The beginning of the worst week of my life, true story. It is hard to describe what it is like to be poor at an elite private school. People walk around you all the time, assuming that you were the same as them, and yet you live in a completely different world. A world that is ruled by how much the next paycheck will cover and where will rent come from, versus when is my new purse arriving and where should we go for spring break. It is hard living with other nineteen-year-old girls and keeping up the persona of being wealthy; while at the same time, you know that your father and brother are at home barely getting by. I lived my own double life, and yet I somehow needed more excitement in my life.

The other girls at the boarding school were always getting into trouble playing tricks on the teachers and each other. I had spent four years of school staying out of trouble while the girls around me did there very best to get into trouble. I knew that if I had a single slip-up or if I even looked at someone wrong, I could lose my scholarship and risk the belt if I were to go home. My father was a good man and was always kind to me, but when it came to lessons he knew only one way to take care of the issue. The last time I got in trouble was the previous year over the summer.

I decided to go out with my friends on one of my last Saturday nights before I would go back to school. I knew that I would not be seeing my friends again, so when the alcohol came out, I made the wrong choice. I drank a little too much that night but not enough to get me drunk. I showed up back at the apartment with alcohol on my breath and at least two hours past curfew. My dad was sitting on his usual chair, reading a book. He had work in the morning in less than five hours, and yet he had stayed up to make sure that I came home safely. He could smell the alcohol on me and just pointed to my room. That night I did not fall asleep easily because I knew what was coming was going to hurt. I must have drifted off at about three AM because I was awoken by the brother making lunch the next day. My father was gone, and my brother had a scared look in his eyes that could only mean on thing, the ritual had started.

My father likes to lay his "special" belt out on the bed when he is going to have to use it. The day before the beating would come, the person who thought the beating was theirs would have to get out the shoe polish and clean the belt until it looked good as new. I always believed it was a psychological thing that made the kids think about what they had done before they were sore from their punishment. That day I knew it was me who would be the one with the shoe polish. I spent the whole day polishing the belt and sitting down, trying to think about what I could say to get out of the punishment. My father arrived home after his shift at the factory and proceeded to have a meal with us in seemingly good spirits. He let us finish the meal and clean up before calling a family meeting in the apartment's main room.

He had clearly been thinking about what he was going to say all day as he gazed upon his eighteen-year-old twins. I looked back at him, choking back tears. I knew that I had screwed up but knew better than to interrupt him mid-speech. He told us that he lived by straightforward rules and that four had been violated last night: drinking, curfew, respect, and trust. I had never heard him say more than two rules before, and for the first time, I was genuinely terrified. He then looked directly at me and asked what I thought the punishment should be. I answered him with the typical, "I don't know," which only seemed to make him more upset. He looked at me again and asked, "how many?" I said the only number I could think of and said 20. I regretted it as soon as it came out of my mouth because I knew I deserved a lot more, and he knew that I had tried to get out of what I deserved.

He said in a definite voice, "please remove all your clothes and get over the table," he stared directly at me, saying, "three nights will teach you the lesson." I looked petrified as I slowly started to remove my pants and shirt. My father had only ever made my brother strip down before and had always respected my privacy before now. My brother attempted to get up, but my father gestured for him to sit, he was clearly part of the punishment. I stripped down my bra and underwear when my hands started to shake uncontrollably. My palms were sweaty, and my hands were barely able to undo the clasps on my bra; I was shaking too hard. My brother awkwardly stared at me, but I did not blame him since I would probably do the same if the roles were reversed.

I bent over the table and bit down hard on my shirt, knowing that fusing would just bring me more pain and prolong my experience. My father walked into his bedroom and retrieved his belt before turning on the radio to almost full volume. The neighbors did not need to hear or know what was to come next. He stood behind me and raised his hand for the first stroke, a solid smack right across the middle of my butt. I jumped forward into the table, making my breast bounce up and slap down hard into the old wooden table. My father looked at my brother, and my brother walked over to hold my hands. He has a look of sorrow in his eyes as he squeezed my hands with each wack. Four, Five, Six, Seven I was almost a third of the way there. My moment of relief was clouded by the next resounding smack that came making the tears start to roll. Then the tenth stroke drew my breath. My father stopped for a moment to let me collect myself.

I was crying harder than I really have before. My brother's hands were white from squeezing mine, and he had a look of disparity in his eyes I had not seen. My body was suddenly icy, and I knew that the other half was about to begin. Whack, whack, whack, and my butt was on fire. It felt as though I had been sitting on fire and could not get up. My father raised his hand and continued counting all the way up to twenty. I got up with my tears running down my breast and my nose running like a marathon. My father had a look of pity in his eyes and shame as my brother took me into our room to lay down. I cried on that bed for a couple hours before drifting off into a nightmare filled sleep. I slept in late again, but today was worse since I was unable to sit down. I knew what was coming tonight would be the second-worst experience of my life, and I was not excited. I wish I could say that those two nights I stayed strong, but the more I begged, the more I seemed to hurt my father. The bruises began to bleed and did not leave the house for at least another week.

I deserved what I got, and my father knew only one way to teach me the lesson I needed to learn. I try not to think about those last two nights, but the first stroke on a set of bruises will be a feeling that I will never forget.

When the girls in my dorm decided it was time to pull a prank on the other dorm, I knew that it was not worth it in the back of my mind. I knew what would happen if I was caught, but I also knew that if I wanted to keep my friends and fit in, I needed to make hard choices. I said I was in even before I had heard the plan or evaluated my risks.