We each got one good swing in before we heard the inevitable shrieking from the shore. We each took another, less good, swing, knowing she was coming to drag us back to the car, where we got an earful about the emergency room on the ride home. My aunt dragged us both inside and barked at us to put our hands on the wall. ‘Hands on the wall’ was something that was handed down from my grandparents and all the grandchildren had been taught it. Sometimes it was just that – standing with your hands on the wall for an undetermined amount of time, until whoever had made you stand there told you to go on and behave now. However, usually, it was the precursor to a spanking and occasionally the finale as well. Jimmy snapped to, already pleading with my aunt not to spank him. I, however, was drunk with power from my recent trip to my mother’s apartment. I put my tiny hands on my hips and refused – something that I had never dared do before. “My mom says that you shouldn’t be spanking me anymore,” I spat out, sticking out my tiny chin obstinately.