I tapped my foot impatiently as I stood at the end of the driveway. She was late, as usual. I really wasn’t surprised. Her car could barely make it to the end of the driveway, let alone to pick me up from school. I smiled as I thought of her car: a 2002 limited edition Chevy Camaro (or as she referred to it, “cameo”). She called it Lady, after the Styx song. It was supposed to be white, but the dirt roads usually left it more of a sand color. The sticker on the back read “feces occur.” The matter-of-fact tone of it matched Mel perfectly. At that moment, I heard (yes, heard) her barreling down the road, speed topping out at around 60. Quite a feat for a 90 degree curve… My grin widened as I saw her lip-sync to the lyrics of “She’s my Angel.” The back seat was completely filled by the amps and speakers of her massive stereo, so it was easy to make out the song even though she was still quite a distance away. I opened the door as she squealed to a stop in front of me. I had to pause to throw the empty Rt. 44 sonic cups back into the back. As I buckled my seatbelt, my face blazed as I carefully picked up the black string thong that was strung around the rear-view-mirror. I glanced in the back seat at what must’ve been the rest of her closet. Seeing me shake my head, she replied, “What can I say? That’s what happens when you’re a drum major.” Grinning back, I said “Step on it, we’re late!” and off we went.