the same problem with my car
a little while back.”
“The
Lambo?” I said disbelievingly, looking down at the ostentatious sports car
parked at the end of the driveway.
“Nah,
that’s not mine,” Jack corrected.
“Oh,
grand theft auto. How charming,” I cracked.
“It’s
my uncle’s. He owns a car dealership over in Arlington, and was kind enough to
lend me a vehicle while mine was giving me grief.”
“What
do you drive?” asked my dad.
“’67
Impala.”
Here
we go...
“Beautiful,”
said my dad, nodding in adoration. “Nice to see a man your age driving a real
car, instead of those eco-friendly boxcar disasters everyone’s got now.”
“Hey,
you can’t go wrong with the style, smooth ride, and durability of a classic,”
replied Jack, tapping the hood of the Cutlass appreciatively.
“My
point exactly.”
I
was going to be sick.
“Cassie,
here, is a big fan of the classics as well. I’ve been taking her to car shows
since she was little. Couldn’t get enough of them after she saw her first ’72
Chevelle.”
“Huh,
you don’t say?” said Jack. “Can’t say I’m too surprised. She doesn’t exactly
strike me as your typical Prius-driving, tree-hugging environmentalist who
worries all too much about what kind of emissions pollute the air. But it’s
hard to tell, since most people these days have been conforming.”
“And
you’re not?” I asked irreverently. “I figured you liked conformity.”
Jack
gave me a sideways glare, along with a competitive grin. “Well, I may not be
driving a car that runs on donut grease, but I do my best to not dump too much
industrialized toxic chemicals into waterways,” he replied. “And I make sure to
not throw out too many six-pack soda rings in the general vicinity of dolphins’
migrational paths.”
“Smartass.”
“Cassandra,”
my dad warned. He never really minded an occasional slip of the mouth on my
part when we were in private, but in the presence of company, he found it to be
unladylike. Hence, he only ever called me by my full name when I was in trouble
of some sort.
“Sorry,”
I said, directing it more to my dad than Jack.
“Nah,
it’s okay. If that’s the worst thing I’m called today, then I consider myself
fortunate,” said Jack amusingly. “Why don’t we get cracking on our lesson, and
leave your dad in peace?”
“Sure,”
I said, motioning him toward the house.
“It
was a pleasure meeting you, sir,” Jack said, shaking my dad’s hand again.
“You,
too.”
I
went into the kitchen and pulled my books out of my satchel, laying them
systematically across the table. About to take a seat, I looked around to see
no one else was there. “Jack?”
“I’m
right here,” he called out.
I
headed over to the side door to see him still standing outside in the entryway.
“Everything okay?”
He
nodded. “Just waiting for a proper invitation to come inside.”
“Okay,
Dracula,” I said jeeringly. “You may enter the premises.”
“It’s
called being gentlemanly,” he said, taking a long stride through the doorway.
“Nice digs.”
“Thanks,
it was my grandmother’s, before she passed away,” I said, parking a seat at the
head of the kitchen table.
“Is
it just you and your dad here?” he asked, taking notice to the rest of the
downstairs.
“What
makes you say that?”
He
shrugged. “House just seems to lack a certain... feminine touch.”
“Thanks.”
“Nah,
I just mean a wifely touch. You know, little knickknacks, flowery décor,
and whatnot. Men generally model their homes in accordance to their lifestyle.
Efficiency. They don’t typically concern themselves with things like matching
the hand and dish towels at the sink, or getting a basket to put their keys and
spare coins into,” he said, pointing at the chunk of change that had piled on
the counter beside three separate sets of keys. “Not to mention that there’s
man cave pictures out in plain sight.”
I
looked around at the
a little while back.”
“The
Lambo?” I said disbelievingly, looking down at the ostentatious sports car
parked at the end of the driveway.
“Nah,
that’s not mine,” Jack corrected.
“Oh,
grand theft auto. How charming,” I cracked.
“It’s
my uncle’s. He owns a car dealership over in Arlington, and was kind enough to
lend me a vehicle while mine was giving me grief.”
“What
do you drive?” asked my dad.
“’67
Impala.”
Here
we go...
“Beautiful,”
said my dad, nodding in adoration. “Nice to see a man your age driving a real
car, instead of those eco-friendly boxcar disasters everyone’s got now.”
“Hey,
you can’t go wrong with the style, smooth ride, and durability of a classic,”
replied Jack, tapping the hood of the Cutlass appreciatively.
“My
point exactly.”
I
was going to be sick.
“Cassie,
here, is a big fan of the classics as well. I’ve been taking her to car shows
since she was little. Couldn’t get enough of them after she saw her first ’72
Chevelle.”
“Huh,
you don’t say?” said Jack. “Can’t say I’m too surprised. She doesn’t exactly
strike me as your typical Prius-driving, tree-hugging environmentalist who
worries all too much about what kind of emissions pollute the air. But it’s
hard to tell, since most people these days have been conforming.”
“And
you’re not?” I asked irreverently. “I figured you liked conformity.”
Jack
gave me a sideways glare, along with a competitive grin. “Well, I may not be
driving a car that runs on donut grease, but I do my best to not dump too much
industrialized toxic chemicals into waterways,” he replied. “And I make sure to
not throw out too many six-pack soda rings in the general vicinity of dolphins’
migrational paths.”
“Smartass.”
“Cassandra,”
my dad warned. He never really minded an occasional slip of the mouth on my
part when we were in private, but in the presence of company, he found it to be
unladylike. Hence, he only ever called me by my full name when I was in trouble
of some sort.
“Sorry,”
I said, directing it more to my dad than Jack.
“Nah,
it’s okay. If that’s the worst thing I’m called today, then I consider myself
fortunate,” said Jack amusingly. “Why don’t we get cracking on our lesson, and
leave your dad in peace?”
“Sure,”
I said, motioning him toward the house.
“It
was a pleasure meeting you, sir,” Jack said, shaking my dad’s hand again.
“You,
too.”
I
went into the kitchen and pulled my books out of my satchel, laying them
systematically across the table. About to take a seat, I looked around to see
no one else was there. “Jack?”
“I’m
right here,” he called out.
I
headed over to the side door to see him still standing outside in the entryway.
“Everything okay?”
He
nodded. “Just waiting for a proper invitation to come inside.”
“Okay,
Dracula,” I said jeeringly. “You may enter the premises.”
“It’s
called being gentlemanly,” he said, taking a long stride through the doorway.
“Nice digs.”
“Thanks,
it was my grandmother’s, before she passed away,” I said, parking a seat at the
head of the kitchen table.
“Is
it just you and your dad here?” he asked, taking notice to the rest of the
downstairs.
“What
makes you say that?”
He
shrugged. “House just seems to lack a certain... feminine touch.”
“Thanks.”
“Nah,
I just mean a wifely touch. You know, little knickknacks, flowery décor,
and whatnot. Men generally model their homes in accordance to their lifestyle.
Efficiency. They don’t typically concern themselves with things like matching
the hand and dish towels at the sink, or getting a basket to put their keys and
spare coins into,” he said, pointing at the chunk of change that had piled on
the counter beside three separate sets of keys. “Not to mention that there’s
man cave pictures out in plain sight.”
I
looked around at the
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