The summer sun seemed endless that year, pouring golden light through the windows and painting everything with a warm, nostalgic glow. I spent nearly every waking hour with my best friend Katie, our laughter echoing through my house and the parks scattered around our small town. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant hum of cicadas, and our days felt as if they might stretch on forever.
We rarely ventured to Katie’s home. Her mother, a woman with sharp eyes and a voice that could freeze you in your tracks, kept a tight grip on everything. I knew, in the way kids just know, that Katie sometimes got spankings when she crossed the line or simply caught her mother in a bad mood. I wasn’t a stranger to that kind of discipline either—my own father’s stern hand, and, less often, my stepmother’s. But it had been a year since I’d last been on the receiving end, as my stepmother called it, of a “warm bottom.” Still, the memory of it lingered, a faint sting in the back of my mind.
Two weeks before school was set to start again, Katie’s family invited me on a camping trip. The invitation came with a catch: I had to bring an adult along. I guessed Katie’s mother didn’t want the extra responsibility, or maybe she just wanted another grown-up to share the burden of keeping us in line.
The trip began with excitement and the earthy smell of pine needles underfoot. We set up tents, roasted marshmallows, and let the crackle of the campfire fill the silence between stories. But late Saturday afternoon, with the lake shimmering under the sun, Katie and I got a wild idea. We slipped away and dragged a canoe to the water’s edge, giggling as we fumbled with the paddles. The cool splash of water on our hands felt like freedom. We didn’t ask for permission, and we didn’t wait for an adult. At least, as Katie’s mother later pointed out, we had the sense to wear life vests.
The moment we returned, dripping and breathless, we knew we were in trouble. Katie’s mother’s face was thunderous, her voice sharp as she scolded us. My stepmother’s disappointment was quieter, but I could feel it in the way she looked at me. After a long, tense lecture, Katie’s mother turned to my stepmother and said, “They both need a whooping. I hope you’ll give yours the same as I’m about to give Katie.” The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
I could see the worry flicker across my stepmother’s face. I imagined her thinking about how she’d explain this to my mother—me, for my reckless behavior, and her, for not keeping a closer eye on us. My stepmother asked, her voice tight, “What exactly do you mean by a ‘whooping’?” Katie’s mother didn’t hesitate. “A spanking with a belt,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. My stomach dropped. I’d never been spanked with a belt before, and the thought of it made my skin prickle.
My stepmother hesitated, then said she needed to talk to me first. Katie’s mother rolled her eyes, grabbed Katie by the arm, and marched her off to the bathhouse. I caught Katie’s wide, frightened eyes just before the door swung shut behind them.
My stepmother led me back to our tent, her hand gentle but firm on my shoulder. The canvas walls glowed with the late afternoon sun, and the air inside was thick and still. She sat me down on a folding chair, her face serious but not unkind. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could feel my palms growing sweaty. “You know what you did was wrong, right?” she asked softly. I nodded, my throat tight. I couldn’t imagine facing Katie again if I got off easy. I wanted to be brave, to take what was coming, even if I was scared.
After a long, quiet moment, my stepmother sighed. “Alright,” she said, “you’ll get the same as Katie.” My stomach twisted, but I nodded. Outside, the world seemed to go on as usual—birds chirping, the distant laughter of other campers—but for me, time had slowed to a crawl.
We stood outside the tent for a while, the smell of campfire smoke drifting on the breeze. Katie’s mother was busy preparing lunch, her movements brisk and efficient. Eventually, I saw Katie returning from the bathhouse, her father walking quietly beside her. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red and swollen. She didn’t look at anyone, just slipped into her tent and zipped it shut behind her.
My stepmother approached Katie’s mother and quietly admitted, “I don’t have a belt.” Without a word, Katie’s mother unbuckled her own, the leather hissing as she pulled it free, and handed it over. My stepmother took my hand, and together we walked to the bathhouse. My legs felt heavy, each step echoing with dread.
The girls’ side of the bathhouse was small and echoey, with a single stall toilet and a shower that smelled faintly of mildew and soap. The light was dim, filtering through a grimy window. My stepmother closed the door behind us, and for a moment, we just stood there, the silence pressing in. I stared at her, my mind racing. Was she really going to do it? Would it hurt as much as I feared?
She cleared her throat and said, “Put your hands on the wall, and take a step back so your bottom’s out.” Her voice was gentle, but there was no room for argument. My hands trembled as I pressed them to the cool, tiled wall, my heart thudding in my ears.
I waited, every second stretching out. I could hear her shifting behind me, maybe figuring out how to do it. The first swat landed with a sharp snap—a sting, but not unbearable. I flinched, but didn’t cry out. The second followed, much the same. “Does that even hurt?” she asked, her voice uncertain. I hesitated, not wanting to lie but not wanting to invite worse. “A little,” I whispered.
The third swat was harder, the pain blooming across my skin. I couldn’t help but let out a small “ouch.” My stepmother’s voice was firmer now. “It needs to hurt. Ten more, just like that, and we’re done.” The next five came in quick succession, each one burning more than the last. Tears welled up in my eyes, and by the sixth I was crying, the sound echoing off the tile. I gritted my teeth, determined to be brave, as she finished the last five. My bottom throbbed, hot and sore.
When it was over, my stepmother set the belt aside and pulled me into a tight hug. I could feel her heart beating fast, and she whispered, “I’m sorry I had to do that. I love you.” I clung to her, the pain fading into a dull ache, replaced by a strange sense of relief.
We walked back to camp together, the world feeling a little different—sharper, more real. Katie was still in her tent, and my stepmother told me I could lie down for a while too. I crawled into my sleeping bag, the fabric cool against my skin, and let the sounds of the camp wash over me. The rest of the weekend passed quietly, the incident never mentioned again, but it became a story Katie and I would whisper about for years to come—a memory as vivid as the sting of that summer sun.
