It was a beautiful and sunny Thursday as I walked down Jefferson Street at 7PM. I could see the sun starting to dip, casting orange and gold hues across the sky. Behind me, a red truck slowed down to a prowl. I didn’t think much of it at first. People in college towns drive slow sometimes – parents looking for dorms or lost freshmen looking at directions. I turned on to Woodward Avenue, losing the truck to a red light. A few minutes later I heard the steady hum of an engine again, so I looked over my shoulder. It was the same red truck. The driver and his passenger looked not much older than early twenties, sporting patchy beards only frat boys thought looked cool. I quickened my pace; it was going to be a fifteen-minute walk to my apartment. As I sped up, I could hear the truck’s window roll down. A wolf whistle filled otherwise silent air. My stomach twisted into knots. I’d been cat called before, but usually the cars kept going. They never slowed down and they didn’t follow me. What were they planning on doing to me? I turned my face to the ground and walked even faster. If I didn’t respond they would leave me alone, that’s what always happened. “Where you are going, babe?” It was the passenger who said it. I looked at what I was wearing, trying to find a reason why they would pick me. A baggy high school soccer sweatshirt hung off my shoulders and my athletic shorts that went to midthigh. If I were them I wouldn’t have looked twice at me. “Hey, I asked you a question,” he yelled. The driver revved his engine and they pulled ahead of me. “What, are you too good for me or something?” I tried to cross the upcoming intersection, keeping my head down. If I ignored them they would leave me alone, but it wasn’t working. I started to run. The engine revved again, jerking in front of me, the front bumper nearly clipping me as he cut me off and sped down Pensacola street. “Stuck up bitch,” the boy yelled, his head sticking out of the window. My heartrate spiked and I didn’t stop running until I got home.
I was at an Olympics-themed party called “Beerlympics”. The hosts of the party set up events throughout the night which people could enter to play as teams. I didn’t play because I hated beer and more than three drinks would ensure I would be sick before I was tipsy. Instead I elected to bring my own drinks and watch the havoc, which was fun for a while until I realized most of my friends were playing in events and I didn’t know anyone else at the party. I happened to bump into Rachel, who was talking to a co-worker named Chris. I offered my drink to both upon arriving because I hadn’t had enough to really feel anything. I drank mostly for show at big parties but didn’t drink enough to be anywhere near intoxicated. I didn’t like the risk associated with it. Chris refused my drink. “I’m Irish,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I have to drink an entire handle to feel anything. I mostly drive to parties. Besides, watching drunk people is hilarious.” I followed his gaze to see a guy stumbling up the stairs. He had a point. After some conversation, I wanted to go home. I was bored and had no one to talk to. After some searching, I found my other roommate Morgan emerging from a bathroom. She informed me that Chris had taken Rachel home for the same reason. “Well, I’m going home too, I’ll just walk,” I told her. Our apartment was a fiveminute walk away and I was not going to wait another hour for their pong tournament to finish. I slipped out of the house and started jogging. The party was in January, so it was plenty cold, and that was one of the few times I decided to dress the part for a party – I was wearing a pair of leggings and a sports bra. About ten feet from the house I noticed a white jeep following me and I felt my stomach sink. The car was between me and the house, so I couldn’t run to safety. I was about to turn and run into the woods, when the window rolled down. “Hey! Do you need a ride?” I looked up. Chris was in the driver’s seat. My heart stopped pounding and I wiped my sweating palms on my thighs.
Morgan was twenty when she told me about her first boyfriend. We were sitting in the living room of our apartment together. They were both sixteen at the time. “I didn’t think there was anything wrong with being at his house when his parents weren’t there,” she explained to me. They’d gone to his bedroom. She was okay with kissing him first but then it was time to go home. He wasn’t done yet. “He held me down and tried to take my shirt off. I told him I didn’t like it. I told him I wanted him to stop, but he didn’t listen.” He did more than just take off her shirt, she told me. I didn’t want to ask what else he did. The next boy she dated hit her when she told him no. Once she finished telling her story she started crying. “You’re the first person who didn’t ask me what I was wearing or said that I’d lead them on,” she told me when I asked her why she had begun to cry. “That’s why I like Henry,” she confided. Henry was a tall, dorky boy. It was a surprise Morgan would go for a boy like him. He was very quiet around people he didn’t know – never the life of the party. “He was the first boy who didn’t send me home with bruises.” We were both crying now.
“Yeah, that would actually be great, thank you!” I said. He just took Rachel home, so I trusted him. And if he does anything I know exactly who he is, a small voice in the back of my head said. I opened the door and sat down. “Are you okay?” he asked and pulled away from the curb after I jumped into the car. He sounded concerned. “I’m fine, I just wanted to get home and it was cold.” “Yeah,” he said, the concern hadn’t left his voice. “But you’re okay, I mean, no one bothered you, right?” I turned to look at him. “No, not at all. I just wanted to go home.” He relaxed a little. “Okay, good. The last time I saw a girl run from a party like that she’d almost been assaulted.” He paused. My heart ached. I couldn’t imagine what that felt like. “That’s why I drive to parties,” he admitted. “I don’t want girls getting stuck in bad situations.” When I got home, I thought about other girls who weren’t as lucky as me.