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soft, like a snake about to strike. 
    “No, sir!  I…”
    “You may report yourself to Director Choi.  Tell him why.”  Before the gasps have subsided, Lee Sonsengnim turns back to me.  “Continue, Mira-ssi.”
    Never a skillful out-loud reader in the best of circumstances, I stumble through the yot description as Juan blows out the air from inside his cheeks, gathers his books, and slinks out of the classroom.  Not one person looks his way as he exits.  Nor does anyone speak for the rest of the lesson except to answer Lee Sonsengnim’s questions. 
    “Mira-ssi.”
    I cringe.  I am only one step away from the door when Lee Sonsengnim’s voice arrests me.  I take another half-step toward the door, but I lose my nerve and turn around instead.  He is sitting at his desk and holding out my notebook.
    “Where is your homework?”
    “Eat yot!” comes unbidden to my mind, and I cough in the effort not to giggle.  “I was wrong.  I am sorry.  I will try harder.”  I offer the trinity of promises, but Lee Sonsengnim is not pacified. 
    “You are meeting your tutor today?”
    “Yes, sir.  Actually I have to catch the bus…”
    “That will be all, Mira-ssi.”
     
    I’ve brought her favorite snack, squid-flavored crackers shaped in a ball with a peanut in the middle.  As I set the plump package on the corner of her desk, her voice cuts through my prepared excuses.
    “Lee Sonsengnim messaged me.”
    No tea today.  I sink into the offered chair and find that I have nothing to say.
    “Should I ask you to explain yourself or assume that this is more of the same?”
    More of the same what? I wonder.  “I’m not sure.”
    She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. 
    “Remind me what happened last term, please.”
    I fight every urge to stand up and run out the door.  “I got behind and failed my classes.”
    “And you promised that it wouldn’t happen this term, correct?”
    Not exactly.  It’s hard to remember. 
    “Stand up, Mira.”
    Today, her school is nearly deserted for a special event.  There is no one to see me catch the hem of my flared skirt on the arm of my chair and pitch forward nearly into her lap.  Or to see her raise an arm directing me toward her desk.  Shaking, I bend over it.  My hands have difficulty finding a grippable spot amongst her piles of grading papers, pens, binders, and desk supplies.  She nudges me to bend further forward and picks up her “rod of love”. 
    “Mira,” she says, “this is what a student of mine can expect for the irresponsibility you have shown.”
    Even though my hair is hanging down far enough to shield my face, I reach one hand up to cover the tears.
    After the first time the hickory cracks against my bottom, I leap to my feet and run out the door. The hallway heating is turned off after school hours, and I can see puffs of my breath ahead of me as I dash to the bathroom.  I pull the door closed and turn on the sink tap.  Frigid water rushes out, and I pat the coolness against my neck and arms.  I am shivering without even realizing it.  I’m dead.  If I haven’t died already, I would be dead now.  Maybe this is the afterlife.  Where is Saint Peter?  Or the bright light? 
    I turn off the gushing water.  The ice water combined with the frosty air have struck someplace just below my ribcage, and I can’t stop shivering.  My books and purse are in her office. 
    I want her to spank me .
    There, I’ve admitted it.  But not like this.  Again.
    Each step back to her office is a marathon, and each breath is a respirator working overtime.  I break into her office like an intruder expecting security guards, and she jumps to her feet.  I barely have time to notice that she is sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, or to register that when she springs to her feet and reaches out to me her eyes are filled with tears.  Her arms encircle me, and this time mine cooperate enough to respond.
    “Mira-ya,” she