Suzanne squealed, flinched, but maintained her position, hands gripping ankles and her ass in the air, with a vivid red weal rising on her pink skin. Irrationally, the sight inflamed Mr. French even more; his next strike was very much harder, carrying his weight behind it. This time, Suzanne yelled aloud and uncoiled to stand, gripping her ass as if it were on fire. He was satisfied with the result and the tears in her eyes, his anger passed as suddenly as it had sprung up.“Sit down.” He growled at her and was pleased at how gingerly she managed to sit on the seat in front of his desk.“What am I going to do with you eh?” He sat on the opposite side of his desk, exasperated and realising the futility of beating this incorrigible girl.Suzanne saw he opening.“I can think of one or two things.” The unsaid was more than obvious, translated in her enigmatic smile, even though tears trickled down her cheeks. “Why is it, do you think, I am so regularly here to be punished?” Her smile lifted. I had always liked Kenny’s mother. I still did. Later, while driving to work, I thought about seeing Kenny stealing through the purses. It hadn’t seemed like a dream at the time. I don’t know when reality had faded into dreaming. I remembered going to the bathroom. That was real, but I don’t remember closing my eyes in sleep. This wasn’t the first time I had dreamed of Kenny since his death, but this was the first time it seemed so real. I could smell his English Leather. I could hear the little twang in his voice, like his mother’s. I could see the scar on his eyebrow from an old baseball injury. I expected memories to haunt me while I was in the house he grew up in. I didn’t expect the more sensory ones like the sound of his voice and the smell of his favorite cologne. But I was willing to chalk it up to the surroundings. Except when I walked into work, Marge, our secretary, asked me, “Did you talk to him today?” Marge was an older woman from Jamaica. No one knew exactly how old.
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