She sits anxiously in the passenger's seat and stares into the great black expanse of star-studded sky. The twenty-minute ride is silent and peaceful. She thinks the whole way. She thinks and thinks and thinks. The thinking itself is neutral. Her mind exclaims in its everlasting silence. Her insides jump and bubble up within her. She struggles to maintain her composure. She's almost there.

The car comes to a stop in front of an enormous white shuttered house. I open the car door and politely ask if my mom could beep. She does not want to, but she loves me. A door opens and a figure races out the door and down the path. I run too. I run and run and run until strong arms toss me into the air and swing me around. The perfect moment, I think, Uh, not with my mom still here. He puts me down, and I turn and wave to my mom who seems to be torn between annoyance and awe. A short, stout form pulls back the curtain from a downstair's window of the home. It makes no effort to open the door, just watches from behind the curtain.

We hold hands and walk solemnly into the house, talking all the while. I yell hello to his mom, and we tiptoe to his room. I take out my English book and throw it on his bed. "Okay, help me! I hate Wordsworth." The walk is slippery and she struggles to preserve her balance. The door opens wide seconds before she reaches it, and she turns and gives a wave to her mom who is frowning. The house is dark, and he leads her through it harshly. His room can be told apart from the others by a dim light. He encourages her to sit on the bed. She smiles at him, blissfully unaware.

"Only if I'm assured of reparation," he replies. "I think not, best friend. I need help now; there's no time for that kinda thing," I say, secretly knowing that I will give in, but not until the important work is finished. "Did you just come over to sit and look at me?" he asks. She moves comfortably on the bed and pats a place beside her.

For an hour we labor with bent backs over my book. We never stay on track, always arguing the deep interpretations of the poetry. She refuses to look at him, or so it seems to him. In reality, she is lost in space somewhere. "There's someone else, isn't there?" he cries, "Tell me who it is! I have the right to know." He shakes her. "There's no one! I swear it," she yells.

Finally, he flips on his stereo. Pieces of cut-off songs erupt from it as he flips until he finds the one that he wants. I giggle as he bows low and holds out his arm. This is the time that I have dreamed about and hoped and longed for. After screaming for a few minutes about her lack of faithfulness, he turns toward her.

Unexpectedly, he moves in for a dip and his face comes close to mine. I stop laughing and peer into those eyes I have dreamed about for so long. A tenseness fills the air and our dancing becomes slow and methodical. When I look up at him, I have no chance to anticipate his lips that come crashing down against mine. She cries softly with her back to him. He crosses the room and gently places his hand on her shoulder. She shudders from his touch, which surprises and revolts her. Noticing this reaction, he makes a quick decision. "Now you can't stand to be around me? You think you're better than me, don't you? I'll teach you, RICH GIRL!"

We remain like this, and I know that in this moment I am safe from the world. In that violent moment he lashes out and strikes her face. She is thrown back toward the headboard and all is silent.

A song still echoes in the dim light of the room as we dance on in circles ... 1