• Michelle Halliwell

Chapter 3

I sit uncomfortably away from him, like a metal ball that’s just close enough to a big magnet to be enticed by its invisible force.

“They’re going to make us ‘most likely to get married’ in the yearbook,” he says.

“Do you think we will, get married?” I ask.

“You’re the only woman in the world who can satisfy me.”

He scoots close to me. “Maybe you should sit over there,” I say, my heartbeat accelerating. I remember us, our dance. My mind spins my soul dizzy. What bliss will his next touch be?

He caresses my face, looking into my eyes, not speaking. I let my eyes invite him. The first kiss arrives softly and confidently. The second kiss pushes my head back, transcending my infinite amount of restraint. With the third kiss, I taste his tongue as it invades my mouth. Each kiss lasts longer, and then another.

As we entangle, his fingertip caresses the top of my inner thigh, my velvet skin exposed where my dress should be. I shut my eyes and swim in passionate touches. I shudder. I’ve never been more within or more without my body than in this instant. My racing blood heats up. Now in a blurry, berserk daze of desiring and of being desired; I lose my inhibitions. The leather of the seat sticks to my sweaty back. I’m pleasantly afraid of what he will do next.

“Give me your virginity,” he says.

“Booker, stop. We have to stop.”

He looks at me with an expression that is totally blank. Now, he descends on me, and I’m sure there is nothing I can do to stop him.

“Booker please? I don’t want to.”

His empty expression ignites with rage.

“Michelle gosh darn it! Can’t take me so close, then be like: stop! Do you have any idea what that does to a guy? I mean, come on Michelle.”

“I’m sorry Booker, I didn’t mean it.”

“Then you should’ve left your dress on,” Booker says.

“But you, I, believe in waiting for marriage.”

“You weren’t very holy just now,” he says, his face so red it’s turning purple, and he keeps clawing at his own hair, apparently trying to rip it out. I escape to the farthest corner, covering my body with my tattered dress.

“Michelle I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk, just overwhelmed with raging hormones. Let me hold you. You look so cold. Warm you up?”

“I won’t be able to handle it. I want you too much,” I say.

“You won’t give me a hug because you want me? Yeah that makes sense.”

“Because, I’ll lose control.”

“You’ll lose control when Antarctica boils. I mean, we’re only young once. Let’s lose control, before we get old. You know you want to.”

Blush pours over my face. I shrug. “You are hot,” I say.

“Please come here. I promise, I’ll go slow. I’ll stop when you tell me. Swear to God.”

“Booker, don’t swear to God, and you know I can’t, not until we’re married.”

“What does God care? I mean, God gives a care if you satisfy me? I don’t buy it.”

“My mom told me,” I say.

“I’ll wear a rubber, no risk, best feeling ever, no consequences, except for falling deeper in love. Sex is a woman showing her man love. Don’t you love me?”

“Yes, but I can’t sleep with you, not even if you wear protection,” I say.

“I’m suffering.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah right. You like watching me hurt.”

“Do not. I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say.

“Obviously you don’t care how I feel,” he says.

I take the first step in the hard and complicated ordeal of putting my broken dress back on in such a confined space. How did I even take it off? Now I find out that the back zipper is torn.

“Do you have any idea how much I put into tonight?”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Do you know how much I put into this relationship?”

“I didn’t turn you down because you don’t put enough in.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Take me home please,” I say.

“What? Seriously? What about the afterparty?”

“My dress is ripped, and I’m not feeling well. I wanna go home,” I say.

“Oh come on! You’re so darn sensitive, so ungrateful, so impossible to satisfy. Not even winning the Snowball Queen is enough for you. Unbelievable!”

“Enough for me to what? Booker!”

“Hey, don’t yell at me,” he says.

“Sorry for yelling,” I say, pounding on the window. It slides open. “Can you please take me home, sir?” I say, conscious that my dress isn’t quite all the way on.

“So you really not gonna go to the afterparty?”

“Really not going,” I say.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you,” he says.


“You teased me on purpose, didn’t you.”

“Why would I do that?” I ask.

“To control me.”

“That makes no sense.”

“My dad says teasing is how women get control over a man. The more they make us want them, the more money we’ll spend on her.”

“I’ll pay you back every dime. Please take me home now,” I say.

“I can have any girl in the school.”

“So go spend daddy’s money on one that satisfies you,” I say.

“Why you gotta be like that?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re attacking me, and I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Stop crying Michelle. It’s just that, it’s hard to date a prude. Like you have cold shower flowing through your veins. Oh come on Michelle, stop crying.”

“We’re here,” the chauffeur says. I rush to finish getting dressed.

“Thanks. I’ll let myself out,” I say but I can’t. The door is locked from the inside so the polite man in the dark suit gets to witness me crying.

“Come back. Give me another chance. Let me explain,” Booker calls after me.

I keep walking.

“Thanks for a memorable night!” Booker yells out the window as the limo pulls away.

I watch him go, my tears turning the brake lights into red streaks across my vision. They disappear around the corner. I feel the silk of my dress slipping from my tired, cramped hand. A crying girl with her dress in tatters, I really hope I can sneak past mom.


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Chapter 1

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©2019 by Michelle Halliwell