daisy1

The classroom is quiet except for the scratching of pencils on paper and the
occasional sigh of a pupil who wishes she had studied harder for the math
test. Outside the sun is shining, the autumn afternoon is beautiful. All
of the young ladies in the rows of desks are dressed alike--uniforms are
required in the residential school for wayward girls. Dark blue knee-length
skirts and white shirts with high collars, panty hose, leather flats.

Daisy Lane drums her fingers impatiently on her desk. She hates math. She
hates the school and everything about it. She can't believe, just because
she'd staggered home on her fifteenth birthday, late and drunk, and taken a
swing or two at her mom for bawling her out, that her mom had gone crying to
the cops. Now she's trapped in a stuffy classroom on a glorious October
afternoon, suffering through a math test instead of riding her bike or
chatting with friends at the mall. She chews the end of her stub pencil.
She unfastens the top two buttons on her blouse so she can get some air.
She taps her fingers on the desk again and swears under her breath.

The teacher glares at her. "Daisy, stop fidgeting, you'll bother the other
students. Are you done with your test?"

Daisy shakes her head. "Nope. Barely started, Mrs. Rice."

"Get going then. You have ten minutes to finish. And button your blouse,
right now."

Ten minutes! Daisy is surprised. Where has the time gone? She buttons her
blouse and looks at the next question on the page. Sixty-nine times seven.
She thinks hard, counts on her fingers. Her mind is blank. Who cares
anyway? Math is so stupid. She writes down an answer, then erases it. Ten
minutes? She'll never finish in time!

Daisy shoots a quick glance at Mrs. Rice, who seems to be lost in a
magazine. What luck! The girl fishes in her skirt pocket and pulls out the
tiny round mirror she uses to touch up her lipstick. She tilts the mirror
so she can see the paper of the student across the aisle from her. Shanna
Collins is a nerd, she'll get all the answers right. Daisy scribbles down
numbers as fast as she can. She isn't really cheating, after all. Well,
okay, maybe she is, but so what? Shanna is way too brainy for her own good.
And she has pretty auburn hair instead of a plain brown braid like the one
Daisy is stuck with. She deserves to have her answers stolen.

"Daisy Lane, what is that in your hand?"

"Nothing." Daisy stuffs the mirror back in her pocket.

"What did you just put in your pocket?"

"None of your business, teacher."

"Come here, and hurry up about it."

"Make me." Daisy sits still in her chair. All eyes are on her, the test is
forgotten. Daisy has a reputation to keep up. She doesn't take orders from
anybody.

Mrs. Rice marches around her desk and down the aisle to where Daisy is
sitting. She tries to lift Daisy out of her chair by one arm, but Daisy
plants her feet and refuses to budge. The girl is tall and strong for her
size, but the teacher is no lightweight herself, and she's been dealing with
unruly students for more than thirty years. She grasps Daisy's thick brown
braid and pulls her to her feet. She walks briskly back up the aisle, and
since her scalp is on the move, Daisy has to follow.

The teacher and the student get to the desk. Mrs. Rice keeps a tight grip
on Daisy's braid.

"Reach into your pocket, Daisy, and pull out the mirror. Hold it up for the
class to see."

Daisy obeys, scowling. A giggle ripples through the rows of girls.

"You were using that mirror to look at Shanna's paper."

"No joke!" Daisy snaps. "Just beat me and get it over with, okay?"

"Shut up, mouthing off won't get you anywhere." Mrs. Rice motions to
Shanna, the bright student with the auburn hair. "Bring Daisy's test to the
desk, please."

Shanna, smirking gleefully, seizes the paper and struts to the front of the
room.

"Tear it up and throw the scraps in the trash can," the teacher orders.

Daisy breaks away from Mrs. Rice and tries to snatch her test out of
Shanna's clutches. The teacher grabs Daisy with one hand and swats her
smartly on the bottom with the other. Shanna rips Daisy's paper to bits,
tosses the bits into the wastebasket, and grins smugly at Daisy.

"Thank you, Shanna. You may sit down," the teacher says.

"You'll die, redhead, I swear it!" Daisy hisses.

"Enough, Daisy!" Mrs. Rice slips her fingers inside the elastic waistband
of the regulation skirt and tugs it, along with the slip underneath it, down
over the girl's hips. Daisy steps out of the clothes without a fuss, but
when the teacher tries to yank down her hose and underpants, she shies away.

"Be still! Clasp your hands behind your back and keep them there!" Mrs.
Rice draws the hose and underpants all the way down to the tops of Daisy's
loafers. "Since you seem to be set on questioning my authority in public,
you'll get a public answer. You'll stand facing the class, with your hands
clasped behind you and your bare buttocks ready, till the other girls finish
their tests."

Another snicker runs through the room. Daisy works up the coldest glower
she can manage and levels it at the rows of faces. The teacher sits at her
desk again and picks up her magazine. Daisy stands there, trying to look
like she doesn't care that the whole class can see everything she has from
the waist down. The clock ticks. It feels like a year crawls by. As each
student finishes her test, she carries it to the front of the room, passing
Daisy, and drops it into the basket on the corner of Mrs. Rice's desk. Some
of the girls gape openly, smugly, at the body on display for them, others
keep their eyes on their loafers and skitter back to their seats like scared
mice.

When Nelda Jean Mason, the slowest girl in the class, finally slides her
paper in the basket, Mrs. Rice puts down her magazine. She opens a drawer
in her desk and pulls out a thick oak ruler, eighteen inches long. She
drags her straight-backed chair into the empty place in front of her desk
where Daisy is standing.

Without a word, Mrs. Rice takes Daisy by the shoulder and forces her to bend
over one knee. She adjusts the girl so that her buttocks are high in the
air. The students are all breathless. Daisy is a tough chick, many of the
girls have been bruised by her fists.

Crack! Crack! Crack! The ruler slashes down, fiercely and rhythmically,
on Daisy's bare bottom. At first the girl doesn't flinch or cry out, but
the blows land, stinging, one after another. Crack! Crack! Crack! At
last, Daisy's hand flies back to cover herself. Mrs. Rice pins the girl's
wrist easily to her waist and keeps swinging the ruler. Daisy starts to
squirm. Crack! Crack! Crack! Her breaths get faster and sharper, and
finally she breaks down. The tears flow hot on her cheeks, and she yelps
and whimpers, hating herself each time a sound escapes between her lips.
Mrs. Rice is far from satisfied. She wields the ruler, silently and without
mercy, till Daisy is writhing and bucking on her lap and bawling
shamelessly.
Daisy's bottom is on fire. The blows rain down steadily on her cheeks and
bare thighs. She squeals and kicks, begging Mrs. Rice to let her up.
Eventually she tires out and goes limp across the lap of her teacher, with
no fight left in her. The teacher drops the ruler on her desk and starts
slapping Daisy's tender buttocks with her hand. Daisy moans, more from
humiliation than from pain, as the teacher's palm reddens.

"There. You aren't as tough as you think you are. At least one teacher in
this school can take your panties down and make you cry like a little girl!"
Mrs. Rice finally lets Daisy up. "Go stand in the corner. The rest of you
girls may leave for study hall. Daisy will join you when she finishes
sniveling. And she'll get a failing grade on her math test. Take a good
look at her teary eyes and her flaming bottom, all of you, as you file out.
I want you to see exactly what happens to cheaters in my class."

Daisy stands in the corner to catch her breath. Her reputation in the
school is shot, all because of a dumb old math problem. The other girls
hurry out of the room, nudging each other and whispering behind their hands.
When they are gone and Daisy is composed, Mrs. Rice helps the girl into her
underpants and hose. She hands Daisy her skirt and slip.

"Now go on to study hall," the teacher says, giving her miserable student a
quick hug. "Here's a tissue. Dry your eyes."

Daisy heads for the door of the classroom, rubbing the welts on her bottom
through her skirt. She steps out into the hall. Shanna Collins is there,
not fifteen feet away, straightening the collar of her white shirt. Daisy
vows to get even with the redhead.

Daisy Lane, 10-2000