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BY THE TIME we're a few days away from winter break, freedom is so close that everyone at Clayton just sort of collectively gives up on the semester.
The ratio of homework assignments completed to homework assignments given quickly plummets to zero. My parents stop nagging me about my grades in order to nag each other about arrangements for Christmas dinner.
And-the truest sign that it's almost vacation-teachers start filling class time with "educational" movies like Dr. Strangelove and The Day After Tomorrow because they can't be bothered to put together actual lesson plans.
Izzie, Kilgrave and I have spent the better part of the last week at Izzie's house, binge-watching Netflix episodes while binge-eating popcorn, instead of doing anything remotely resembling studying, but we're forced to make alternate arrangements on Thursday afternoon when Izzie informs us that her mother is in the process of repainting her basement art studio.
"The entire house smells like paint fumes," Izzie explains as we all pile into her car after school. "Case, can we go to yours instead?"
"Not unless your idea of a fun afternoon involves getting grilled by my mother over tea," I say.
"KG?" Izzie asks, using her best puppy-dog eyes. "Feel like inviting us over?"
"Ugh," Kilgrave groans from the backseat. She unzips her backpack, pulls out rolling paper and a plastic bag filled with weed. "I hate my house."
"KG lives in Eden Ridge," Izzie says, by way of explanation.
"You live in Eden Ridge?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"My parents live in Eden Ridge," Kilgrave states matter of factly. "And I live with my parents, so I suppose that the answer to that question is yeah, I do live in Eden Ridge."
She finishes rolling, pulls out a lighter and takes a long, long drag, as if living in the nicest neighborhood in town is a great burden to her. She exhales, and the entire car is flooded with the smell of weed.
"Fine," she finally says. "Let's go to Eden Ridge."
"Yay!" Izzie squeals. She turns the key to start the engine, and the motor revs-but doesn't start. She frowns. "That's not what's supposed to happen."
"Your car is a piece of shit," Kilgrave says between drags.
"I like my car," Izzie defends. "It's got personality."
She turns the key again-rev, rev, nothing.
"It sure does," I jeer. "The personality of a crotchety old man."
