Flirting with me

My car's refusal to cooperate this morning only added to my overall malaise. I waited less than patiently in the passenger seat, tapping my fingers on the dashboard in an imperfect rhythm. “All right, Maggie-Girl, buckle up." My dad's persistent use of my childhood pet name (only mildly less obnoxious than the fact that I was named after some '70s rock song by a guy with really bad hair and a penchant for supermodels) was sort of grating this morning. I wasn't sure if Dad had yet realized that I wasn't ten anymore. My parents had a really hard time ac- cepting that I was-gasp—almost an adult. Although, to be fair, most days (this morning included) I didn't neces- sarily act the part.

I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Rachel and Daniel, letting them know I was running late. Judging by the time, I was at least missing the painful drone of our assistant principal, Mr. Kane, as he read the morning an- nouncements. He always sounded as if he needed to blow his nose.

So maybe t