The Writer

by Rebekah Dodson

  After a few measurements with the zipper, she asked me, "What do you think about getting rid of the zipper altogether, and going with an adjustable lace up for the back? I have some ribbon that's the same shade as the dress, or we could go a shade darker, if you'd like."

  I thought about that. It would mean no deadly corset, but I'd still have to endure comments from Alicia. Comfort over silence? Yeah, I'll take the comfort. I nodded to Wendy. "Yeah, I think that will work just fine."

  "Okay," she said, and made a few more marks with her chalk pen. "You can go change now," she finally told me.

  I got dressed and made arrangements to come back in a few days. Small town life also meant quick turn-around time, which was an asset considering our rushed time frame.

  Chapter Five

  We swirled around the dance floor, our drinks drained and set aside. The DJ was playing Garth Brooks, or something. My world only consisted of one man right now.

  "You surprise me every day, Ro," he said, spinning me to Garth singing about Thunder.

  "Whatever do you mean?" I smiled.

  "You're the only girl that can take me out to a strip club, tuck dollars in a g-string, and finish the night with a trip to a country bar. Talk about a bachelor party!"

  "The finest the best wo-man can provide!" I said loudly as I spun back to meet his upheld open hand. The sounds of the storm echoed in my ears as the song ended and we sauntered back to our table, where Tim, Alex, and Aaron were waiting.

  "Heineken?" Elijah shouted over the new rap music that had crowded the dance floor. I nodded.

  When I got back to the table, Aaron nudged me. "Some best man," he said, his elbow in my ribs. "Jocking the groom's..."

  Asshole. Why had I ever dated him? I took in his close-cropped dark hair, 5 o'clock shadow on his chin, and brown eyes that were too big for his face. The dimples at the corner of thick lips that had kissed me - whether I'd liked it or not. His immaculate shirt collar was starched and buttoned firmly at the top, and his black slacks were freshly ironed with a crease, even though we'd been out for a few hours. Oh yeah, he was a perfectionist, a neat freak, and the world's biggest jerk. "I'm going to see if Elijah needs some help," I said, as I pushed my way to the crowded bar.

  Before I could find Elijah, a voice to my right announced: "Why, if it isn't Rochelle Adams. Still playing at the magazine game, Adams?"

  "Well, well, Ryan Gonzales," I addressed the assistant editor of The Tribune. He was dressed impeccably as usual, in a suit and tie, even at a bar full with jeans and shirts. My boys were dress in polo shirts and jeans – except for Aaron, as usual - and I was in a purple silk blouse with a little black skirt over leggings and the only heels I enjoyed. But Ryan, he was something else. He paraded a gray silk blend suit that shimmered in the flashing blue and red lights from the dance floor, a white shirt that glowed neon under the bar's black light, and a black tie. His shellacked nails were carefully trimmed as he took a sip from his glass, probably scotch, if I remembered correctly. That was Ryan – always immaculate, always put together, and always, always, a self absorbed jerk.

  "Playing magazine? You mean my magazine with more worldwide readers than your small town newspaper, with over 40 issues and running 4 years strong? That magazine, Ryan?"

  He smirked, gulping the contents of his glass. "Guess so, smarty pants," he shrugged. "Online numbers don't mean shit," he slurred.

  "I have a staff now, and an office; we're taking steps one at a time. Come a long way from working out of my garage," I said. Why was I even giving him the time of day?

  "Sure, but Amazon started in their garage... and well, honey, you are no Amazon." He lifted his hand with his index finger up to the bartender.

  I bristled to retort when he changed directions on me: "You with someone tonight, Adams?"

  "Yeah, Elijah."

  "Elijah Baker?"

  "Yes, my assistant editor."

  "I offered him a job once," Ryan said, his glass refilled with amber liquid.

  "Really?" I didn't care.

  "Yeah. Turned me down, said he had a better paying option. Guess you pay pretty well."

  I didn't. "Yeah, well, he's mine."

  He tipped his glass towards me. "I wouldn't count on it for long. Word is he's been looking around. But I must digress, as I see your editor has found you. Have a good night, Ms. Adams."

  "So you gonna take this or what?" Elijah whispered in my ear, so loud that I jumped. I turned to see him juggling 6 of the delicious green German beers. I took three from him and we jostled our way through the crowd back to the boys.

  A little shaken from my conversation with Ryan, I wondered if he noticed that his rescue had calmed me from an intense conversation with Eli.

  We reached the table and Tim took a beer from me. "About time," he said, clinking the long neck against mine.

  "Yeah, well, Ryan Gonzales was up there, drinking scotch as usual," I said.

  "Ryan?" Tim replied, "That guy is uber creepy."

  "I saw him," said Elijah soberly. "He is a creep. Good thing you have a wingman," he nudged my shoulders with his. He leaned in and whispered, "Let's dance, Ro."

  I could tell he was drunk from the smell of his breath. How many was it? Two, three? Four more at the strip club? I'd only had a sip of my second one of the night. I usually prefer to have my fun sober, and I knew two was my limit. As it was, I would have to call a cab. While my head was on straight his was not; but the desire that burned in my stomach took over any rational decisions.

  One more dance, just one more, I told myself. The song was "Get Down" - some upbeat rap song that I didn't care for. Ah, what the hell. It wasn't a slow dance, so it would be alright.

  "I hate dancing," I yelled over the thumping bass. "I'm no good at it!"

  "Naw, you'll be fine," Elijah yelled back.

  I took his hand, and we stepped onto the wooden plank dance floor, keeping a foot of distance between each other as we swayed to the hip hop lingo.

  "Rochelle, you--"

  Before he could finish his sentence, the DJ blared: "Here's the throw back from the 90's, an oldie but a goodie!"

  And "I'll Be" started playing.

  A song from high school, the first time my heart was broken.

  I remembered it so well...

  Chapter Six

  James had been the star basketball player of the school. Parents loved him, cheerleaders stalked him, and coaches worshiped the ground he walked on.But what a lot of people didn't know was James sat beside me every Sunday in church, helped out at the soup kitchen with me on Saturdays before practice, and volunteered at the food bank on Monday nights.

  But high school is a place where fears are realized, and insecurities are extenuated. Being overweight in high school made it near torture; I had only survived with careful avoidance of the popular crowd, and clinging to my small group of friends. I'd rather die than to ever tell him I thought he was cute; mind you, not that such a boy as the almighty James Werther would have looked twice at someone like me.

  We were strangers on the weekdays, inseparable on the weekends.

  I convinced my friend Rachel to go to one of James' games with me, and we sat in the second row of bleachers. I hated those seats; so designed for a skinnier butt than mine. To my surprise, James, who was on the team's bench 2 rows in front of us, turned and waved. Even more shocking, he blew me a little kiss.

  I was pretty shocked, but a little elated. Could it be? Did James... like me? My teenage brain flew in a flurry of directions, aided by an absurd amount of hormones.

  I squirmed in my seat and nudged Rachel. "Did you see that?" I whispered.

  Rachel blushed. "Sure, I did," was all she said.

  After an overtime game where James pulled the winning 3 pointer, he wrapped a towel around his neck and bounded up the rows to wear we stood, getting ready to leave. He invited me to meet him after the game, and I told Rachel to head out without me.

&nbs
p; I had found my way to Mr. Year's classroom easily enough. The science class was dark and deserted, the door oddly unlocked. I let myself in, spooked by the shapes of test tubes and stations in the dark classroom. Feeling a little rebellious, I hoisted myself onto the desk – no easy task! I covered my giggle. If only Mr. Year could see me. Wait, no, that would be bad.

  I tried to cross my legs – that's what all the sexy women in the movies did – but my thick thighs wouldn't allow it. I settled for crossed ankles instead. I wished I had a skirt on to hike over my knees instead of my navy blue corduroys, but I would just have to deal.

  A few moments later, James entered the classroom, closing the door slowly, softly behind him. He crossed the distance between the door and the desk in 2 steps, and pressed his lips to mine. It was my first kiss – embarrassing to be 16 and never kissed, but boy didn't like the bigger girls – and I still remember the details today. It was messy and passionate, fierce and soft. It was everything I had imagined, and more. His tongue pried open my lips, dancing with mine in a sweet embrace.

  He pushed me down on the desk and kissed me again, down my neck, the collar of my shirt, and behind my ear. His hand snaked up my shirt, under my bra, and touched my large firm nipples, his hands so gentle, so passionate.

  My fingers fumbled with his shirt, and I pulled my lips away to come up for air as he slipped it over his head. I ran my hand through his brown hair, and my other undid the button of his jeans.

  Oh God, was this really happening?

  We sought each other with the reckless abandon that only comes with the feeling of youth, and the imminent sense of being caught. My pants fell to the floor, and his thumb expertly slipped under my panties and ripped them away. He turned me around, and bent me over the desk. I could hear the foil ripping as he sheathed himself. He entered me from behind, sharply. My womanhood punctured easily, with a small pinch. I whimpered, and he grabbed my waist, and breathed into my ear: "You better enjoy this, you fat slut."

  Alarm spread through my body, and I realized I'd made a mistake as slammed into me so hard I grabbed the edge of the desk to keep from falling off. Pain shot through my back, his hands gripping my waist so hard I knew he'd leave marks.

  "James, please, you're hurting me," I begged him to stop, then, crying with the agony he caused. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

  I was answered with another hard and brutal plunge that caused nearly paralyzing pain. "No," he said. "I've been waiting a long time for this." Tears streamed down my cheeks. Was this the price I paid for being me? I remained silent, knowing if I told him to stop he would be mad; I didn't want to lose him.

  I felt his hand on the back of my head, pushing me into the desk to quiet me. He held my head down for what seemed like hours, my forehead pounding and my nose bent cruelly. Then he withdrew and flipped me over on the desk, onto my back. Mounting me, he shoved into me harder than ever, his eyes fixated on the chalkboard behind us. I sobbed quietly beneath him. The pain and ecstasy blended until my mind and vision were fuzzy. He finally shuddered above me with his own release, thankfully ending his assault.

  But in matters of heart and hormones, there is little room for rational decisions. Our teenage lust was a pool from which we could not see the bottom. Waiting three years of high school for a boy to notice me had addled my sense of reason; I knew if I told James to stop, I would never get this opportunity again.

  So each time he grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the closet at the Salvation Army on our break, I knew I'd cry afterwards. Sure enough, even though there was little room, and his strong arms had to hoist me up, my tears flooded his shoulder. I felt forced, empty, miserable, but longing for the pleasure he provided, wishing for it to make me feel better inside.

  Often he would chuckle, and tell me it made him feel good when I cried; it told him he was good at what he did.

  The bathrooms at school after the bell rang were our go-to every day, where he bent me over the toilet in the stall, and once on top of the sink. It was so brutal and fast, often it was over before it had begun. I never asked him to stop, because this was my atonement.

  There were even times I never felt pleasure, only pain, as he roughly jerked out from behind me, buttoned his pants, telling me to hurry up and pull down my skirt before someone came in and saw me "being a whore." I listened to the bathroom door bang with his departure as I struggled to regain my composure and choke back tears.

  But still, the thrill of nearly being caught was a heady drug.

  He was rough and powerful each time; oddly, he rarely looked at me or faced me – a common ailment I figured linked to my unattractive face. Our time together often left me with wobbly legs and a bit of blood. He shrugged when I told him, and asked if I wanted to stop. Of course I couldn't.

  The man was a god. And I was drunk on his deity status. Drunk, and addicted.

  But never filled. Every encounter, every mind-blowing experience, left me empty and broken inside. I cried so often during, that James would tell me to stop being a baby and learn to enjoy it.

  I tried, I really did. In just a few weeks, I had come to believe I deserved this. I had waited so long for someone to love me, and if this was the only form of love I would get, I would have to learn to accept it.

  So I went to formal with James. I bought the most expensive dress I could find, and shoes to match. It was the one time I wanted to feel worthy.

  I made my grand entrance with no fan fare, except the excited giggles of a few friends, who looked fantastic in their taffeta dressed, with poofy princess shoulders that clearly marked our 90's high school days.

  I waited for James, and wandered over to the punch bowl. After 20 minutes, he still hadn't walked through the doors. This dress was squeezing me to death, and my heels already hurt my feet. Where was he?

  I wandered out of the gym, ignoring snooty Mrs. Alan's shout that students had to remain here. I walked the quiet dark halls, eerily silent without students crammed against lockers and teachers calling for order. I heard some familiar giggling near the cafeteria.

  "Oh, stop it!"

  Rachel?

  I rounded the corner, my heart beating so loud my head was starting to pound.

  There was Rachel, pushed up against the lockers. James was kissing her how he had kissed me just a few days ago, and his hand was up her shirt.

  I shuddered, remembering of the feeling him inside me. Recalling the vivid details that I had given my all...

  And she was making no effort to stop him... and she... was enjoying it.

  With my... well, what were we? Had we just fucked? Was I an opportune moment of practice, a release for his sexual energies? Did my life lack so much meaning?

  "Holy shit," came out of my mouth before I could think. Tears spilled down my cheeks as they both turned to look at me. Caught in the act, James dropped his hands to his sides.

  "Rochelle... it's not... I mean, Rache and I..."

  "You were what?" My hands were balled at my side, and my chest heaved with every word. "Let me guess, she wasn't breathing and you were giving her mouth to mouth? Get real, James."

  I turned and stalked back to the gym. I needed to call my dad. This night had turned to hell in one heck of a minute.

  I reached the doors, where "I'll Be" was blaring from inside. Through the frosted windows I could see Stephanie and Jason, holding each other close as they swayed to my favorite song.

  More tears came, running down my chest and staining the front of my white dress. It should have been me.

  It will never be you, my severely damaged self-conscious answered.

  James grabbed my wrist before I could escape through those doors.

  "Rochelle, listen to me."

  I turned to him, wiping away the tears, embarrassed he had to see me waste them on him.

  "Let me go, I'm so freakin' done."

  "No, listen," his grip was strong, just like every time he had dragged me to the closet, his car,
the bathroom. "Look, I wanted to like you. You're such a giving and sweet person, and the time we spent together was pretty great, but I can't, I mean... you know I have my reputation to protect. What would the guys think if they saw me with a fat girl?"

  I was stunned; those last two words wounded my soul more than anyone ever had. "But... I gave you everything... even..."

  "I know, but I needed the practice," he said, and to my horror, laughed. "Surely, you didn't think that was my first time, did you? You def won't be the last. Besides, I knew Rachel would be here tonight, but I wasn't sure if she'd accept me. So I asked you, hoping you'd introduce us, cuz ya'll are so tight. She's so thin and sexy, she'd be an easier fuck than you, I bet, and a whole lot tighter."

  I slapped him, then, hard – the sound had been a tinny echo reverberating on the empty metal lockers around us. "You worthless piece of shit!" If no one in the gym heard me, it would have been a shock. "Don't ever, EVER speak to me again."

  I pushed through the doors. A little piece of my identity would always belong to him, lost in those innocent moments in Mr. Year's classroom. I was a shell to be used and thrown away – worthless.

  Chapter Seven

  I'll be your crying shoulder,

  I'll be love's suicide

  I'll be better when I'm older,

  I'll be the greatest fan of your life...

  My head was resting on his shoulder, and his shoulder was damp with my tears of remembrance. James had tainted the rest of my life. It had been many years since James, but still every man I ever dated was a "James." Hard, controlling, and abusive to one degree or another. Dominic had been the last, the worst of them all, in his cold indifference and inability to love. I had been relieved when I came home one day and he was gone, without a word. Each one of them had taken a part of me, and left me empty.

  But there was one man that had healed me, taught me to laugh, and showed me how to live again.

  "Elijah," I murmured.

  His hair brushed my cheek; his head was on my shoulder, too. Our bodies were pressed together, his hands on my waist, as the song played on.