Mr. Harding's Machines
The day had started with a homeroom inspection of everyone's underwear.
Abbi had thought that homeroom was supposed to be the calm before the storm, a safe-ish space for the different classes to interact with each other's little personas. She was wrong, and by the end of the fifth weekend, Abbi felt that all three groups were headed inexorably to the 3rd floor for detention.
The second Academy weekend, evidently jealous of all the attention Abbi got the week before, Kamilla 'accidentally' wore the wrong panties to homeroom, flashed Mr. Cleveland, who told Ms. Buchanan, who then took the offending girl over her knee to administer the proper punishment.
The third weekend, Kamilla had talked all the Sophomores, except for Abbi, into dress code violations on the idea that Ms. Buchanan wouldn't have time to spank them all. Kamilla was wrong, and Abbi was punished alongside the rest of them anyway. Ms. Buchanan cancelled the first period and personally reddened the ass of each of them; all the Freshmen, Sophomores, and Juniors whipped in turn.
Kamilla later admitted that she had not fully thought that prank through to its now obvious conclusion.
Principal Kennedy took over announcements for Vice Principal Johnson on the fourth Saturday morning to declare regular underwear inspections. He looked right at Abbi when he concluded his stern warning that any more dress code violations would result in an automatic detention period for that student. Abbi teared up and looked away, stunned at the implied accusation, and shook once again by the feeling of déjà vu.
Who is this guy? She asked herself for the 30th time.
All twenty-four students sat unsupervised and unmoving following the announcement in homeroom for nearly 10 minutes, the dreadful silence palpable. It was unusual for any period to start late and was completely out of character for the homeroom teacher and her assistant.
The class collectively jumped when Ms. Buchanan walked in and ordered the students into two lines: she would take care of the girls' inspection herself, while the boys queued up in front of Mr. Cleveland.
The girls were instructed to unbutton their shirts and lift their skirts, while the boys had to drop their pants.
The Juniors stared daggers at the Sophomores, while the Freshmen hung their heads in shame, one girl even started sucking her thumb.
Abbi found the whole inspection experience one of the most confusing of her life. She was ashamed of her role in getting everyone punished, but also defiant because her original offence was an honest mistake. She was aroused by the humiliation, by Ms. Buchanan's stern command of the situation. Watching everyone obey the teacher's order to bare themselves was so freaking hot that she found herself offering to show her compliant underwear to Mr. Cleveland before beginning that afternoon's tutoring session just to get things started between them early.
The Friday of the fifth weekend, Abbi laid in bed, in the dark dorm room, listening to Kamilla slowly drift toward sleep, working up the courage to beg her not to make any more trouble in homeroom.
"You've been wanting to say something to me since we got here, girl. What's up?" she asked, more alert than Abbi expected.
It was hard to stay upset with her roommate, what with her stunning beauty and sexy London accent and all, but Abbi found her rebellious spirit vexing. Abbi rethought her rebuke and stammered out instead:
"Please, please, please don't, you know, get us into trouble in Ms. Buchanan's class again. Please."
"I agree, my shenanigans are getting old."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah, kiddo, that easy."
"Thanks Kami," Abbi sighed. "I know you're trying to have fun, but..."
"But it's overwhelming for you, I know, I'm sorry."
"Goodness," Abbi said. "You don't ever say you're sorry to the teachers."
"They don't deserve it," Kamilla replied. "You do, love."
Abbi was touched; she wanted to say more, talk more, profess her undying love and raging lust, but instead she quietly cried until Kamilla whispered, half asleep:
"Go to sleep love."
Homeroom the next morning went by without incident: they lined up for inspection, returned to their seats, got their class and tutoring assignments, and a left with the firm reminder from Ms. Buchanan about the consequences of failing to follow the uniform code ringing in their ears.
No one, not even Kamilla, wanted to go to the 3rd floor.
Finding comfort in normalcy was hard to do in that weird place, seeing as how every teacher's mission was not academic but punitive, but Abbi relaxed a little anyway in the knowledge that it would be closer to a regular day at the Academy.
That lasted less than a commercial break due to a Junior girl that Abbi had taken to thinking of as Marsha Brady (she was so bad with names!). She was very pleasant looking and always chipper and Abbi really loved the sandy blonde hair that reached all the way down to her waist. Not-Marsha intercepted her in the hall during the short walk to their respective classrooms.
"Hey troublemaker," not-Marsha chided. "You are just going to love Mr. Harding. He's a real hard ass, takes no bullshit at all."
"How long till she fucks it up for them again, you think?" asked a Junior boy who had serious Chad vibes.
Anger and embarrassment smoldered in Abbi's heart, but she had nothing clever or snarky to say.
"I give her five minutes before they're all strapped into his machines."
"Machines?"
"You'll see."
-
Those two profane Juniors were right, Mr. Harding loved machines. More importantly for the soon to be sorry Sophomores, he got off on using his beloved machines on his students.
The science teacher was a tall, lanky man with olive skin, thick black eyebrows, unruly salt-and-pepper beard, and a mess of curly black hair. His voice was gravelly and his accent the indistinct Los Angeles mishmash that Abbi hadn't gotten used to yet. A pair of thick, black framed glasses hid the rest of his face while projecting an intimidating ferocity from his eyes. The standard Academy teacher's usual slacks and blazer combo was unflattering on him. He seemed like he'd be more comfortable in shirtsleeves, but it was chilly in the Page Building that morning.
Abbi did her best to stay alert and follow along, even took some notes, but Mr. Harding moved so fast through complicated engineering science and used so much jargon that she found herself thoroughly lost moments after he began the lecture.
When she looked around at the other students, they seemed even more bored, vacant, and fidgety, than she felt, all signs of very bad stuff on the horizon. Abbi had to admit, going from simple inclined planes to dynamo motors in less than fifteen minutes was quite a feat, even if it was like watching One Punch Man without subtitles.
Mr. Harding had his back turned to draw a complicated diagram on the white board for about 30 seconds before Kamilla started the repercussion train rolling down the track.
Among the droning of Mr. Harding and the general restlessness of the Sophomores, Kamilla gave a dainty clearing of her throat. Abbi took a quick peek over at her friend but instantly regretted it.
The daft girl was trying to pass her a note!
Abbi studiously looked back at the board and shook her head. Kamilla persisted, waving the note around just within Abbi's peripheral vision. No amount of head shaking would get her to relent so Abbi took a breath, looked over at her friend and held her hand out gesturing adamantly: STOP.
