Sweat licks the lines of my face as I stand in formation, the shoulders of my classmates grazing mine. Mrs. Jones walks the line, her pants hissing as she thwacks a wooden ruler against her palm. Her face sports the memory of a scowl, like a dot-to-dot with the answer already filled in.
‘Jumpers off and on your knees, ladies.’ She commands.
The heat presses in so close I can almost see the droplets in the air. I peel the jumper away from my body, the bunched fabric beneath freeing. The rush of air briefly relieves the sweat pooling under my arms.
The cross at my neck flops atop my chest as I kneel awaiting judgement. Mrs. Jones strides, brandishing the ruler. She sends girls off to unpick hems that brush thighs, leaving some crying and others glowering in her wake. She’s halfway down the line. My heart thrums against my chest.
The silence of the room rings in my ears, and I focus on the fibres digging into my knees—tingling and numb. I shift, and my knees bark. There are five between us.
I rub my lips together, the cracks catching as they rip and tear each other, dogs fighting over a stick. I study the carpet. She’s in front of me, and I raise my puppy eyes. Obedience incarnate.
She gives me a once-over, noting the hem of my dress skimming the floor, and flicks her snake gaze to the next. Her heavy leer lingers, pinning me in place long after she passes.