Deep Inside by Polly Frost Page A

his assistants.
    It was showtime!
    With a sudden yank—and just like Britney at the MTV awards—I whipped off the stupid conservative dress I was wearing, and stepped forth in a leather bra and spangly shorts that screamed “eat me now” on the back of them.
    â€œKatie Vail!!” Larry gasped, reeling backwards.
    I gave a few bumps and grinds and growled into the mike, “This man is a fraud. He’s nothing. He’s a failed schoolteacher. He’s a sorry spectacle!”
    Already I was feeling better.
    Astonished murmurs swept through the audience. I could see Larry motioning for his assistants and knew I had only a few seconds more.
    â€œHe’s got no real authority!” I shouted. “I got him fired in the seventh grade!” The assistants were on me but I still had hold of the mike. “There’s no such thing as a real grownup!” I shouted. “You should all be at the beach or at rock concerts, not here listening to this dork!”
    And that was it. Strong hands were all over me. And then I felt nothing.
    Â 
    When I came to, I saw that my ankles and wrists had been tied with ropes, a gag was in my mouth that felt like cotton sheeting. I sat in some sort of dungeon.
    So this was where Larry Gamble did his Zero Self-Esteem programming.
    It was nothing like Mistress Shanna’s salon. It looked more like a bunker or basement than a dungeon. And there weren’t the cool instruments of torture that Shanna had. Instead I saw rings in the walls for people to be tied to and a line of paddles and whips. Steps led up to a solid metal door. I was alone in the room, in my see-through panties and leather bra.
    There were two desks in the middle of the room—one was small, identical to the one I used to sit in during his class! A larger, teacher’s desk faced it.
    I looked around. Larry had no TVs to watch. There was nothing but cement and wood paneling to stare at.
    It felt like hours of total boredom before the door opened and Larry Gamble stood at the top of the stairs, alone. My old hatred of him coursed through every cell of my body.
    Was Larry wearing the same cords and sweater he’d worn that fateful day in seventh grade? He was definitely still carrying that ridiculous briefcase. But I had to admit he looked even more handsome. His black hair had grayed, and it gave him an alpha-daddy look.
    He descended the stairs in that straight way of his, then walked over to where I was. He smiled at me.
    â€œSo you came back,” he said.
    I glared at him.
    â€œCan’t say anything? Well, children are to be seen and not heard,” he said.
    He leaned down so that his face was next to mine and took out a knife. I winced. He quickly cut the ropes that tied me but he left the gag in my mouth.
    Then he roughly pulled me up, and dragged me over to a desk, making me sit up in the chair like a good little girl. I kicked him hard in the shins.
    â€œStill the little brat, aren’t you?” he said. “As you can see, your tantrum in the principal’s office only made me more resolved to teach children how to be good adults.”
    Larry opened his briefcase and removed a pen and a pad of lined paper, exactly like the ones we used in his class. He handed them to me and said, “You will write an essay about how you need to be punished for what you did to me that day.”
    I took the pad and pen and wrote, all right. He strode around the room while I scribbled away. He began to talk. I’d never heard his voice like that before—it had real emotion in it.
    â€œIt’s not your fault,” he muttered at me, “you didn’t have the right kind of parenting, that’s all. You didn’t have the benefit of my mother. She knew what I needed. And she loved me in a way your own mother never has. In the way that I will now love you.”
    Oh my God, he did care about me! I was having a hard time concentrating on what I was writing.