Proctor

One of two proctors at the Seniors’ comprehensive examination, Mr. Acer alternated between scanning the room from the front, looking for unusual movements or turned heads, and strolling along the rows and columns of desks, looking for cribs or, now more likely, cell phones with dimmed screens. He varied his path to keep it unpredictable.

The girls were silent. Most were bent over their blue-books, writing in great haste; a few were staring at the ceiling as if inspiration could be found there, or rubbing eyes tired by all-night cramming.

He had just strolled between two girls, Kenzie and Celine, who had been vying all year for Most Likely to Get in Trouble. They were both quite familiar with the effects of a maple paddle on a bare bottom.

They seemed attentive to their writing. Mr. Acer passed the next pair of desks, then turned about-face without warning.

Just in time to see a piece of paper, folded repeatedly until small, pass from one girl to the other. He snatched it in transit before either girl could react.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the other students, he said, “You two, in my classroom, in five minutes.” Kenzie started to reply, but he hushed her. “No arguments. Go now, without any disturbance.” As they stood up, he collected their blue-books.

As the girls left the hall, Acer asked the other proctor to cover the exam for a while. When that was settled he left as well, and headed to his classroom.

Celine and Kenzie were standing side by side, facing the door, when he entered. They looked discouraged and anxious, which Mr. Acer expected, and embarrassed, which he had not.

He tossed the exam books onto his desk, and took the note from his pocket.

“Please don’t read that!” Kenzie exclaimed.

“Please!” echoed Celine, “It’s super private.”

“We know we’re in big trouble already,” Kenzie added, “So just assume that whatever we wrote was the worst thing it could be. Then you won’t have to read it before you punish us.”

“Please, Mr. Acer, you can paddle us every day for a week,” said Celine, beginning to cry. “Just please don’t open that.”

Their distress and pleas had, naturally, the opposite of the intended effect. Acer unfolded the note as the girls watched in horror.

He read it; his face was expressionless. Celine and Kenzie looked at each other, mortified, sick with worry.

Mr. Acer picked the blue-books off his desk, and flipped through them. “A page has been torn out of this one, which is…” Back to the first page. “Yours, Kenzie. So presumably the first message is from you.”

The girls, blushing, wishing fervently to wake from the nightmare, heard him read what they had written.

“Kenzie: would you fuck Mr. Acer?” he read.

“Celine: OMG yes yes yes!!! he’s so hot!!! you?”

“Kenzie: I would let him do anything to me.”

“Celine: like what?”

“Kenzie: IDK, but he would.”

Acer put the note down and looked at the girls: heads down, contemplating their toes, silent, squirming from shame and dread, anticipating the horrible meeting of maple paddle and bare ass.

“Are you young ladies aware that, if a teacher files an excused absence report, it’s possible to re-take the exam?”

The girls looked up at him, and then at each other. “Would you do that, Mr. Acer?” asked Kenzie, a hint of hope in her voice.

Acer took in the sight of two pretty schoolgirls, desperately pleading, ripe for the picking.

“Well,” he replied, “That depends.”

— Frenulum