I hate parent-teacher conferences.
"Ow, Dad! I’m sorry, I promise I’ll stop goofing off in class!"
His palm smacks down on my upturned butt anyway. “It’s not me you need to apologize to, son.”
I squirm, shifting my weight across his thigh. It barely helps the fire in my red cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan! I’ll behave and do whatever you say from now on!”
It doesn’t stop him from slapping my sit-spot, hard.
“I know you will. Because from now on, whenever you slack off, your father is going to find out right away.”
Dad picks up the pace, alternating between my sore cheeks and still-fresh thighs.
“That’s right. And not only will you be going over my knee for a talk with the hairbrush as soon as you get home, but Mr. Donovan can also give you some after-school tutoring, if he thinks you need it.”
Their smacks keep increasing in intensity, each trying to swat harder than the other. My teacher chuckles. “I think you’ll probably need to be tutored quite often. And I think I have a ruler and a belt to help.”
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