the rest of the day.

When the final bell rang, I slipped out before the other fifth graders and made a dash for the girl’s restroom. I cried on my regular toilet seat. I kept thinking, Mr. Levier is a mean, mean man.

I had half an hour before Mom would take us home. I decided I was going to get to the bottom of why Mr. Levier hated me so.

I didn’t even knock. I walked right in and up to his desk, folding my hands in front.

“Mr. Levier, I don’t care if you spank me for this, but I want to know why you’re being so mean to me.”

He looked up and stared coldly at me across his desk.

“I spank children I’m interested in helping,” he said at last. “And I have no interest in helping you. So let’s just try to put up with each other until Mrs. Crandall gets back. She likes working with mediocre students and lazy minds. That’s where you belong. You’re dismissed.”

“But that’s not fair, Mr. Levier!” I said, tears rolling down my cheeks. “You aren’t giving me a chance.”

“I’ve looked at your cumulative file,” he said, his forehead wrinkled. “I see B’s and C’s. With your IQ, every report card should be straight A’s. You’re lazy and undisciplined, Miss Bracken. I see from your cumulative file that yesterday’s paddling was your first recorded spanking at this school. Is that true?”

I nodded.

“And your mother doesn’t spank you, does she?”

I nodded again.

“Poor grades and no spankings,” he said, shaking his head. “As I said, Miss Bracken, lazy and undisciplined.”

“But I can change!” I insisted, leaning forward and putting my hands down flat on the edge of his desk. “I swear I can. Why won’t you help me?”

He looked into my eyes, sat back in his chair, and folded his arms.

“Come with me,” he said at last.

He clasped me by my upper arm and escorted me at a quick clip to the storage room in back of the classroom. He pulled on the string that ignited the naked electric bulb hanging from a cord.

“This, Miss Bracken, is what’s called a programmed learning station.”

He opened a big box and lifted out a portable slide projector with a small TV-like screen. He plugged it into an electrical outlet. He pulled a headset out of the box and plugged it into the projector. Then he opened another box with a bunch of slide carousels and audiocassettes.

“Here,” he said, pulling the headset wide so I could slip my head between, “look the screen and listen to this.”

The voice on the audiocassette explained how the dinosaurs roamed the Earth some 65 to 85 million years ago. With a beep on the tape, the slide on the screen changed to a picture of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The voice on the tape explained that the T. Rex was a powerful meat-eater and one of the last to disappear during the great extinction.

You got to remember, this was a rural elementary school in the 1970s, before the advent of the personal computer. This programmed learning station—while primitive by today’s standards—was cutting-edge technology in the eyes of this little 10-year-old.

Mr. Levier took the headset from my head and pulled out a small metal box, about the size of a thick book.

“This is the QuizMatic,” he explained. “I put the quiz in here...”

He inserted a long computer punch card into the QuizMatic and handed me a stylus and a small booklet.

“There’s 30 questions in this booklet about dinosaurs,” Mr. Levier said, actually sounding like he was interested in something. “The questions are based on what’s on the tape and slides. Go ahead, just answer some of the questions.”

I looked in the booklet and saw the first question was about how long ago the last of the dinosaurs died off. The booklet gave me five choices. I used the stylus to poke answer B, because—of course—that was the right answer. Then I answered two more, poking holes in the card for the right answer each time.

“Now watch this,” said Mr. Levier, taking out another metal box almost identical to the QuizMatic. The word AnswerMatic appeared in raised letters on it. “I put in the template for this quiz...”

He held up something black object that looked like a thin domino with holes in it, then slipped it in the back of the AnswerMatic.

“Then I put in your answer card,” he said, slipping the computer punch card into another slot. “And the AnswerMatic scores the quiz. See? Three rights. Twenty-seven wrong, because you didn’t answer them.”

“Wow, that’s pretty cool!” I exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

“It’s a project I worked on when I was in the Air Force,” he said, talking to me like a regular person for the first time. “We designed programmed instruction for kids at air force bases up in Alaska where there aren’t enough kids to have regular classes. With programmed instruction, each kid learns at his own pace. The teacher just walks around and scores the quizzes. I’ve got the tapes and slides for all subjects up through the twelfth grade.”

“I bet that would be interesting!” I exclaimed, thinking of all the boring hours I had spent in class, listening to stuff I already knew.

“Yes, you could learn at an accelerated rate,” he replied. “You could finish high school by the time you’re 11 or 12. That is, if you weren’t so lazy.”

“I’m not lazy, Mr. Levier!” I protested. “Nobody ever gives me anything hard to do. I bet if I had something like this...”

I pointed at the programmed learning station.

“...I could really work hard and do good.”

“OK, suppose you stopped being the laziest student in my class,” Mr. Levier replied. “What about discipline?”

“What about it?”

“Here’s my proposition, Miss Bracken. I will let you stay in my class and learn exclusively at this programmed learning station. You’ll have the headset on, so you can just ignore the rest of the class. I’ll come by at designated times and give you your quiz card. Then I’ll score it. And you’ll take the consequences for your errors.”

“What kind of consequences?”

“That where discipline comes in,” he said, opening a drawer under the programmed learning station and pulling out a small black paddle. “For every wrong answer, a swat. That’s what I mean by discipline.”

I eyed that paddle nervously. Only about a foot in length, not counting the handle, this paddle was smaller than the one he spanked me with yesterday. But that little black paddle looked like it could still really sting!

“That would be OK,” I declared, trying to shore up my own courage. “I won’t miss any. And besides, I’m not scared of paddlings.”

Of course, that was a big, fat lie. What I meant was I wasn’t afraid of paddlings I would never get. Remember, I have eidetic memory.

“Good, let’s shake on it,” he said extending his hand.

I felt so grown-up, reaching out and shaking his hand like an adult.

“Now that we have a deal, Miss Bracken, I think you owe me some swats. Twenty-seven to be exact.”

I stared at him blankly, slowly realizing that he was going to spank me for my dinosaur quiz.

“But that’s no fair, Mr. Levier! I didn’t even get a chance to answer all the questions. Please, Mr. Levier. Give me a chance.”

“OK,” he replied, putting the answer card back in the QuizMatic, “you’ve got exactly one minute to answer as many as you can. Go!”

I started flipping through the pages of the quiz book, jumping around and answering all the short questions. Time was of the essence. Of course, this quiz was no fair to me. I couldn’t help thinking Mr. Levier was still a mean man. I only had 60 seconds and I never even got to see the slides or hear the tape. But I read a book about dinosaurs a year ago, so I knew most of the answers anyway. I just didn’t have enough time. When Mr. Levier made me stop and re-scored the punch card, I still missed 13 that I didn’t get around to answering. That meant 13 swats with that little black paddle. Ouch!

But I had accepted Mr. Levier’s deal and now I had to take the consequences. He had me bend over the end of the table where the programmed learning station sat. He asked me to pull up my own skirt in back.

“I’m not paddling you for academics in front of others,” he said, softly patting my panties to let me know exactly where I was going to get it. “I’ll save the quizzes and we’ll dispense with the consequences back here during recesses and lunch hour. But if you misbehave, I’ll spank you right up in front of the whole class, using the big paddle.”

“OK.”

“Miss Bracken, will you please count the strokes for me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Whap! “One!” Whap! “Two!” Whap! “Three!” Whap! “Four!”

I’m NOT gonna cry! I kept thinking. I’m NOT gonna cry!

“So you can imagine, sitting down after a few hard swats on the fanny. You’ll want to give 110% to the next learning set. With this paddle, I can push you to the maximum. We have no idea how fast you can learn. But we’re going to find out, young lady!”

Whap! “Yeowww! Oh! Owie! Ok, that’s five. Five swats.” Whap! “Sssss-sss-ssth... Six!”

“Every lesson you learn will be timed against the clock. And if you’re not done by the deadline...”

Whap! “Seven!” Whap! “Eight!” Whap! “Nine!” Whap! “Ten!”

Don’t cry! That thought kept racing around my brain. Don’t cry!

“And, if I ever catch you daydreaming,” he continued, “or looking out the window...”

Whap! “Eleven!” Whap! “Twelve!” Whap! “Thirteen!”

I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes tightly closed. I breathed in and out slowly, my body shaking because I oh-so-wanted to cry! But not in front of Mr. Levier.

I wanted to go to the restroom. In my stall, I planned to sit on my old favorite toilet. I would have a chance to sob my eyes out in private.

But Mr. Levier had no intention of dismissing me.

“Miss Bracken,” he said, “come with me. I’ll grab a form from my desk and then we need to have a heart-to-heart talk with your mother.”

Soon, Mr. Levier was escorting me across campus to my mother’s kindergarten classroom, his hand firmly grasping my upper arm. I felt like a naughty child on her way to the principal’s office. The only difference is that I had already been paddled. I had no idea why Mr. Levier wanted to talk to Mom.

But I did know one thing. If I were to indulge myself in a good cry over those 13 swats that were making my hot bottom throb with each step, those sobs would just have to wait.

– Part III: “Heart-to-Heart with Mom” –

Mom looked up surprised when Mr. Levier marched me in the door of her classroom, his hand firmly clasping my upper arm, like there was some imminent danger that I might bolt and run. Mom paused with her scissors in midair, interrupted as she cut pieces of brightly colored felt into little animals and other shapes for the felt board. Mom has a real artistic talent, especially when working in her preferred media of felt and popsicle sticks. You know what I mean. A talented kindergarten teacher, no doubt, but don’t let her teach any higher than the second grade. Those older kids would eat her alive! Mom doesn’t know anything about classroom discipline if she can’t get everybody clapping their hands and singing along.

“Sit here, Grace,” Mr. Levier commanded, more or less forcing me to sit in one of those little tiny kindergarten chairs close to the door and about as far from Mom’s desk as I could get, without sitting in the hallway. “Fold your hands and be quiet. Your mother and I have something to discuss.”

I did as instructed, folding my hands neatly on my lap. That tiny chair put all the pressure right on my sit-spot, which was the precise part of my derriere that absorbed the brunt of those 13 swats from Mr. Levier’s little black paddle just moments ago.

I longed for my toilet in my own stall in the girl’s restroom next to Mr. Levier’s classroom. Lately, that’s where I had been spending a lot of time crying over the mean things that Mr. Levier said to me and—of course—the mean paddlings, too. But I vowed to myself to just sit and listen. A tear or two might trickle down my face. Thank God I was so far back that Mom couldn’t see. But I absolutely refused to cry. In that regard, I think I’m a lot like Dad. Grandma says she used to have to spank him something awful to get him to break down and cry, especially if Grandma told him first that she wanted him to cry.

Mr. Levier walked to Mom’s desk, resting his left hip on the topside of her desk, rather than taking the adult-sized chair Mom always used for parent-teacher conferences. So Mom had to look up at Mr. Levier, like maybe she was a naughty student and he was her teacher. Gosh, Mom was 37 and Mr. Levier was only in his 20s. But he still seemed in charge.

“What’s the problem?” asked Mom. “Is Gracie in trouble or something?”

“Yes, I would say Grace is in a great deal of trouble,” said Mr. Levier. “I’m not really sure I want to bother with her, because—frankly—I think she’s a very lazy girl.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Mom asked, adjusting her black-rimmed reading glasses like she always does when she’s nervous. “Gracie has always gotten along well with her other teachers.”

“I didn’t say anything about getting along, Mrs. Bracken,” he said with a big sigh. “I said she was lazy. She sits in class and daydreams and looks out the window. And whenever Mis High-and-Mighty deigns to grace us with her attention, she shows off with some smart answers and makes the other children feel stupid.”

“Well, she is a bright girl, Mr. Levier.”

My teacher shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe she just tests well. You know, like an idiot savant. I’ve looked at her cumulative file, Mrs. Bracken. There’s nothing in her academic performance to indicate that she’s anything other than a mediocre student. So I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt. I think she’s lazy and undisciplined. Why do you think your daughter is so incredibly average?”

“Mr. Levier, Grace and I have been through a lot,” Mom said, taking off her glasses. “My husband—her father—passed away five years ago. We’re both still trying to adjust...”

Mom reached over the desk and pulled a Kleenex from the box, wiping the corners of her eyes.

“Mrs. Bracken, how long are you going to use that as an excuse for not doing anything with your life?”

“What? Mr. Levier, I respect you as a colleague and I would hope for the same from you,” Mom snapped back, trying to sound angry, but her voice wavered and I feared she would start crying any second. “You have not right to attack me like this!”

Don’t cry, Mom... Don’t be weak...

“Mrs. Bracken, let me be frank rather than polite. Grace is 10 years old. When was the last time she was spanked?”

“Oh, I suppose when she was four or five,” Mom said, somewhat defensively. “Her father was a strong disciplinarian, before he died. Since then... Well, she just hasn’t needed that kind of discipline.”

“So how often did your late husband spank her?”

“Oh, like I said,” Mom replied, looking up at the rather stern man sitting on the edge of her desk. “Mr. Bracken was a rather stern disciplinarian. I would guess he punished her every couple weeks or so. Frankly, I didn’t pay that much attention.”

“You didn’t pay attention? Well, what role did you play?”

“I find corporal punishment distasteful,” Mom replied, pursing her lips. “I let my husband take care of it. In her room, in the back of the house. Sometimes they went for a little walk and he took care of it out in the wooded area behind our house.”

“And what did you do, Mrs. Bracken? Turn up the soaps on the TV so you didn’t have to hear anything... How did you put it? Yes, anything distasteful?”

“I usually did something to keep my mind off it. If that’s any business of yours.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Bracken. Did your husband physically abuse Grace? Did he spank too hard? Too often?”

“My husband loved his daughter!” Mom said, grabbing another Kleenex.

“That’s not what I asked. Did he spank her too much?”

“No,” Mom said after blowing her nose. “I don’t suppose so.”

“But after he died, Gracie had a miracle cure. Right? She became the first child to never need spankings again. Let me ask you. A child goes from needing a spanking every two weeks to not needing a spanking in over five years. What would you call that?”

“I don’t know,” Mom replied, blinking her watery eyes.

“I would call it neglect, Mrs. Bracken. Parental neglect. As a mother, I would say you’re pretty much a basket case.”

Well, that did it.

Mom started crying. My stomach churned. I hated Mr. Levier for making my Mommy cry. I hated Mom for being so weak and crying in front of him. With all the intuition of a precocious 10-year-old, I realized Mr. Levier would never respect Mom ever again.

And there was something else—the cold logic of Mr. Levier’s argument. If I needed spankings every two weeks when Daddy was alive, who was taking care of me now? Didn’t I need spankings? Well, of course I did! Daddy would never have spanked me—not in a million years—if it weren’t for my own good. Right? So where was Mom? Who was parenting me now? Who was taking responsibility for making sure I got the spankings a growing girl needs? I hated Mom for neglecting me.

And I hated myself, too. If Mr. Levier was right about Mom, then he must be right about me too. I am lazy. I am undisciplined. Maybe I am an idiot, like he said. A savant who can memorize the capitols of all the states and recite them back like a parrot while Mr. Levier swats my buns with his big paddle. That’s not much of an accomplishment for a 10-year-old genius. No wonder Mr. Levier didn’t want me in his class.

Tears streamed down my face and I gritted my teeth. I made a sad humming deep in my throat, a sound that would have turned to sobs if I allowed it.

“Stop crying,” said Mr. Levier to Mom, taking his handkerchief from his pocket. “You and I have business to attend to. That business involves your daughter. Wipe your eyes and blow your nose.”

Mom did as she was told. When she handed the handkerchief back to Mr. Levier, it was as if she had just been paddled by her teacher—rather than me.

“First, I want you to sign this Same Grade Transfer Form,” he said, taking a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket and clicking it. “I’ve already signed. You sign now. I’ll follow up with Mrs. Crandall when she gets back to school.”

“But won’t this transfer hurt Judy’s feelings? You know, I’ve been friends with Judy Crandall for many, many years.”

“And your friendship with this uninspiring and incompetent teacher is more important than your daughter’s education?” Mr. Levier asked.

“Don’t say such cruel things about a poor woman who’s recovering in a hospital!” Mom said, showing her first signs of any backbone that afternoon.

“I’m just stating the facts,” he continued, thoroughly unimpressed with Mom’s spirited reply. “Judy Crandall lets Grace sit in her classroom and do nothing, day in and day out. Know why? Because it’s too much effort for Judy to get off her big, fat butt and put together something a bit challenging for Grace to learn. I can see why you and Judy Crandall get along so well. Incompetent parent. Incompetent teacher. No wonder Grace is such a lazy, undisciplined mess.”

Thank God Mom started sobbing like a big baby just then. I needed the cover as tears streamed down my face in rivulets and a sad whining sound leaked out between clenched teeth.

Mr. Levier shook his head like Mom was one of his delinquent fifth graders. Was Mom crying because he already spanked her? Or because the real spanking from Mr. Levier was yet to come?

Only time would tell.

“Sign, Mrs. Bracken,” He insisted. “Tell Judy anything you like. Make something up. I’ll back you.”

Mom signed while she blew her nose—several long, snotty blows—into Mr. Levier’s handkerchief. Not a pretty picture, in my opinion.

“And now I want you to sign this,” he said, taking another form from the breast pocket of his sports jacket.

“What’s this?” she asked, sniffling.

“It’s a CP Do Not Document form,” he replied, taking back the signed Same Grade Transfer Form and placing the new one before her on the desk. “You see, you are mistaken, Mrs. Bracken. Your daughter did not receive her last spanking from her father when she was five. Actually, she was paddled...”

Mr. Levier looked at his watch.

“...about 25 minutes ago,” he continued. “By me. I was unhappy with her performance on a pop quiz. And yesterday, Grace was paddled for missing her homework. Surely she told you.”

“No,” Mom confessed, turning a hurt look in my direction. “Grace didn’t mention it.”

“Maybe discipline just isn’t something that Grace associates with her mother,” Mr. Levier said dryly. “Come to think of it, why would she mention her paddling to you? You find it distasteful. Tell me, Mrs. Bracken, does Grace always have to protect you? Take care of you?”

“You’re right,” said Mom, blowing her nose again. “I do lean on Gracie too much emotionally.”

“What about her needs, Mrs. Bracken?” he pressed. “Are you going to take over the duties that your husband used to do? Are you going to start spanking this child?”

He pointed at me, without looking.

“Don’t you understand? I can’t. I know everybody says it’s for her own good. But I can’t bring myself to hit my little baby girl. She’s all that’s left to me. She’s all that’s left of her father.”

“Well, if you won’t, Mrs. Bracken, then I will. Sign this CP Do Not Document form and I don’t have to put every paddling or spanking in Grace’s cumulative file. That would look bad on her permanent record. I’ll spank her where and when and as often as I see fit. And none of her discipline shows up in her cumulative file.”

“Well,” Mom sniffed as she scribbled, “if you think it’s best.”

She handed Mr. Levier the signed CP Do Not Document form, his pen, and his handkerchief. If it were mine, I would have told Mom to keep the handkerchief. Who needs a pocketful of somebody else’s boogers?

“I’m sorry I had to sign,” said Mom to me. “I hope Mr. Levier will use his paddle sparingly. It’s for your own good, I’m told, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I’m afraid spanking little girls is a man’s job. Come here, Gracie.”

She extended her arms.

“No, Grace is coming with me,” said Mr. Levier, putting his handkerchief, pen, and the forms in various pockets of his jacket. “From now on, she’s staying after school an extra two hours each day from some accelerated learning. I’ll drop her off on my way home.”

“Well,” Mom said nervously. “if you think that’s best.”

Mr. Levier rose from Mom’s desk and quickly strode over to where I sat. He grasped me by the upper arm and I hopped to my feet.

He turned at the door to face Mom one last time. She stood at the side of her desk, smoothing her skirt like she did when she felt nervous. I remember she wore a snug dark plaid skirt that reached to her kneecaps. That day, she wore black pantyhose and, of course, sensible flat shoes. But her white blouse with its understated vertical ruffle up the front—which Mom had buttoned to her neck—nevertheless showed Mom to be a fine-figured woman, even if she was in her mid-30s. Mom wore no make-up and those big, black-rimmed glasses gave her a slight owlish appearance. But if you looked past that, you could see her high cheekbones and cute, turned-up nose. If you could see her without those stupid glasses, you’d see what big, beautiful blue eyes she has. I guess Mr. Levier saw some of those things in Mom, too.

“You know, Mrs. Bracken. You’re still an attractive woman. You ought to go out once in awhile. Your husband would want it. Beauty—especially feminine beauty—slips away before you know it.”

Mr. Levier strode with great determination; I had to run almost. After all the other mean things he said, why did Mr. Levier tell Mom she was attractive? Did he secretly like her? I doubted it. For one thing, Mom’s a good ten years older than Mr. Levier. What he said was true, of course. Mom could get any single man she wanted. Anyone near her own age, that is. In the small town where we lived, the only men in their 30s who were still single had a drinking problem, a felony conviction, or some kind of severe mental deprivation. Trust me. I grew up in that town. I know what I’m talking about.

As Mr. Levier escorted me back to his classroom, I had this flash of female intuition. Something about the firm grasp of his large hand around my skinny upper arm made me realize—at least subconsciously—that I was not being led away from the space and time of the spanking that I had already received—13 strokes from his little black paddle.

No, Mr. Levier was forcing me forward toward a new, imminent spanking, the reason for which I could only imagine.

Then a random thought sprang to mind. When Daddy died, I didn’t cry. I remember we had been practicing self-discipline after spankings, right up until he died. Rather than just crying and crying after a spanking, Daddy encouraged me to cry only as long as I absolutely had to. Then he expected me to get myself under control.

Don’t get me wrong. My father never punished me for crying after a spanking. And he never said I should stop crying altogether. He just thought that—as a part of growing up—I should learn to take a spanking with greater maturity. Dad said I was too sensitive as a human being; I needed a defensive shell. I think that’s the big reason why he spanked me. If it weren’t for spankings, my childhood would be too perfect for adjusting to the real world as an adult. Of course, after Dad died, I had a hard time being sensitive anymore. It hurt too much...

So somehow, I got the idea that Dad would want me not to cry. Dad knew how important he was in my life—he could imagine the big, gaping hole he left behind. So not crying was how I showed my last respects to Dad. The only problem was, I still needed to cry because my Daddy was dead. It’s like a part of my soul had been frozen by cryogenic methods. Suspended animation. I needed to thaw it with my own hot tears. Even if his death had been a fact of life for five years, it’s never to late to cry.

Is it?

“Hey, Mr. Levier, can I tell you something about me and my dad?”

“Make it quick.”

So I told him everything I just told you. By the time I finished—asking him if it’s ever to late to cry for something you missed the first time—we were already in Mr. Levier’s classroom. He led me to his desk at the front of the room.

It didn’t surprise me one bit when he took an extra-wide 18-inch ruler out of his desk and pulled me over his lap. The only thing I didn’t know was why.

OK, Mr. Levier did surprise me a little when he pulled my undies down. Of course, I had heard of bare-bottom spankings. It’s just I’d never even come close to actually getting one, like I was going to get now.

I looked down at the old hardwood flooring, seeing fascinating patterns in that old, scarred wood. Of course, that special combination of chalk and pine disinfectant filled my nostrils, that distinctive aroma of the elementary school classroom. I turned my head and could see the map of the United States, the one I looked at while I named the states and capitals as Mr. Levier swatted me with his big paddle.

“Grace, I’m spanking you as a lesson today. A swat is what you get for missing an answer on a quiz. It’s a form of small discipline. But then there are spankings. Spankings are big discipline for when you’ve been bad, Grace. Have you been bad?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, stalling for time. “Like lately? Or do you mean like forever since I was born?”

I mean, pretty obviously I’m getting a spanking. My bottom is up and over his lap and my panties are down. He’s even got a ruler. But I think I ought to try to understand why.

“I mean, since your father’s twice-a-month spankings came to an end, have you done anything your father would have spanked you for?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Lots of things.”

“Would you say maybe a couple of bad things a month? Like back when your dad spanked you? You haven’t changed that much for the better, have you.”

“No, I guess I’m about the same. Maybe a little bad-er.”

“So that’s two spankings a month you still owe your father—or 24 a year,” said Mr. Levier, gently patting my spanking orbs with his ruler like a snare drum. “Over the last five years, you’ve missed a minimum of 120 spankings by my count, Miss Bracken. Right now, I’m giving you just one spanking. This will erase the other 119 you never got. The real message here is about paddlings and spankings. You’re paddled for wrong answers but you’re spanked for being bad. You’re going to find out exactly how a spanking feels. It’s a lot worse than a paddling. And if you want to cry for your father, that’s up to you. It’s going to be a long, long spanking, so use your tears as you so choose.”

I had a number of good ideas right then. Like maybe we could wait, until I actually did something bad that needed a spanking. I mean, it’s kind of unfair, just to spank somebody all of a sudden for all the things she hasn’t been spanked for—going back five whole years! And besides, right then, all my thoughts were concentrated on the spanking. No way could I remember anything exactly that I did bad. I’m not saying I couldn’t remember with a little more time. But, right then, I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d ever done bad that I hadn’t already been spanked for. I kept thinking of how I used to repeat TV commercials. But my Daddy spanked me twice for that right before he died.

Isn’t the whole idea of a spanking to get the child to concentrate on what she’s done bad? So isn’t it really a big waste of a spanking if the girl’s just lying there and can’t focus on anything? Well, I guess it doesn’t matter what you and I think about it because...

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

I hadn’t been spanked over somebody’s lap since before Daddy died. But all those same feelings of fear, excitement, agitation, and resistance welled up just like they did five years ago. I kicked my legs and tossed my head, just as I had out in the woods behind our house so many years ago. I can take a spanking with the best of them. So Daddy used to say. But I do express myself.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

The sensation of that wide ruler on my bare skin was like no other spanking I’d ever experienced. My bottom would feel all fiery hot right where the stick came down. But the rest of me felt cold somehow.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

It’s kind of embarrassing, but Daddy used to call me the Waterfall. That’s because when I’m spanked, the tears really flow. Worse than that, I really snot a lot. So as I toss my head, some of that just flies out. I’m not trying to gross out anybody. It’s just that I take spankings real emotionally. They really touch me and I always give lots back.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

I thought of Daddy, of the long box in the church, and of the minister who spoke of a big man with a little balloon inside his brain, waiting to burst. The minister took this to mean that we should all accept Jesus Christ as our personal Savior right then—if we knew what was good for us. But what I took the tiny bubble to mean is that you just can’t trust anything. Like things that seem big and safe and strong...

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

I cried for my Daddy. Sure, my bottom was a stinging, flaming inferno. So my tears for my late father weren’t entirely spontaneous. But they were heartfelt. And I honestly don’t think I could overcome my resistance to cry if Mr. Levier wasn’t giving me the longest, soundest spanking of my life—and on the bare too!

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

As with every good spanking, there comes a time when you’ve expressed yourself entirely. You feel drained. All you can do is go limp and sob.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Through some arcane calculus, Mr. Levier computed after some great passage of time that my red-striped derriere had had just about enough. He placed his ruler on his desk and patted my behind—not unkindly—as I sobbed and sobbed.

“OK, that’s about enough, Grace!” he finally commanded, patting me with sufficient sternness that one could call it unkind.

I snorted and hiccupped and choked myself back to coherence. I stood up and quickly pulled up my panties. I don’t care what anybody says. It’s just too embarrassing to be spanked that way when you’re ten—and by a teacher you hardly know. Not that Mr. Levier ever did anything bad. It’s just that I kind of thought of myself as more mature than other fifth graders. Having been reduced to a bawling, head-tossing, snot-flying little girl with a rapidly reddening rump, the dignity of my undies in their proper pulled-up position was important to me.

So I forced the images of my father from my mind; otherwise I could have cried for hours. I could tell Mr. Levier would have none of that.

“I want you to go to the corner for 15 minutes,” he said, “while I go get the programmed learning station and set it up in here.”

“M-Mr. L-Levier, c-could I have a h-hug?”

“Come here.”

But as I approached, arms outstretched, he grabbed my wrist and spun me sideways.

“Bend over!”

When I was bent over, he flipped up my skirt in back and...

SMACK!

“Grace, what did I just give you with that ruler on your bare bottom?”

“A s-spanking!” I replied, starting to sob anew.

“Stop that!” SMACK! “I’m talking to you. I just spanked you and I had ordered you to the corner. The corner is part of the punishment. So in the middle of a harsh punishment, you think I’m going to un-do all the good work I’ve done? Ruin a good spanking?”

SMACK! “Well, do you?”

“N-n-no, Mr. Levier,” I wheeze, on the ragged edge of sobbing but not wanting another spanking.

“Good!” SMACK! “Then do as you’re told.” SMACK!

In the corner, even when I could hear Mr. Levier banging around in the storage room, I didn’t dare cry. I was grateful Dad had been teaching me this discipline after spankings. It sure came in handy now.

When the station was set up, I got to sit down—painstakingly—and learn more about dinosaurs. I made it through one unit. I was pretty sure I got all the answers right. When Mr. Levier put my punch card in the AnswerMatic, he didn’t say a word to me about how I did.

“Assume the position,” he said without emotion. He flipped up my skirt in back and patted me with the little black paddle right where I was going to get licked.

“OK, you may sit down.”

“So I got them all right?” I asked, before I put on my headset again.

“Did I swat you?”

“No, Mr. Levier.”

“And what do you suppose I would do if I found an error on your answer card, Miss Bracken?”

“You’d give me a spank with the paddle.”

“Well, Miss Bracken, they encourage us in teacher training never to tell a child that she has asked a stupid question. Might damage her ego. Scar her for life!”

He laughed a hard laugh.

“Forgive me when I say this, Miss Bracken, but I know you’ll respect me for telling you the unvarnished truth. And the truth is, Miss Bracken, that that was a very stupid question.”

OK, I’ve got an IQ of 155, so nobody ever calls me stupid. Nobody. Generally speaking, it just isn’t true. But this time, upon reflection, I had to agree with Mr. Levier’s conclusion. I asked a really stupid question.

That realization so unnerved me that when I assumed the position after the next quiz, Mr. Levier flipped up my skirt and gave me three good pops on my panties with the Black Widow. That’s what I decided to name his little black paddle. I wondered if it had a little red spot on its belly? I wondered if it shot hot venom into my cheeks when Mr. Levier made contact, shooting black poison right through my panties?

By the time I took the last quiz, I had found my stride. Mr. Levier rubbed the stinger of the Black Widow round and round the patch of panties where I would take my licks.

“OK, Miss Bracken, you can sit down.”

I smiled and answered my own stupid question in my head.

“In fact, I’m about ready to call it an evening,” he said, putting papers into his briefcase. “Get your stuff, Grace.”

We drove to my house in silence.

He walked me up to the lower step of our front porch, then stopped and reached out for my arm.

“Grace, after I spanked you, you asked for a hug,” he said, his features lost in the shadows of late twilight. “That’s not my job. I mete out discipline. Plain and simple. But since you need the human touch, come here...”

I reached out hesitantly. Was he going to hug me after all? Is that what he meant?

But, much to my surprise, he lifted me up and draped me over the horizontal support that his left leg provided, his foot planted on the porch’s second step up.

“Grab your ankles.”

To my own amazement, my hair hanging and almost brushing the steps below, I could reach under his leg and grab my own ankles. Needless to say, my bottom was pointed straight up and stretched extra-tight. He flipped my skirt back out of the way.

“Here’s a love pop...” SWAT!

In a flash, my feet were back on the ground, my head spinning from the rush of blood to it—then rapidly from it. The sensation was not unlike getting off a roller coaster. My buns stung from the swat.

“The thing about a hug, Grace, is that you can’t feel it anymore when the other person lets go. And eventually, everybody lets go. But a love pop... Well, you’ll feel that sting long after I’m gone.”

The funny thing was, the trace of that one handprint stood out in bas-relief, elevated slightly from the context of all the swats and spanks and swats my bottom received that afternoon and evening. I could feel it as we walked up the steps and he knocked on the door. When Mom answered, he told her that I had about an hour’s homework left to complete. He told her to check it and mark any wrong answers. Don’t change any to the right answer, he admonished.

The sting of that ‘love pat’ lasted all through dinner, a warm glow that I sat on. It lasted through my bath. I even thought I could see it in the mirror, despite the fact my whole bottom was one big red tomato.

I fell asleep rubbing that spot where Mr. Levier had patted me with love. Love not given lightly, for sure. But he did say love. I heard him.

– Part IV: “The Geek in the Back” –

The next morning at breakfast, I said to Mom, “You know what Mr. Levier did to me after you signed that CP Do Not Document form? He took me back to his classroom and spanked me.”

“Grace, please!” Mom replied, closing her eyes and holding her head back like she does when she’s feeling emotional pain. “I just can’t talk about this. I’m so mixed up and upset. Your father loved you very much and he felt you needed spankings pretty regularly. But I never felt right about it. I just can’t stand the idea of hitting you—even if it’s good for you. Grandma says I’m spoiling you. And now Mr. Levier says you’re lazy and undisciplined. I try to be a good mother...”

Tears welled up in Mom’s eyes and I felt so bad for her.

“Mommy, you are a good mother,” I said, getting up and coming around the table to hug her. “It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“But maybe if I spanked you the way your father did...”

“Everything’s OK, Mommy. Mr. Levier will see to it. I’ll get the spankings everybody says I need and you won’t have to lift a finger.”

Mom sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be more supportive, honey. I know you need to talk to somebody. But I think it would be best if you didn’t bring up Mr. Levier’s spankings anymore. The topic upsets me too much. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be a brave little girl all on your own. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Mom. It’s OK. I don’t mind.”

At school, Mr. Levier told the other fifth graders that I would be working alone in the back of the room. He explained about the programmed learning station and how that I, because of my “lack of effort” in Mrs. Crandall’s class, was doing make-up work.

The day went without incident, except for the spelling test. Mr. Levier has everybody spell 25 words on a strip of paper, then swap the paper with another student. Mr. Levier then spelled all the words and the students score each other’s tests. The student with the lowest score had to come forward, bend over that same little table where I got my first paddling, and take three swats. They’re zingers but there is only three of them.

A new boy named Randy, tall with reddish blond hair, had the misfortune of misspelling over half the words. So he was summoned forward. I figured he was one of those Mormon kids whose dads worked on the dam project up in the high country. He seemed so confused as he walked forward and Mr. Levier got out his big paddle. I put my tape on pause so I could watch without distraction.

“But why do I have to?” asked Randy when Mr. Levier told him to bend over the table and grab the edge of the far side. “I wasn’t bad.”

The class laughed.

“What a dummy!” said a boy close to me at the rear of the room.

I didn’t think people should pick on Randy, but the reason for the swats was perfectly obvious. That’s just what Mr. Levier does to the kid with the worst score on the spelling test. I guess Mr. Levier wants everybody to try harder.

“I still don’t see why,” said Randy after Mr. Levier repeated his order.

When Randy finally assumed the position, Mr. Levier gave him three swats for the spelling test and seven more really hard ones for “asking too many questions.” When Randy returned to his desk, he had tears in his eyes.

I felt sort of sorry for him but I had to agree: Randy sure wasn’t very smart, asking all those questions when Mr. Levier was getting ready to paddle him.

The rest of the day passed without incident. I continued to work on natural history, but more than just dinosaurs. I learned about a bunch of species, their ability to survive in their time, and the forces that drove them to extinction.

At noon recess, Dwayne Ricketts called me the “geek in the back of the class.” Dwayne is a really mean kid with a front tooth half broken off. Mom said I should be nice to Dwayne, because his stepdad was really cruel to him. But I just can’t help it. Dwayne is mean and stupid and—besides—he had no right to pick on me.

By the end of the day, I had finished all the programs for the fifth grade level. Mr. Levier came by regularly to pop in the quiz cards, whenever I raised my hand to indicate I was finished. I did pretty well, but the material was becoming more complicated. Mr. Levier wouldn’t tell me how many I missed.

After school, when all the others had gone home, I had to go over the quizzes with Mr. Levier. I sat on a chair next to his desk. With the Black Widow paddle in hand, he would tell me what quiz we were reviewing. Then I had to stand, turn around, bend over, and put my palms flat on the chair. Mr. Levier flipped up my skirt, patted my undies with the Black Widow so I would know exactly where the paddle would make its mark.

If I hadn’t missed any, he would tell me to sit down and all my tension and anxiety would be for naught. The only way I could tell how many I missed would be the crack of that awful paddle against my undies. Then I would sit down and Mr. Levier would review the answers I got wrong and why. The quizzes where I missed answers went into a stack in Mr. Levier’s desk drawer. He put me on notice that I could be given any of these quizzes again at any time.

“Don’t think that you can just memorize this material for the quiz and forget about it,” he warned.

With my bottom smarting from my mistakes, I wasn’t likely to forget.

When I got all my swats taken care of—about eight in all—I returned to the learning station. Mr. Levier told me he wanted me to learn faster. Rather than listen to all the information on the tape, I could quickly read the information on the screen. Instead of a half hour per module, he gave me 20 minutes. The first quiz I got five swats, which really made my eyes water. The next one, I only missed two. Then I did two in a row without error. I felt so relieved after he rubbed my sit-spot with the Black Widow and then told me to sit down. My bottom was really getting sore.

I did one final module. I guess I was tired, because I missed three. The Black Widow broke the bad news to me with three powerful, end-of-the-day zingers that made me finally break down and cry. Mr. Levier let me use his handkerchief and then told me to stop crying.

As we walked out to the car, I told Mr. Levier that I thought I learned more from my swats with the after-school modules, because I got feedback right away. He agreed.

As he unlocked and opened his car door on the passenger side, he put his foot up just inside the door, next to the seat. He grabbed my arms and hoisted me up and over his leg.

“I know you want a hug,” he said by way of explanation as he flipped up my skirt, “but this will have to do.”

POP!

His hand gave my bottom a “love pat” that would linger into the evening, long after the Black Widow’s swats were forgotten.

“Got a naughty girl there?” asked Mr. Jacobs, the school janitor, who appeared from the shadows behind us, on his way to his own car. “Kept her after school for a spanking?”

“No, just a lazy girl,” replied Mr. Levier. “I thought I would apply a little motivation where it would make the best impression.”

I was still draped over Mr. Levier’s leg, with my undies on display.

“Hi, Mr. Jacobs, it’s me. Grace Bracken.”

“Why Gracie!” Mr. Jacobs exclaimed. “I never dreamed that was your bottom I saw getting smacked.”

“Yeah, it’s my bottom alright,” I said as Mr. Levier put me on my feet. I had known Mr. Jacobs for years. I used to help him clean up Mom’s classroom back when I would wait to ride home with her.

“Gracie’s the last girl I expect needing a spanking,” said Mr. Jacobs. “I’m sure a couple good swats will go a long way with a girl like her.”

“You sit in the car,” Mr. Levier said. “I need a word with Mr. Jacobs.”

They walked over to Mr. Jacob’s car and chatted for a few minutes. Mr. Levier drove me home in silence.

When he stopped, I asked, “Are you going to give me a ‘love pat’ every night, Mr. Levier?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“I was just thinking I’d rather get it here,” I replied. “At my house. If that’s OK.”

He didn’t say anything. But when he walked me to the front door, he grabbed my arm at the bottom of the porch steps. I didn’t need an IQ of 155 to figure out what was going to happen next.

POP!

When he took me down off his leg and took his foot off the second step, I got that same dizzy feeling as the night before.

I scrambled up the steps and turned, “Thank you, Mr. Levier. I had a really good school day today.”

But he was already walking away and didn’t reply. I stood on the porch, both hands up under my skirt, rubbing the sting. There’s just something about a ‘love pat.’ The sensation feels so different than the Black Widow’s. You may say I’m crazy. But for some reason I felt lucky I got two ‘love pats’ instead of one.

– Part V: “Shower Courtains and a Playground Incident” –

When I got to school, Mom asked if I could help her set up some modeling clay on paper plates for her kindergarteners. She had this group participation project that would push the envelope with what you can get 5-year-olds to do. That’s my mom! She’s in her element with 5-year-olds. Unfortunately for me, I was five when Dad died, so Mom was only there for me for a few months. Since then, I really haven’t had a parent I could count on.

The thing was that’s an awful burden for a girl to carry. As smart as I was, I always schemed about mischief that I would just love to do. Back when I had my Daddy, I could be just as childish or as foolish as I felt like. Daddy would spank me—hard or extra hard depending on the crime—then he would forgive me and everything was fine.

But with Mom, I couldn’t do that. See, there was nothing for us to exchange. Without a spanking to set things right, Mom and I were stuck. Don’t get me wrong. The last thing I wanted was a spanking. Spankings really burned my buns for a long time. Especially Daddy’s. But afterwards, as much as spankings hurt, I always felt better about things.

If I did something bad after Daddy died, it just would sit there and fester. Even a little mischief would create this big rift—and nothing to fix it with. Nothing I could do would set it right. And Mom didn’t know what to do either, except make me feel awful for days and days.

So, basically, the people who said Mom spoiled me don’t know anything. From my point of view, the best thing Mom could give me was that proverbial good sound spanking every once in awhile. Not because I would turn into a spoiled, rotten kid if she didn’t. But because I could be a kid—and spanked like one.

I mean, I had to be like this little grown-up from age six. OK, so I’m super-intelligent. That’s true enough. I had the know-how to fake being a grown-up. Let me be brutally honest: a stupid adult has a harder time playing an adult than a really smart six-year-old. Believe me, I did it for five years. You get to be an adult from age 18 and up. That can last something like half a century. But you only get to be a kid for a few years, from toddlerhood to the teen years.

So when Mom asked for my help with the modeling clay, I said I needed to go see if Mr. Levier had anything he wanted me to do. Funny, isn’t it? He was so mean and yet I couldn’t wait to go see what demanding new thing he wanted from me.

When I got to my classroom, there was Mr. Jacobs—the custodian—installing a shower curtain—right in the back of the room, surrounding the corner where my programmed learning station sat on its own little table. Mr. Jacobs had wrapped a quarter circle of shiny, hollow pipe, maybe five feet from the floor. From it dangled shower curtain hooks.

“Hi Gracie,” said Mr. Jacobs with a friendly smile, “since this is for you, why don’t you come help an old man?”

“You’re not an old man, Mr. Jacobs,” I said, walking over and giving him a hug. “You’re positively ancient. Your great-grandson is an old man, Mr. Jacobs.”

“You just think that because you’re younger than half your age, Gracie,” he quipped. “You’re supposed to be ten, but you’re really just a four-year-old. Or maybe a three-year-old. Did you wear your diapers today?”

See? That’s a game that Mr. Jacobs and I play with each other. I pretend like he’s super-old and he plays like I’m super-young.

“No, I don’t wear diapers!” I said indignantly. “But what’s this you’re building? Looks like a shower curtain. Except there isn’t any water. It just makes this circle around my desk.”

“I hope this works,” said Mr. Jacobs as he pulled the yellow plastic curtain out of its box. “You can kind of see through it...”

He held it up for my inspection.

“...but I guess it’s not like you can see all that clearly through it,” he concluded. “Let’s cut it to fit.”

He laid the curtain on the floor, measured it, and used scissors to cut a straight line. I handed it to him as he popped the hook pegs through the curtain holes.

“But you still haven’t told me what this is for, Mr. Jacobs.”

“I thought you knew already,” said Mr. Jacobs. “It’s for you. For your privacy. Mr. Levier can pull this curtain around...”

With the last hook snapped to the curtain, Mr. Jacobs slid the curtain around the quarter ring, enclosing my desk in its own isolated space. Standing inside next to my desk, I could see the blurry shapes of the other student desks and Mr. Levier’s desk. Mr. Jacobs, of course, could look right over the top and see everything.

“Mr. Jacobs, thank you,” said Mr. Levier, entering the classroom. I could see his form like a shadow as he crossed the room to his desk. “Now perhaps you can help me test it.”

“Sure, Mr. Levier.”

“Then come around and sit at one of the student desks,” Mr. Levier said as he walked over and pulled aside the shower curtain with a swish and scrape of the curtain rings against the rod.

Mr. Jacobs ducked under the rod and Mr. Levier swished the curtain closed.

“I can sort of see you,” said Mr. Jacobs from across the room. “Maybe I should get another curtain—the kind you can’t see anything through.”

“No,” said Mr. Levier, “I need to keep an eye on things when I’m behind the curtain. OK, Miss Bracken, assume the position.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. And that back-talk will cost you an extra swat.”

I bent over the end of the table and flipped up my own skirt while Mr. Levier opened the drawer under the table and recovered the Black Widow.

Smack!

“That was for test purposes,” he said as a sharp, stinging sensation washed over my behind and shot up my spinal cord. “And this is for back-talking...”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Golly! I really wanted to grab my buns and dance about after those last three! I could tell Mr. Levier really wanted to make an impression. Maybe he wanted me to cry in front of Mr. Jacobs. Well, no way. I just grabbed the edge of the table tightly, clenched my teeth, and squeezed my eyes shut so no tears could escape.

“How did it look?” Mr. Levier asked Mr. Jacobs over the top of the curtain rod.

“Well, no doubt about what Gracie was getting,” Mr. Jacobs chuckled. “But all you really see are forms and shadows. Was her skirt up or down?”

“Up.”

“Well, I couldn’t tell one way or the other, so I guess Gracie gets her privacy after all.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Levier,” I said as I stood stiffly and smoothed my skirt. “Does this mean I’ll be getting my error swats as I go along? With the other kids in the room?”

“Yes, Miss Bracken. I recall you mentioning yesterday that you thought instant feedback would help you learn faster. Well, from now on, that’s what you’ll get. Instant feedback.”

He smiled but it was not a kind smile at all.

“But the other kids will hear it,” I said lamely.

“More back-talk, Miss Bracken? Please assume the position.”

I sighed. Since I was standing right there by the edge of the table, I just bent over again. Up went my skirt again.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

This time tears did flow, along with some snot. Mr. Levier gave me his handkerchief and told me to sit down and get to work on my first module.

“You know, Mr. Levier,” said Mr. Jacobs as he put his tools away, “Gracie is a really terrific girl. I’ve known her ever since her father died. I know her mom doesn’t spank her, and maybe that’s a mistake. Not my place to say. But a couple swats will go a long ways with a sensitive child like Gracie.”

“And a lot of swats will move her even further and faster down the line,” my teacher replied. “That little fanny of hers has had five years of parental neglect. Well, I’m making it my responsibility to get her caught up with all the spankings she should have received—and didn’t.”

“I’m just saying that a few average swats will get what you want from the girl,” Mr. Jacoby added. “No need to spank her black and blue.”

“Did I spank you black and blue, Miss Bracken?”

“No, sir.” I replied to my teacher.

“Then there’s no problem, is there Miss Bracken?”

“No, Mr. Levier. No problem.”

“Well, have a good day, Gracie,” said Mr. Jacobs as he left the classroom. “You too, Mr. Levier.”

Gosh! I already got two paddlings and now I had to start on my schoolwork. And the first bell was still 20 minutes away. Let me tell you, parking my derriere on that chair in front of the learning station was no fun at all. Ouchy-wowchy! Maybe I would have a good day, like Mr. Jacobs wished for me. But it sure wasn’t getting off to a good start.

I made it to the morning recess without making any mistakes. I passed two module quizzes with perfect scores! Nevertheless, after scoring each quiz with the AnswerMatic, Mr. Levier pulled the shower curtain around us, so no prying eyes of my nosy classmates could see. That way, when I assumed the position and Mr. Levier flipped up my skirt in back, he was the only one who could see my undies. The touch of the Black Widow as he patted me made me tense up. My bottom still hurt from my before-school punishments and I was afraid I would cry. Fortunately, after three or four soft pats, Mr. Levier said, “Sit down, Miss Bracken.”

I put on my headset immediately and pretended nothing unusual had happened, even though every ten-year-old in that classroom knew what it meant when Mr. Levier said, “Assume the position.”

On the third module, I got a little distracted and careless. After the quiz, Mr. Levier pulled the curtain closed, told me to assume the position, flipped up my skirt in back, and patted me several times. Then...

SMACK! SMACK!

Fortunately, enough time had passed since my early morning paddlings to make it bearable. I sat down before Mr. Levier opened the curtain. I immediately started the next module. Nobody was going to catch me in the corner, crying and feeling sorry for myself. The self-discipline Daddy taught me after his spankings really helped me stay focused on the programmed learning module, rather than my hot, sore buns. Still, I couldn’t help thinking...

Now everybody in the class knows that Mr. Levier spanks me for making mistakes...

I felt so humiliated!

During recess after lunch, I kept to myself. I knew somebody would tease me, because I was a girl and I was a teacher’s kid and Mr. Levier had just paddled me. I stood looking out through the chain-link fence surrounding the playground. Down a steep slope beyond the playground, a small stream gurgled its merry way on its long trek to the Pacific Ocean. I wished I were going that way too.

“Hey, how does your butt feel, Miss Smarty Pants?” somebody said from behind me.

I turned around to face Dwayne Ricketts with a stupid, broken-tooth smirk on his face. Standing next to him—looking equally stupid and smirky—was another boy named Floyd. They were both Okies, which in a small logging town means they’re better than the Mexicans and Indians. Or so they think. But they also know they’re several rungs down on the social ladder from the native whites who can speak English well and usually have all their front teeth.

Mom said I should be nice to them, because they have a hard life. But since they also tended to be the biggest bullies at school, I found it hard to be especially nice to them.

“None of your business, Dwayne,” I replied, turning back to look down at the stream beyond the fence.

“I bet her ugly butt’s red like a tomato,” said Floyd.

“Yup,” replied Dwayne, “red and ugly like a beet.”

They both laughed.

“Leave her alone.”

Surprised by a third voice, I turned. There stood Randy, the tall Mormon boy, the one Mr. Levier paddled yesterday for doing the worst in class on the spelling test.

“Says who?” Dwayne wanted to know.

“Says somebody who could give you another broken tooth,” Randy smiled, balling his fists and putting them on his hips. “Why are you picking on a girl?”

Well, anybody who has ever lived in a redneck logging town would know the answer to that. But Randy was from Utah where they don’t have that many Okies. Needless to say, Randy coming to my defense was thrilling. I was a skinny ten-year-old whose only asset was my long brown hair. Leastways, that’s the only part of me that ever got compliments. I really didn’t care much for boys. But I always kind of thought it would be nice if a boy liked me. The pretty girls in my class had boys interested in them ever since the second grade. No boy had ever shown any interest in me before.

I felt ashamed of my thoughts the day before, thinking Randy was stupid.

“There’s two of us,” said Floyd, “and only one of you all. Unless you count the girl.”

“I count the girl,” said Randy. “But I don’t need her to deal with you.”

Dwayne and Floyd kept looking at Randy. Like most bullies, I think they felt unnerved when somebody stood up to them.

“Well, makes sense you dummies would like each other,” Dwayne remarked, deciding to make this a war of wits—a battle for which he was only half equipped. “You got your butt whacked ‘cuz you can’t spell. And Gracie’s too stupid to do regular school. They put her in the back because she’s a retard.”

“Dwayne, I’m already doing sixth grade work,” I bragged, putting my hands on my hips. “Mr. Levier has me at the learning station because I’m smarter than you. I’m smarter than everybody in the fifth grade. I was always smarter than you. Remember in the third grade when I told you that Elmer’s Glue is made out of milk and you swallowed a bunch of it? Remember that? Dwayne, Elmer isn’t even a milk cow. He’s a boy cow. Think about it.”

Well, this made Dwayne all teary eyed, because he got teased about the Elmer’s Glue incident for about a month. He threw up and got sent to the school nurse. In a small town, not much happens. So people—including children—treasure anything out of the ordinary.

“I’m telling on you!” Dwayne said, sticking out his lower lip.

“Me too!” said Floyd.

“Go ahead!” I said to the backs of their heads. “See if I care!”

Then I turned to Randy and stuck out my hand.

“Hi, I’m Grace Bracken,” I said. “I know you’re Randy, but I don’t know your last name.”

“Randy Smith,” he replied, shaking my hand. “I wish I could be smart like you.”

“Oh, you’re plenty smart,” I smiled. “Don’t feel bad about the spelling test. You’ll do better next time.”

He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t do good at school. I’m dumb.”

“Well, maybe we could study together,” I volunteered. “Maybe I could help.”

He smiled and nodded. The bell rang.

Inside, I started to put on my headset.

“Miss Bracken, would you mind listening to me for a few moments?”

“OK, Mr. Levier.”

He started to tell the class that we needed to respect each other and not make fun of the intelligence of other students. I started getting this sick feeling in my stomach. Dwayne and Floyd had snitched to Mr. Levier. Who knows what lies they told?

“Mr. Smith, step forward and assume the position.”

For the second day in a row, Randy Smith stepped to the front of the room and bent over the table where I got my first paddle strokes.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

As Randy walked stiffly back to his desk, I felt like Becky Thatcher saved from a licking by my own Tom Sawyer.

“Dwayne Ricketts, please step forward.”

“But, Mr. Levier, I didn’t do nothing!” whined Dwayne, not budging from his desk.

“Very well,” said Mr. Levier, striding quickly over to Dwayne’s desk and jerking him to his feet and pushing him forcefully over Dwayne’s own desk.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Go stand in the corner,” Mr. Levier commanded to the sniveling bully.

Crying and stumbling, Dwayne made his way to the corner in the front of the room, next to the roll-down map of the United States. On the way, he wiped snot from his nose on his shirtsleeve.

“Floyd Gunther, to the front of the room and assume the position!”

Floyd could see Mr. Levier meant business and wasted no time getting to the front of the class and poking out his butt for Mr. Levier big paddle.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

If I thought Mark Twain wrote this story, I was sadly mistaken. I knew that the minute Mr. Levier took out that extra-wide, extra-long ruler of his and walked to my corner in the back of the room.

“Please, Mr. Levier!” I whispered as he closed the shower curtain and grabbed me by my upper arm. “Not on the bare bottom! PLEASE!”

He didn’t say a word as he sat in my chair, pulled me over his lap, and—despite my begging—pulled my panties down.

He held one of my hands behind my back; my other hand grasped the lower rung of the chair. My hair cascaded down on the floor below my face. I turned my head sideways and could see the feet of my classmates under the curtain. I could see their shapes and forms and knew they had all turned to look at the silhouettes of Mr. Levier and me against the curtain.

“Please don’t make me cry like last time!” I said softly.

He answered by...

Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack! Splat! Smack! Th-wack!

Needless to say, I got spanked the hardest of all. I blubbered even more than that cowardly Dwayne. But I got spanked on the bare bottom a whole bunch of times, so I had an excuse. I kicked and squirmed like any ten-year-old getting a long, hard bare-bottom spanking with a ruler. The only thing special about this spanking was that there were 27 other ten-year-olds just on the other side of a translucent shower curtain seeing and hearing the whole spanking from beginning to end.

When he finished with me, Mr. Levier snapped up my panties, pulled me to my feet, and let me borrow his handkerchief. After I blew my nose several times, he said simply, “Do not ever brag about your intelligence, Miss Bracken. It’s not very becoming.”

The only nice thing he did for me was leave the shower curtain closed, so I didn’t have to look at all my classmates gloating over my spanking and crying. I don’t know how many guessed that Mr. Levier spanked my bare bottom. I suspect most did, since a ruler slapping bare skin sounds different than slapping undies.

Even though my bottom throbbed all through the next four modules I did that afternoon, I concentrated on studying hard.

I only got four error swats that afternoon. But—boy!—did those swats ever sting!

– The End –
(for now)

Copyright © 2004 Grace Brackenridge. All rights reserved. No repost permitted without the author’s consent.

This story was written by Grace, who kindly allowed me to host it on my web site. Please note that my usual disclaimers do not necessarily apply to this story, as it was not written by myself.