English Lessons

English Lessons

Gerda served the coffee with trembling hands as Frau Reinhardt discussed her daughter's future with the tutor. `Please,' she said, indicating the cakes on the table. David took one and glanced over at Gerda, who had perched on the edge of her chair. She was playing with her hair, avoiding his eyes. `You must to understand,' Frau Reinhardt said. `How important is English for my daughter.' `Of course,' David agreed. `You want to maximise Gerda's opportunities.' The woman nodded gratefully, then looked down. `Unfortunately, my English is limited. I would wish to learn also better English, but is more important for Gerda.' `I understand completely.' Again he looked at the girl and again she averted her eyes. `I also understand you're not satisfied with your daughter's progress.' Frau Reinhardt sighed with relief, as though she had expected the interview to be more difficult. `Her marks are not high, no? Her homework is not done always. Her study habits are unfortunate. My husband would wish you to be stricter. He would give to you full authority of discipline.' David wasn't quite sure what she was getting at. He was already very strict with Gerda, as he was with all his pupils. He set her lines and other impositions when she performed poorly and scolded her often for her laziness and inattention. What other discipline could she mean? Seeing his puzzlement, Gerda's mother rose. `I

show you,' she said, opening the bottom drawer of the large bureau against the window. Gerda squirmed in her seat, staring fixedly at anything but her tutor. Frau Reinhardt produced a wide leather strap and a rattan cane. David's eyes widened. She couldn't possibly be suggesting... `Gerda's father believes in raising daughters with...' The woman hesitated, searching for the right word. `Feste Hand? How to say in English?' `Firm hand,' David answered. Now he understood. `Yes, firm hand. With punishment from bad behaviours. Auf dem bloßen. On bare. But since she has been thirteen he has no longer done this.' Gerda was blushing furiously and David took a long swallow of coffee to hide his delight. It was just what the girl needed. He had been tempted in the past to threaten her with a spanking, but without knowing her parents' attitude towards it he didn't dare presume. When he spoke he did his best to sound completely professional. `I fully agree with you, Frau Reinhardt. I think that girls who are brought up to respect authority have a much better work ethic. They perform to higher standards because they are unhappy with themselves if they don't achieve what they know they are capable of. Gerda's standards have fallen in the three years since your husband stopped punishing her. And you're asking me to reinstate the old disciplinary policy.' `Yes, yes, you understand very well, Herr Harker. And we would be most grateful with you.' David rose and inclined his head slightly to her. `It

would be my pleasure. I see it as an unpleasant but necessary duty. And one which will benefit your daughter immensely. I have always felt that the standards in English schools fell dramatically when corporal punishment was abolished.' `Thank you,' said Frau Reinhardt. `From my husband also.' David accepted the implements and looked over at Gerda. `And what about you?' he asked. `How do you feel about this?' The girl didn't know what to say. She looked about to cry. Finally she murmured, `I will accept discipline you think to be appropriate.' At a stern look from David she added, `Sir.' `Very well,' he said. `Let's go to your room and see your homework from the last lesson.' He could tell by the look on her face that she hadn't done it. He could also tell that if she'd known her parents' decision, she probably would have. `Gerda, this is very disappointing,' David said gently. `How many times has this happened now?' She mumbled something and shifted her feet. `Speak up.' `I'm sorry, sir.' `That's not an answer, young lady.' `Many times,' she said at last. `Many times.' He sighed and looked at the implements. `Well, your mother made it quite clear that this sort of behaviour was not to be tolerated any longer.' Gerda looked up, confused. `Bitte?' `Oh, I think you understand perfectly well, young lady. And if you don't it's only because you haven't

been doing the work I set you. You've no one to blame but yourself.' The girl's face was almost as red as her hair. Her head was down, causing the two plaits to hang in her face. It made her look very vulnerable, like a kitten hiding behind a table leg. `Head up, Gerda. I want you to look at me when I'm talking to you. And stop fidgeting. Hands at your sides. There's a good girl. Now I want you to tell me why you haven't been doing your homework.' `Is difficult,' she pouted. `It is difficult,' he corrected. `And I know it is. That's why it's so important to practise and do the work I set you on your own. You certainly didn't learn your own language by ignoring it and hoping it would go away, did you?' `No, sir.' `Right. Well, you know I have no choice, Gerda. I'm going to have to punish you.' She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and lowered her head. David set the straight-backed chair in the centre of the room and sat down. `Give me your exercise book,' he said. He flipped through it. Far too little of it had been used. She should have gone through one or two entire books by now. He shook his head as he opened it to a blank page and set it on the floor to his left. Then he patted his lap. `Over my knee, Gerda.' It seemed to require a lot of effort for her to comply. He could see her embarrassment clearly. He'd always known the girl had a bit of a crush on him and that no doubt made it all the more embarrassing for her. But he had to teach her a

lesson. And in truth, it wasn't nearly as unpleasant a duty as he'd claimed. He was looking forward to seeing Gerda's sweet little bottom over his knee. The girl uttered a soft moan of shame as she lay across his lap. Her short denim skirt rode up and she reached behind to tug it down. `No need to bother,' David said, tugging it right up to expose her knickers. Gerda gasped. `You heard your mother, young lady. On the bare.' He pulled her knickers down with a sharp, purposeful motion that made her whimper. He rested his hand on the pale skin of her bottom. She twitched. `I'm sorry it's had to come to this, Gerda, but I take your education very seriously and it's time you did too. English is a very useful language and all you need is a little incentive to master it properly.' With that he brought his hand down on her right cheek. Gerda squealed. He watched as a vivid red handprint appeared. He smacked the other cheek and watched again as the redness bloomed like a flower. Then he began the spanking in earnest. Gerda struggled and yelped with each smack, but she didn't reach behind or try to resist the way an English girl would. She'd probably been taught by her father not to move. `Look at the book, Gerda,' he said, smacking her over and over. `Tell me what you see.' `Empty pages, sir,' she moaned. `That's right. Empty pages. Are they going to be filled next time I come for your lesson?' `Yes, sir.'

As he watched her bottom redden under his palm he could picture her mother outside the door, nodding and smiling. It was a very small apartment, after all. Frau Reinhardt would be able to hear everything. He hoped it would add to Gerda's shame. He spanked her hard, but not too severely. This was only her first spanking, after all, and he suspected he'd need the implements before the lesson was finished. She had a dictation she was meant to have prepared for him as well. `Up you get,' he said at last, helping her up off his lap. Gerda hurriedly got to her feet and reached to pull her knickers up. `No, no,' David chided. `You stand right here in front of me. Lift your skirt. Tuck it into the waistband. Hands on your head.' Moving slowly, as though each action was torture, Gerda did as she was told. She looked at him pleadingly, but he was unmoved. `Right,' he began. `This is how things are going to be from now on. Do you understand?' `Yes, sir.' `Whenever I find fault with your work - or lack thereof - I will punish you. I have indulged your laziness for far too long. Impositions have no effect on you because you just don't do them. You need to know that your lack of effort has very definite and painful consequences. Is that clear?' `Yes, sir.' `Good.' He got to his feet and turned the chair around so that it was facing Gerda's desk. `Sit.' She touched her knickers and gave him a beseeching look.

`No. Your knickers stay down. I want your bare bottom on the chair.' Gerda winced as she sank to the wooden seat of the chair. It had really only been a token bottomsmacking, but still - it was three years since her father last spanked her. David set her exercise book down in front of her and gave her a pen. `You have ten minutes to do the homework you were set last week,' he told her. `And then I will check it.' Gerda's eyes widened. The assignment had been to write a one-page essay about the importance of learning English. In English. If she was frightened of doing it now it could only be because she hadn't been studying her vocabulary either. David wasn't surprised. He seated himself across the room and picked up the folder of assignments from his other private pupils. Most of them were very diligent and grateful for the chance to learn another language. He shook his head as he marked the papers. Gerda was perfectly capable of the work he set her. It was her attitude that needed changing. The ten minutes passed quickly and he wasn't surprised to see she'd written only a few half-hearted lines. She'd left blanks where she meant to insert a word she didn't know and in other places she'd simply used German words instead. He sighed and shook his head. `Gerda, this is not acceptable. You should be able to write more than this by now.' `I can, sir,' she protested. `If you would let me use my book!' `You won't be able to carry around a book all the

time. You need to learn the words by heart.' `But I...' David cut her off by picking up the strap. He slapped it against his palm. Gerda buried her face in her hands. `Stand up,' he said softly. `And bend over the desk.' Gerda got miserably to her feet and extended herself across the desk. Her bottom was still pink from the spanking. `Ten strokes,' David said, laying the strap against her backside. `Just a reminder, really. You may thank me for being lenient.' `Thank you, sir,' Gerda whimpered. With that he began to strap her. He laid the strokes on hard, since he was only giving her ten. He wanted her to remember this. Gerda yelped loudly and clutched the edge of the desk with each meaty smack. `Bitte, nein,' she moaned. `In English, young lady,' David scolded, delivering a harsh stroke to her upper thighs. Gerda cried out. `Please, sir, no! I'm sorry! Bitte! Please!' But David ignored her cries, determined to teach her an unforgettable lesson. It was over quickly, but he knew he'd made an impression. He let her up and tried to hide his smile as he watched her gingerly touch the tender flesh of her bottom. `Now, miss,' he said sternly. `Your dictation.' Gerda shuddered. It was obvious from her poor performance on the essay that her dictation would be substandard, but he went through it anyway. He allowed her to adjust

her clothing and directed her to stand in front of him. Then he handed her the book he'd left for her and told her to read. It was one of the Harry Potter books, something he thought she'd find charming, fun and unintimidating. But her pronunciation was dreadful and it was painfully obvious that she hadn't spent a single minute practising. He stopped her. Gerda bowed her head, knowing she was in more trouble. `How much time have you spent practising, Gerda?' She shuffled her feet. `Some.' `How much time?' She swallowed. `Not enough.' `How much time?' She was silent for several seconds. `None, sir.' He was glad she didn't offer any excuses. None would have sufficed. Gerda looked up at him shyly. `I'm sorry, sir,' she offered. `Yes, you will be.' He gestured to the cane. `I think you know what's going to happen now, Gerda.' Resigned, she nodded her head. `Yes, sir.' `Very well.' She handed him the cane and slowly raised her skirt and took down her knickers, baring her sore bottom once again. He turned the chair around and gestured to it. `Over the back of the chair, please. Hands on the seat.' Gerda did as she was told, obviously resigned to her fate. He sliced the cane through the air and the loud

WHOOSH it made was enough to make Gerda tremble in anticipation. He tapped it against her bottom. `Now then,' he said. `In England we count strokes in increments of six. "Six of the best," we call it. However, given your poor performance over the past few weeks, I'm going to give you twelve.' `Yes, sir,' Gerda said, her voice barely a whisper. `There is another English tradition you're going to adopt. English pupils must count the strokes and say "Thank you, sir" after each one. Since you're being punished for your lack of effort in your English lessons I think this most appropriate.' `Yes, sir.' He tapped her again, measuring his stroke. Then he drew back his arm and brought the cane down on her bottom. Gerda yelped, but did not break position. `Eins. Danke, mein Herr.' David was silent. `One!' Gerda gasped, suddenly realising her mistake. `Thank you, sir!' But David shook his head. `No, young lady. That stroke won't count. This is exactly what I mean by inattention.' He gave her the first stroke again, harder. She cried out and counted in English. David continued. Each resounding thwack brought a sharp cry from her and it wasn't long before he heard her voice crack. He was getting through to her. `Nine,' she whimpered. `Thank you, s-sir.' `I am also going to get you an English school uniform,' he told her. `I think a uniform helps a girl focus and in this case it would be most appropriate.

You will wear it for all your lessons and for your homework as well.' She squirmed and lowered her head as far as it would go, thoroughly humbled. `Three more strokes, Gerda.' The tenth made her writhe over the chair and it was some time before she was able to collect herself enough to count. He could hear the lump in her throat as she struggled not to cry. The penultimate stroke was the hardest yet and Gerda burst into tears. Her body shook with sobs and she wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve and sniffled like a child before choking out the count. `Last one,' he said. `Be brave.' She let out a loud wail as it landed, hiccupping with sobs as she counted. Her legs were wobbly and it looked like the chair was the only thing holding her up. David set the cane down and helped her to her feet. She turned away, but he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. The comforting gesture broke down the rest of her reserve and she collapsed, weeping in his arms. He held her like that for a long time while she calmed down. When her cries had subsided he released her. She wiped her eyes. `I'm sorry, sir,' she whispered. `It's all right, Gerda. I'm not angry with you. I only want you to do your best in future. You are going to try from now on, aren't you?' She nodded. `Yes, sir.' `And this is what's going to happen from now on when you don't. Do you understand? Look at me.' Huge tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him. `I understand, sir,' she said, and he believed

her. `I promise to be good girl from now to on.' He smiled and corrected her English. Gerda blushed and turned away. She touched her bottom and winced. Then she smiled. It was both rueful and mischievous. `What is it?' David asked. `I am just thinking,' Gerda said. `My sister will be needing lessons of English next year.' He smiled at his pupil. `Yes. And I trust your parents will take her education just as seriously as they take yours. En Pointe Discipline. Paige hated that word and all it stood for. Such a nasty, needling word, sibilant S like the hiss of a snake. It was why she lost her ballet scholarship, why she was kicked out - well, no, that was harsh. Why she was informed that her scholarship would not be renewed. And by then, she was ready to leave anyway. Because of the discipline. Or rather, her lack thereof. The classes were so much easier when she was younger. And more fun. But the years and years of training started getting old when she became interested in boys. And not the swishy tights-wearing dancer-boys she occasionally encountered in class. If they were interested in girls at all, they seemed to prefer ones far less feminine than Paige. She began resenting the hours of practice, hours she could have spent giving and getting pleasure from some cute guy in the backseat of his car. Or making out in the darkness of the theater. Or driving out to some lonely stretch of road overlooking the

city lights, to be made to squeal and shiver by urban legends about men with hooks for hands. But then Daddy: "Don't forget, Paige, you have a recital tomorrow. Be home by eight." Boy. She was in a no-man's-land of sorts. She'd been doing it too long to just blow it off. It was a lot of years to just shelve in exchange for trivial teenage distractions. But the longer and harder she worked, the more she grew to resent it and the hours it robbed her of. She sat at the kitchen table, reading and rereading the letter. It was cordial and encouraging in a condescending way. It purported to be sympathetic to the social needs of a young woman, but there was another icky word: priorities. As a matter of fact, after more than ten years of stifling tradition and formality, Paige did have other priorities, thank you. She looked up from the table. Ribbons, certificates, pictures, worn out shoes. All adorning the walls of her proud father's house. Soft focus portrait of Paige's first recital, age seven. Paige as one of the little swans in Swan Lake. Paige as a nameless nobody in The Sleeping Beauty. That was the real burn. If she couldn't play Odette or Juliet, there wasn't much incentive to work as hard. She would never be the last to file onstage at curtain call to the enthusiastic applause, holding her ballet slippers by the ribbons, curtseying graciously as the crowd pelted her with roses. So what was the point? Or pointe, she added mentally. When Daddy got home she would just have to lay it out for him. Yes, I know how much time and money you invested, but I've changed my mind. She knew it

wouldn't go that smoothly, though. One of those rare dancer-boys had admonished her gently, "If you're not willing to live ballet," mocking their least liked instructor, "You'll never get those roles." "I know," she had grumbled. "But what if I did eat, drink, snort and shoot ballet and I sacrifice my whole life and then I still don't get those parts?" "Sorry, sweetie," he said, spreading his hands. "There's never a guarantee." Her chin jammed down on her fists, Paige pouted. "I wish I just knew who to blow for a part." "I hear you, girlfriend." Daddy had done things backwards; he was high enough in the company food chain to choose his own location. So he relocated to be near Paige's college so she wouldn't have to live in a dorm. They had fought about that, of course, but as always, Daddy shamed her into acceptance. That was part of the whole experience of going to college - to be on her own, away from home, away from him. She accused him of just wanting to keep an eye on her so she couldn't have any fun. He accused her of trying to get away from him - what did she want to do that she couldn't share with her father? The timeless conundrum, enacted by fathers and daughters since time began. The key in the lock. The slam of the door. Daddy was home. Deep breath, she told herself. Calm. Serene. Just like the little fucking ballerina you're not and never will be. "Hi, sweetie! How was class today?"

Jesus, right into it. "Daddy, there's something I need to talk to you about." "Want to do it over dinner? How about sushi? I'm buying." Normally those words were the Pavlovian bell to make her salivate, but today she didn't have much of an appetite. "I'm not hungry. Listen, I need to talk to you." "Sure," he said, surprised. "Anything." All afternoon she'd dreaded this moment and now that it was upon her, she didn't know where to start. "You know you can tell me anything, Paige. Now, what is it?" He was being too nice, making it harder for her. Why couldn't he just be an asshole so she could throw the letter at him and storm out? "Come on," he said, leading her by the hand into the den. Daddy sat on the couch and Paige perched on the ottoman in front of him. He looked at her, expectantly, and she couldn't stand the suspense of the moment any more. "I'm out," she blurted. "Out of school. Out of dance. Out of all of it." He stared at her in slow, blinking surprise. "What happened?" he finally asked. "I'm just tired of it. It's gotten old. I'm nineteen and I haven't even lived a normal nineteen year old life. I never get to have any fun. I'm always practicing, practicing, practicing for years to be a background player in some stupid dance. Five minutes onstage with seven other girls. I want to go out with boys. I want to go to the movies, the mall, the ice cream parlor. I want to eat junk food and talk

on the phone till three am with my friends. I want to go out and do stuff and be on my own!" She caught herself before she could get even more whipped up. The tide of frustration was more than she had expected and her father's eyes got wider with each point. And when she finally stopped, he looked dazed. "I'm sorry," she whispered, looking down so he couldn't see the bitter tears in her eyes. "How long have you felt this way?" he asked. "A long time." After staring at his empty hands for a few beats he shook his head. "I don't know what to say," he admitted. "I never knew you felt like this." She was quick to ease his guilt. "I never wanted you to know." "Have you really been hating it all this time?" "No, I..." The disappointment in his eyes was almost more than she could take. Suddenly, she felt awful. "Daddy, I'm sorry, I just - I'm sorry." "I always thought it was what you wanted," he continued. "You always said it was your biggest dream, your biggest wish, your favorite fantasy. I can't believe that's all been a lie." This was not going at all like she'd planned. She'd expected anger, disappointment even, but not this devastated sorrow, almost grief. And she'd only done the easy part. How could she even go through with the next confession? "Daddy, it wasn't a lie. It was never a lie. It's just..." She took his hands in hers, but he wouldn't look her in the eyes. "But you were so excited," he said slowly. "About

how well the audition went. You were in heaven." "I know," she said, trying to talk around the lump in her throat. "But it's just..." "Just what, little one?" She allowed the tears to slip down her face as she told him the truth. "I never even went to the audition." Now he looked up. "What? Why not?" "Because I knew I wouldn't get the part I wanted. It's always the same two or three girls every time. They get all the good parts. You know that. You've never seen me really dance. And you never will." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, like she'd done when she was very little. The understated rage of a petulant child. "But sweetie, if you don't audition, there's no way you'll get any part." "I know. But I just couldn't deal with it again. Holding my breath for days until the cast list is posted, scanning for my name, all the way down at the bottom. Background. Chorus. Shadow." She sniffled and lifted her chin. "So I'm through with it." Daddy sat back in stunned silence. When he finally spoke, he made it even worse. "I could go up there, talk to your instructors, maybe see what's going on." Paige was shaking her head. "Why not? It can only help. It can't hurt." Unable to speak, she just handed him the letter. Then she lowered her head while he read it. "`Fighting with the other girls... lack of discipline... angry outbursts in class... accusations of favoritism... skipping rehearsals...' Is all this true, Paige? Did you really push this girl -" He glanced back down at the letter. "Sandy - did you really push her down some

stairs?" She could only nod in silence. It was just the two little steps leading into the auditorium, but if it had been a flight of stairs like the one in The Exorcist, she'd still have done it. Sandy was a little... "Yes, Daddy, I did." And here it came - the anger. She saw the cast of his shoulders change as he drew back in his seat, rereading the letter with furrowed brow. Paige was quiet and still. She knew every word by heart, from the stilted opening, "We regret to inform you..." to its patronizing closing, "We wish you the best." Blah blah blah. Her father folded the letter and set it aside, his face having darkened from its initial sadness and confusion. "Is there anything you want to tell me, young lady?" "Like what?" Now that he knew, she resented it all over again. "Paige." She sighed. "Paige, I want you to go to your room. I need some time to process this and I'm sure you could use the time to reflect on your actions. I'll be up shortly." There was the Daddy she was used to - the one always in charge and in control. She dragged her feet as she ascended the stairs, feeling like Rapunzel sentenced to the tower. And the only prince who could set her free was the one she called "Daddy." An interminable stretch of time later, he stood before her, his hands on his hips. She could tell by his face that he'd spoken to her instructors. At least the one

who drafted the letter. "I can't believe this, Paige. My own daughter brawling like a barroom cowboy." That image made her giggle and her father scowled at her. "There's nothing funny about this, young lady. I can't believe you lied to me about all this. Yes, I spoke to your instructor and she told me exactly what happened. Let me see if I have this straight: you haven't been getting cast in lead roles because of your inattention in class and your lack of discipline. You were resentful and felt you were being short-changed when in fact, you were the one shortchanging yourself by not applying yourself. You got into an argument with Sandy, who got the part you wanted - the part you never even auditioned for and it became a fight wherein you pushed her down the stairs. Have I got it right, Paige?" She nodded miserably. "Yes, Daddy." "I've been sympathizing with you from day one, cheering you on and keeping my fingers crossed for you at every audition. I've been supportive and understanding. I can't believe this is my little Paige in this letter." "I know. I'm sorry." "How can you ever hope to be cast if you don't show the kind of initiative that earned you the scholarship in the first place? Skipping rehearsals, arguing with fellow students and instructors and lying to me are not what dance is about. If you don't commit yourself to the less exciting and mundane practice and rehearsals, how can you expect to think you'll be a reliable lead dancer?" Well, if someone would give me a chance, she

thought angrily. "I'm very disappointed in you," he said, lowering his voice to a hushed endearing tone. "And I want to know what happened to my little girl, the sweet little ballerina who used to dance for Daddy. Just a private little recital for Daddy and no one else. Where is she, that little girl?" Oh God, such low blows. He was getting to her. And it was only more frustrating because he was right. If she didn't devote herself to practice with the obsessive zeal of a religious fanatic, no one would take a chance on casting her in a lead role. Yet, where was the incentive to nurture obsession when she wasn't getting the right kind of feedback? It was endlessly infuriating. Finally, the lowest blow of all: "Paige, you used to love ballet and everything about it with such passion. Have you lost the passion? Is it gone?" That released her tears. Because she had not lost the passion. If anything, the passion was stronger than ever for her feeling slighted and overlooked. She loved dancing, more than silly makeout games with boys, more than anything she could imagine. All she wanted to do - all she ever wanted to do - was dance. Her father gathered her in his arms while she cried. She wanted to explain, tell him how much it hurt to be constantly ignored by her instructors. How hard it was to keep giving her best when it seemed her best was never good enough. How devastating it was to be overlooked, criticized and reprimanded when she felt she was throwing her heart and soul into every single step. But she didn't have to say a word. He knew. And

she knew he did. She felt it in the crushing affection of his embrace. "I think I know what you need," he said, his voice muffled by her hair and the fierceness of her arms holding on to him. "And no one else could ever give you what you need most of all. No one but your daddy." That brought a fresh torrent of tears and she clung to him even more tightly, never wanting to let go. Finally, he pushed her back until he was holding her at arm's length. "Remember the little game we used to play when you were learning to dance on pointe? Remember how I'd have you hold the position while I tried to distract you or knock you off balance?" She remembered. God, that took her back. That was the first time she had ever felt completely secure dancing for her father. Not a trace of self consciousness remained after his silly and loving game. She had never been afraid to fall - not in front of Daddy, anyway. "I want you to change," he said. "You know what to wear. I'll be waiting for you downstairs. In the study." A few minutes later, Paige arrived, dressed in her favorite swan costume, her long hair in the requisite bun and her feet caged in torturous toe shoes. She felt right at home in her dancer clothes. It was so natural for her, so much a part of who she was. Of course she hadn't lost the passion. She'd just allowed the politics to taint it. Her father stood in front of her, flexing a riding crop in his hands. He hadn't used it in probably ten

years, but her kneejerk apprehension on seeing it now was identical to her reaction all those years ago. That was something she had lost the passion for. Daddy hired an instructor to give her riding lessons when she was nine because she loved horses so much. But there was too much work involved and not enough riding and Paige quickly lost interest. And when Daddy found out she'd been skipping her lessons, he found a suitable purpose for her unused riding crop. "Now listen, little one," he said. "I'm going to give you twelve strokes. Hard ones. That will excuse the contents of this letter. This is your proving ground. If you truly want to be a dancer, you have to have discipline. I'm going to test that discipline now. If you pass the test, we can go anywhere you like, move out of state or even out of the country if that's what you want. We'll start over and you can go to any school you want and study dance there. "Because I know you haven't lost your passion for it. I know how badly you want to dance, to be given a chance to show what you can do. You can start over fresh, in your new school. You have what it takes to reach those goals; all you lack is discipline." Paige listened to her father, blinking back tears. He knew her so well. Why hadn't she just confided in him weeks ago? All this could have been avoided. "But if you fail," he continued. "Then that's the end. You can drop all of your dance classes and find something else to study. Do you understand?" "Yes, Daddy," she said, the finality of his words echoing deep inside her. She took several deep breaths to focus herself, comforted by the ease with which she slipped into her dancer's headspace. Calm.

Serene. Graceful. In a dream. She stepped forward, taking one last breath. "Very well," he said, gesturing to the floor with the end of the crop. He had adopted and adapted this "game" from one of her early instructors. Miss Castille used to smack her pupils with a whippy reedlike baton as they held poses. They were supposed to hold those poses without moving or flinching, no matter how much it stung. Paige stood in the spot he indicated and closed her eyes. She rose up on her toes to full pointe and bent to touch the floor with her fingertips, stretching her hamstrings to the point of pain. She envisioned herself onstage before an audience, proving herself to them. Almost at once, he struck her left buttock with the crop, hard. The smack was resounding in the oak study, but Paige didn't make a sound or move an inch. Dance through it was the mantra for dealing with the unforeseen. A sudden cramp, a muscle strain, any little pain that ambushed you onstage - you just had to dance through it. The audience must never know how much it hurts. They have to believe they are seeing weightless girls balancing in impossible positions, expressing themselves with an effortless grace and beauty, something far outside the abilities of the rest of the non-dancing world. A second stroke, even harder than the first. She didn't flinch. Her leotard didn't give her any protection; the crop was as painful over her flimsy costume as it would be on the bare. The third, hardest of all. A soft and quick

exhalation of breath through her nose was her only response. Other than that she was a statue. Four. Silent and still. Five. Almost there. Six. Like the crack of a bullwhip. But she kept her position. "Good girl. Are you ready for your final six?" "Yes, Daddy." "You know the position." She did. She found her balance on one leg, her left. Stretching her arms out behind her, she followed them with her right leg, like a swan taking flight. Then she rose to full pointe, until the big toe of her left foot was supporting all 99 pounds of her. In this position her bottom was stretched taut, one side at a time. Focus, focus, focus, she chanted to herself in her mind. These would be harder and more difficult to take. Harder as well to maintain her balance. But so much was at stake. She couldn't lose her dream now, not when Daddy was here to show her how important that dream was. The count began again and Paige had to grit her teeth to endure the first stroke. Her balancing leg was quivering from the exertion, the pain and the challenging pose. The second stroke almost wrenched a cry from her, but she projected herself out of it. He gave her the third stroke and she was almost there. No stranger to pain, Paige forced herself to remember her most severe dance injuries, no less painful than the crop. She could do this. She simply removed herself from the pain in her body, dissociated herself from it. Descending to her normal

stature, she switched legs, rising at once on the other leg and elevating her height five inches. No words disturbed the stillness of the tableau. Paige stood like a statue in a fountain, impervious to the coins thrown in her murky depths and the pigeons roosting on her sky-turned face. Her father repeated the process with her right buttock, leaving firm, crisp marks which would stain her bottom for the next few days. Through it all Paige never moved. Never reacted in any visible way. But the moment she was released from her dance-bondage, she wilted back to earth and she was twelve years old again, excited about dancing, loving her body's new changes and talents and wanting only to share that joy with her father. The dance over, the invisible audience sighed and the players were left panting, weeping, loving. Paige felt like a weightless feather in her daddy's arms, well focused, well disciplined and well pleased. "Thank you, Daddy," she managed, her voice muffled by his arms, holding her tightly. "Oh, little one, I'm so proud of you." After a long and redemptive silence, he asked if she knew where she'd like to go. She thought for a few minutes. "The Royal Academy of Dancing," she said at last. "England." She knew Daddy would approve. They used the cane there