The long-awaited final day arrived at last. My twin sister, Carlota, and I practically skipped to school. It was the last day before the summer holidays, and the day of the leavers' ball. Our dresses were laid out at home but, more importantly, I had a prom date with Pau and she had a date with Pep. There had been whispers of first kisses amongst the girls and close, slow dances. We could hardly wait.

The lessons that day were, naturally, deeply unproductive. We read our books and watched videos and played games, hour after hour. No-one was thinking about school. Finally, the last lesson came.

“Right, ladies and gentlemen,” the teacher said. “Report cards are being emailed to your parents as we speak. In closing, I’d like to wish you a fine summer and see you at the ball!”

“Emailed report cards? They always had us carry them home,” Carlota mused to me as we walked home together to dress for the ball.

“Sign of the times, I suppose,” I said.

“Yes, but it’ll make them harder to intercept and alter!”

When we got home, our dad was waiting for us. He waved us through the front door.

“Girls, I’d like to speak to you both in the lounge, please.”

Glancing at each other nervously, we followed him through and sat on the sofa together. Dad had his laptop open. Clearly, our reports had arrived.

“Maria, Almost entirely satisfactory effort. No detentions. ‘A’ for conduct. Improvement in English and History particularly noted. Maria has also excelled at her extra-curricular activities. Well done, Maria, that’s fine.”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“Carlota. Lazy, disorganised and disobedient. Application uneven, especially in subjects she does not like. Sullen attitude and occasional rudeness to staff reported.”

Dad glared at Carlota.

“That’s…” she began./p>

“Quiet! This report covers the whole term, not just one bad day. You are nearing your last two years before college, and this is how you approach school?”

“It was a bit harsh,” I timidly interjected.

“Very harsh!” Carlota almost yelled, seething.

Dad shook his head, deaf to our protests.

“This is unacceptable. There are going to be consequences. Right, no ball for you tonight.”

“What? You can’t! I have the dress and everyone will be there!”

“Dad,” I said, hoping to intervene on her behalf with a cooler head.

But dad was having none of it.

“Maria, leave us alone please. Go to your room or go for a walk or something.”

I left them and went for a stroll. I could hear raised voices from a hundred yards away. I went down to the store and bought chocolate bars for me and Carlota, hoping to cheer her up with an act of solidarity. But I couldn’t stay out long. I had to get home and start getting ready.

When I got home, the house was quiet. No shouting. No raised voices. No sign of dad. It was all a bit odd. I went upstairs and Carlota was in the shower. To my surprise, she was singing happily.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she saw I was back and said gaily, “Guess what? Cinderella SHALL go to the ball!”

Then she disappeared behind her bedroom door and left me the shower. I was dying to know more, but I had to get ready myself. So, I showered, did make-up and got dressed.

Ah, the dance! There was such laughter and I danced with any boy who asked me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carlota’s date hold her close and then, the magic moment. He kissed her! People cheered all around.

Of course, I had to get her into the bathroom to ask her about it as soon as possible!

“How was it? Was that really your first?” etc. Then, I finally got to ask, “Come on! How did you get dad to let you come?”

Carlota laughed.

“We, er, made an agreement.”

But she would not tell more and left me alone in the lavatories.

There were slow dances and disco songs and every kind of fun. The limo dropped us off home at eleven as agreed. Dad welcomed us back, smiling.

“Hi girls. Did you have a good time?”

“Yes, amazing! I could have danced all night.”

And we told him excitably how much fun we’d had.

“Very good. Time for bed. Maria, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, love. Carlota, in here please.”

Too curious, I tried listening in, but they were speaking in calm, low voices and I couldn’t hear what was said. Reluctantly, I sloped upstairs. Soon, I heard Carlota come upstairs and close her bedroom door.

What had happened? How had she got away with it? I decided it could wait until tomorrow and was just lying on my back, thinking back on the ball, when I heard Carlota’s door open. Quietly, she was tip-toeing back downstairs. This was too much. Making sure not to make a noise, I opened my bedroom door and, as stealthily as I could, followed her.

She went out through the darkened kitchen, through the side door to the garage. The light was on. Dad was there.

“Why here?” she asked in a small voice.

“We don’t want your sister to hear.”

Creeping up to the workspace in the middle of the kitchen, I could see them if I peeked over it. Very cautiously, I raised my eyes to just over the table. Dad had a thick rubber-soled plimsoll in his hand.

“Turn around and face the wall, with your nose touching it.”

Carlota obliged.

“Pyjamas down.”

My sister lowered her pyjama trousers, revealing a pair of black knickers and some areas of flesh around the sides.

“Now, place your palms flat on the wall. Keep them there, but take two steps back from the wall.”

Carlota obeyed.

“Good. Spread your legs a little.”

She took a step with one leg to the left. Her bottom now jutted out, making an unmissable target.

“Brace yourself, my girl.”

My heart was thumping so hard I could hardly breathe.

Dad swung the plimsoll with all his strength and it hit Carlota’s backside with a terrific crack. She rocked forward but, with her palms on the wall, was well supported.

‘Ouch,’ I thought. That looked painful.

A moment later, dad delivered another stinging stroke, and then another and another.

Carlota bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her head seemed to be in danger of bumping against the wall, but she kept her arms stretched and held herself safe.

The sound the plimsoll made was echoing through the garage. I could hear it clearly from ten meters away. It was no fun to see, but I couldn’t turn my eyes away. Dad was striking both her buttocks, and the side of the one I could see was rapidly turning red. Carlota’s face was screwed up now. The flesh that was being whacked was already sore by now, I was sure it would be painful.

I can’t be sure, but I think she took between twenty-five and thirty whacks. I couldn’t stay to the end of the show. I had to beat a retreat. It was lucky I did, because as soon as I got back to my room, I heard movement downstairs and footsteps along the landing.

There was a knock on my door. I opened it.

Carlota was there, her face tearstained.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

She stepped into my room.

“You asked how I got away with it. I didn’t. Look.”

She turned around, and pulled her pyjama trousers down. Her whole bottom was bright red.

“Oh my God! Did it hurt?”

She nodded.

“The ball and then the slipper. Like Cinderella in reverse,” she said ruefully.

This made me laugh, and she managed to crack a smile.

“Your first kiss and a spanking on the same night. Bet not many girls can say that!”

“Yeah. And you know what? It was worth it.”

We hugged and then she asked me, with a wicked grin, “So, did YOU get a kiss tonight?”

And we fell to swapping stories of the dance, and of our plans and hopes for the long summer holiday ahead.

The End

© Marcella Cabana 2025