My sister first week

THis is a true story as written by my sister, names and places have been changed. It was her first brush with "CP" but not her last

My name is Kate, and I’d only been at a St. Alban’s Secondary for a week when it all happened. Moving to a new school near St. Albans was daunting, but I’d settled in surprisingly well. The other girls were friendly, the teachers seemed nice enough, and I’d even started to feel like I belonged. That was until Thursday afternoon, when everything changed.

I’d stayed late after school, chatting with a couple of girls I’d hit it off with—Jess and Mia. By the time I left, the autumn sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the quiet lanes. I lived about a mile away, an easy walk through the winding streets lined with old stone walls and overhanging trees. I liked the solitude of it, the chance to unwind after a day of pretending to be the perfect new girl. That day, though, I was feeling restless. I reached into my blazer pocket, pulled out the pack of cigarettes ginen to me by a neighbour, and fished one out.

I stopped under a big oak tree, its leaves just starting to turn gold, and lit up. The first drag was sharp, bitter, catching at the back of my throat. I coughed a little, then steadied myself, letting the smoke curl out of my mouth in thin wisps. I wasn’t a proper smoker—not really. I’d only tried it a few times, mostly to see what the fuss was about. But there was something about the way it felt, standing there in my grey school trousers and blazer, the tie loosened around my neck, that made me feel older, tougher. The cigarette was slim between my fingers, the paper crinkling faintly as I tapped off the ash. I took another drag, deeper this time, and watched the smoke twist upward into the chilly air. My lips tasted faintly of tobacco, and my chest felt warm despite the bite of the wind.

That’s when I saw her—Mrs. Hargreaves, the stern Year 9 maths teacher with the pinched face and hawk-like eyes. She was coming around the bend in her little blue car, and for a split second, our gazes locked. I froze, the cigarette halfway to my mouth, a thin trail of smoke still rising from the tip. Her eyes narrowed, and I swear I saw her lips tighten even through the car window. My stomach dropped like a stone. I flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under my shoe as if that could erase what she’d seen, but it was too late. The car slowed for a moment, then sped up and disappeared around the corner. My heart was hammering, my palms sweaty despite the cold. I yanked my bag higher on my shoulder and started walking again, faster now, my mind racing. Had she really seen me? Would she tell? Oh God, what if she told?

That night, I barely slept. I kept replaying it in my head—the way the cigarette had felt, so casual and rebellious in my hand, and then the gut-wrenching moment I’d been caught. I tossed and turned, imagining the head of year’s office, the lectures, the punishments. I’d heard rumors about St. Alban’s—old-school discipline, they called it. Slipperings weren’t unheard of, though I’d laughed it off as some exaggerated tale the older girls told to scare us. Now, it didn’t seem so funny. My thin grey trousers, part of the uniform, suddenly felt flimsier in my mind, offering no protection at all. I pressed my hands against my backside as I lay in bed, wondering how it would feel, my nerves twisting tighter with every hour that ticked by.

The next morning, Friday, I dragged myself to school, my stomach a knot of dread. I barely heard a word in my first two lessons, my eyes darting to the classroom door every time someone passed by. Then, just before break, it happened. A prefect poked her head in and said, “Kate, Mrs. Lawson wants you in her office. Now.” Mrs. Lawson was the head of year, a tall woman with steel-grey hair and a voice that could cut glass. My legs felt like jelly as I grabbed my bag and followed the prefect down the corridor, the other girls whispering behind me.

When I stepped into her office, Mrs. Lawson was sitting behind her desk, her glasses perched on her nose, a file open in front of her. She didn’t look up right away, just pointed to the chair across from her. I sat, my hands clasped tight in my lap, the rough fabric of my trousers rubbing against my thighs. Finally, she spoke.

“Kate, I had an interesting report from Mrs. Hargreaves yesterday. She says she saw you smoking on your way home from school. Is that true?”

My mouth went dry. I thought about lying, but the way she was looking at me—like she already knew—made it pointless. “Yes, miss,” I mumbled, staring at the floor.

She leaned back in her chair, her voice icy. “Smoking is a filthy habit, Kate. It’s bad for your health, it’s against school rules, and it sets a terrible example. I’m disappointed, especially since you’ve only just started here. I’d hoped you’d make a better impression.”

The lecture went on for what felt like forever. She talked about lung cancer, addiction, the dangers of nicotine—every word sinking into me like lead. I nodded when she paused, my face burning with shame, but all I could think about was what came next. She stood up, walked to a cupboard in the corner, and pulled out an old black plimsoll. It was worn, the rubber sole cracked at the edges, the canvas faded. My breath caught in my throat.

“Stand up,” she said, her tone clipped. “Bend over the desk.”

I wanted to argue, to beg, but my legs moved on their own. I shuffled to the desk, my hands trembling as I pressed them against the cool wood, bending forward until my chest was nearly flat against it. My grey trousers stretched tight across my backside, the thin wool offering no cushion at all. I could feel every seam, every thread against my skin, and I knew it wouldn’t help one bit. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst.

Mrs. Lawson stepped behind me, and I heard the faint creak of the floorboards. “Six strokes,” she said. “And I hope this teaches you a lesson.”

The first whack landed without warning, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the small room. The plimsoll was heavier than I’d expected, the rubber sole flattening against my trousers with a force that drove the breath out of me. Pain bloomed across my left cheek, hot and immediate, spreading outward like wildfire. I gasped, gripping the edge of the desk, my knuckles white. The thin fabric did nothing—it might as well have been bare skin for all the protection it gave. The second stroke came fast, overlapping the first, and I yelped, my legs twitching involuntarily. The sting was unbearable, a deep, throbbing heat that made my eyes water.

She didn’t pause. The third whack hit my right cheek, the plimsoll’s edge catching the tender spot where my thigh met my backside. I bit my lip hard, tasting blood, trying not to cry out. My trousers clung to me, the wool trapping the heat, making every smack feel worse than the last. The fourth stroke was lower, a brutal thud that sent a jolt up my spine, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore—a sob broke free, loud and humiliating. My bottom felt like it was on fire, the pain pulsing with every heartbeat, sharp and raw.

The fifth and sixth came in quick succession, each one a searing explosion across my already tender skin. I was crying openly now, tears dripping onto the desk, my whole body shaking. When she finally stepped back, I stayed bent over for a moment, too stunned to move, the heat radiating through my trousers like a furnace. My backside throbbed, each cheek swollen and sore, the thin fabric rubbing against the welts with every tiny shift.

“Stand up,” she said, her voice calm again. I straightened slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at my punished skin. “I trust I won’t see you here for this again, Kate. You’re dismissed.”

I stumbled out of the office, my face streaked with tears, my hands hovering uselessly near my hips. The walk back to class was torture—every step jostled my bottom, sending fresh stabs of pain through me. My trousers, so flimsy before, now felt like sandpaper against the rawness. Sitting down for the rest of the day was worse. In history, I lowered myself onto the hard wooden chair, and the pressure was agony—a deep, aching burn that wouldn’t let up. I shifted constantly, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, but there wasn’t one. Every time I moved, the fabric tugged at my skin, reigniting the sting. I could feel the welts under my trousers, raised and hot, a constant reminder of the plimsoll’s bite.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted, humiliated, and sore beyond belief. I stood in front of my mirror, easing my trousers down just enough to see—my bottom was a mess of red and purple, the marks stark against my pale skin. Sitting was out of the question that night; I ate dinner standing at the counter, and slept on my stomach, the cool sheets a small relief against the lingering heat. The lecture about smoking echoed in my head, mingling with the shame and the pain.