Dancing with a black boy

"I know you're not just a dumb blonde, Laura," Fields told her as the girl sat in stunned silence. "You know the dance unit is mandatory to passing gym, and ultimately to you graduating."

The beauty furrowed her brow briefly. "Oh, you mean Duane," she said quietly, feeling powerless as she shifted in her seat, glancing up at him as the old black pervert gazed right down her top at her hefty globes.

"He's your partner for this project," Fields reminded her, raising his eyebrows. "And he says you won't allow him to practice."

"Mister Field, I am a christian girl, and Duane doesn't really respect that," Laura tried to explain.

"Well, Laura, you're also a white girl, and Duane is black," Fields noted, enjoying watching her recoil nervously from his point. "So if there's racism at play here, that's what's disrespectful, and that is unacceptable in our school."

Laura's face went red. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but was embarrassed to admit how sexually aggressive the boy had been with her: how even though it was a simple assignment, he had insisted that they needed to be intimate with each other in order to properly perform. "Dancing leads to fucking," he told her during their last meeting, which she barely managed to escape when he stopped to take off his pants.

"Whether or not you graduate is up to you, young lady," he advised her, bringing the poor girl back to the present. "I expect Duane to report what your decision is, and I want to see you move past your prejudices and learn to be with different kinds of men." He smirked again at the blonde's defeated nod of understanding.