Row
The drive to Descartes was spent mostly in silence, which was usually my favorite soundtrack. Not so much right now, though, because the person sitting next to me was full of funny tidbits, fascinating opinions, and quirky ideas my adolescent self itched to hear.
Cal tried to strike up conversation, but I cranked up the radio each time she did. Worked well, as there was some kind of Backstreet Boys special, so she was dancing in her seat, pointing at me every time she belted out the lyrics. She was a little ball of sunshine and I was a big gray cloud that wanted to piss acid rain on her parade.
At some point, I lit up a cigarette and rolled the window down. Her giant pair of blues immediately glued to the side of my face. She stared at me like I had just informed her I was kidnappin
