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The bleachers were filled with hundreds of ecstatic fans. Woody and I were among them. In the thrill of the excitement, Woody hugged me to him and kissed me. His lips were dry and cold, and they only touched mine for milliseconds, but I was warm the rest of the night.

When football season was over, Woody and I still spent Friday nights together at the movies, or the arcade. I played Centipede; Woody played foosball. Or we'd stay at my house with my parents and watch "The Odd Couple" and "Love American Style." When we were alone, Woody would hold my hand and kiss me over and over--warm, moist kisses that were nothing like the kiss at the football game.

On Valentine's Day, Woody made special plans for dinner. When he picked me up, he was dressed in gray corduroy Levi's and a buttoned- down shirt that was open at the collar. He handed me a heart- shaped box full of chocolate covered mints, creams, and cherries and told me how much he liked my burgundy wrap- around dress. I tipped up to kiss him above his open collar and inhaled the woodsy smell of Brute.

Dinner was two towns away at the Carousel. The restaurant set high atop a hotel and revolved, so the view during your meal alternated from city lights to distant mountains. There was no menu. Instead, the waiter recited the selections. When he'd finished, I wasn't sure what to order. He resented my hesitation and brusquely told me they didn't serve hotdogs. I ordered shrimp.

Woody said he wished we were old enough to order wine, but I wasn't disappointed. Being alone with Woody in a different city and sharing the magnificent view with him was intoxicating enough.

That night when Woody parked in front of my house, his kisses turned hot. His hands fumbled over my body and when he first touched my breast, I shivered in shock. Everything seemed to stop, like someone had lifted the arm of the phonograph. Our lips were still together, but our tongues didn't move. And neither did his hand. When I tried to breathe, my breast pushed against Woody's hand, heavy and warm. He finally squeezed, and I moaned. The record started playing again. He squeezed harder, and our tongues tried to get deeper. My heart pounded so hard, I was sure Woody could feel it beneath his hand.

By the time the porch light flashed on, Woody had worked his way inside the vee of my dress and was teasing the soft cotton of my bra. We separated fast. Flustered, I jumped out of the car and forgot to say "Goodnight." Dad didn't say a word when I immediately went to my room. I lay in bed, thinking of Woody and how he had touched me. I fumbled with my breast, hoping to evoke the same feeling as Woody's hand.

Our annual Sadie Hawkins celebration was the following week at school. Even though it wasn't a leap year, our school liked celebrating. It was nearly spring, and spring was a time for new beginnings--a time when a girl got the chance to ask out a boy, and by custom, he couldn't say no. So it became a tradition at Mercer High to celebrate Sadie Hawkins even if there wasn't a February twenty-ninth.

I thought for a long time before I decided how I would ask Woody. Instead of asking him outright, I'd send him a note. The note was childish, but it was meant to be.

Woody Hall
Will you go to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with me?
Circle Yes.

I slipped the note into Woody's locker between second period chemistry and third period algebra. I knew Woody would be going to his locker right after fourth period.

By seventh period, I still hadn't got the note back. I didn't worry too much. But when Woody wasn't waiting for me after school, my heart did a flip-flop. He'd met me every day since the football season.

At home, when I was watching Brady Bunch reruns, the phone rang. My mother picked up and seconds later yelled, "It's Woody." I should have felt relief, but all I felt was dread. My mouth was dry, dry and cold like a chilly October night.

"I didn't know how to tell you," he said.

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