irk (luke hemmings)

five

The rest of the drive goes by painstakingly slow.

Since Calum is still queued up to my iPod (which is kind of a waste, considering that he's fast asleep and has been for the past two hours,) my music choices are limited down to Anne's opera CDs, Ashton's single Coldplay CD, or the horribly modernized radio stations.

And having the red-haired kid, Michael, being in control of it all while I drive and everyone else is asleep is even worse.

The past two hours have been filled with everything Ariana Grande, One Direction, Fifth Harmony, Iggy Azalea, and Taylor Swift blasting, full-volume, from the front seat. At first I thought Michael just has really bad taste in music, but after looking into the side mirror, I discovered he secretly has one earbud in and one out.

So my guess is that he's purposely trying to annoy me, get me to talk to him about God-knows-what, or both.
But whatever tactic he's using, I'm (unfortunately) falling for it. I just cannot stand another second of this awful music.

"Hey, Michael?" I ask after a while, interrupting Ellie Goulding's rendition of "Your Song" with no mercy. "Do you mind changing the station?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see the kid do a double-take, almost as if he's shocked that I'm talking to him; let alone actually talk in general.

"Oh, thank God. I was wondering if you'd ever ask." To my surprise Michael chuckles, immediately reaching over to lower the volume down to 5. "I hate pop with a passion."

I raise my eyebrows. "Seriously? Then why did we just waste the past two hours listening to it?"

Michael's eyebrows furrow. "Wait, I thought you liked it."

"Me?" I almost laugh, if it weren't for the fact that I'd just suffered through two solid hours listening to horrible music all for nothing. "Um, never. And here I was thinking you did, since you put on that Nicki Minaj song earlier."

He considers this for a moment. "Okay, well, that's the only exception. 'Anaconda' is literally the only song out there that doesn't use my name in vain."

I roll my eyes at the double meaning of his words and fully shut the radio off, thankful.

"I thought girls like pop music, though," Michael continues, still thoroughly confused. "I mean, stereotypically-speaking. Am I wrong, or-"

"Sadly, you aren't." I say, thinking of all the girls in my grade fangirling who fangirl over Taylor Swift. "But you'll find out pretty soon that I'm not anything like 'typical' girls."

"That's true." He chuckles in response. "You're more independent, chill. I like it."

I almost blush at his words, too overcome with joy that someone finally understands me. Being called down-to-earth and non-stereotypical are honestly the best compliments I could ever receive, and the fact that a guy actually notices stuff like that is rare.

"So, can I put on some of my music?" Michael asks next, breaking the silence and making me mentally scold myself for not thinking of it sooner.

Nodding once to approve, seconds later My Chemical Romance starts blasting through the speakers of Anne's fancy sports car. Michael's earbud comes out immediately as he starts to sing along, in a voice I never, in my three hours of knowing him, could've known he was capable of.

I hum along as we pass mile-marker 134, close to the exit for Canyon Park. Preparing to merge lanes, I check one of the rearview mirrors to see if there's any cars behind me.

But the only roadblock I see is a pair of bright blue eyes, blonde hair, and a black beanie.

We make eye contact for one second, one measly second, but that's enough time for another car to move into view and make me lose the opportunity.