Shut Out

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There is nothing more humiliating than being topless in the backseat of your boyfriend's car when someone decides to throw an egg at the windshield.

Wait. Scratch that.

Having your boyfriend jump off you, climb out of the car, and chase after the guy, completely forgetting that you're still half-naked — that trumps it.

And there is one thing even worse than that.

Having it happen repeatedly.

I rolled onto my stomach and reached an arm down to the floorboard, searching for my tank top and praying the windows of Randy's new Buick Skylark were as tinted as the ones on his old Cougar, the one he'd wrapped around a telephone pole last month. The Buick was older and used, but Randy considered the bigger backseat an improvement over his other car.

Not that it was being used at the moment.

I pulled on my top and climbed into the front seat. This was the third time the car had been vandalized — with us inside — since Randy and I had started dating sixteen months ago. The other two times had happened last fall, when the rivalry was in full swing, and both times I'd been left in the car, humiliated, while Randy chased after the culprit. Not exactly my definition of a good time.

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