The car slowly inched up the steep driveway, its strained engine resisting the gravity pulling it against the cool, rough concrete. It was one of those impressive little corporate-businessman-of-America cars, all painted in a deep shade of mid-life crisis mauve. The orange glow of lampposts bounced off its sides like the big Harvest moon looming above. His father’s car’s tension mirrored my own reluctance to advance the hill. My palms sweated as they frantically played with the pink corsage on my wrist- how many times had I told him my dress was purple? My back pressed farther into the cushiony gray material as the engine began to quiet; the tight pull of the seatbelt relieved as it navigated around my stomach and over my shoulder. Would he get out too?

“Go get her, Son.” His father voiced from a far away place in the front seat.

Problem solved. The slanted driveway felt oddly stable on my high heels after lurching from the car with the force of a catapult, the long fabric of my dress reserving my gait from taking the fastest route across the condensation-sprinkled grass. With the bunched yards of silky material in my hands, I began to escalate the Stairway to Hell.

With the intensity of a cracking fault, his door had closed. One stride, two hops, bam- we met at the front door.

“I, uh, had a really nice time.” He uttered with the charm of a trained garden snake.

Was his dad still watching from the car? God, my corsage itches.

“Thanks.” I responded with uncertainty.

The house’s brass door handle dwelled two inches away; the glow from the unattended TV inside flickering on the rusty, discolored spots like a prognosis of a bad liver. Escape was on my mind. As my hands embraced the cool metal, the lock clutched in place as the trigger resided back down to rest. Locked- Plan A has been thrown out the limo.

Without so much as a warning from his cracking voice, he attempted to plant his hormone-induced, pale pink, teenage lips on my face. Anywhere. I swear it was not that dark out. The line, “But I could have paid for my own dinner…” flashed through my mind like the throwaway camera snaps taken by overlyzealous parents before the dance.

As he drew back, my eyes began to adjust to his face. The black of his tuxedo began to pull out from the dark night ensconcing him and the shadows around his eyes grew shallow with a light hitting him from the entryway. My mom swung the door open with expert tardiness, a fire glazing in her eyes.

Her voice came out in hoarse stutters as she wildly asked, “Is Mr. ---- out there?” over her shoulder.

“Go get him, Mom.” I replied while crouching through the doorway behind her, my ears pricking to the sounds of inertia rolling the engine down my driveway and the whispers of outrage in the cool October air.