"Arabic?!" 

I question, looking over at Scott as if he just said 9-2=60. "Yeah, Arabic." Scott says, seemingly angered by the fact I asked. "How do you even know?", I sip some coffee from a '#1 Mom' mug. "Because I know what Arabic looks like, stupid."

My watch beeps.

"Midnight." I whisper. Scott looks up at me, but before he could say anything, I dive through his window, shimmy through the branches of his luscious oak tree, slide down the trunk and sprint down Chestnut Avenue. "Idiot!" Scott shouts.

On my way, running through the street, I smash into a trash can. I land on the ground, and when I look up, I almost poop my pants.