Chicago

Before I run over an unidentified object on 24 South tonight, the opening chords of some lite rock song begin. I would change the station, but then I realize this is "You're the Inspiration." And then I'm in my bedroom in Cuernavaca with Ashley, giggling as we realize that our host parents are blaring and singing this song (twice over, full full blast), certain that they have no idea we're home yet. "They're totally doing it on the kitchen table," Ashley says. "Oh, God!" I say. "What? He's hot. I'd do him. I'd do her, too." We laugh until Ashley goes to the bathroom and flushes the toilet. The music stops. Footsteps on the stairs. "Pretend to be asleep!" she hisses. A knock on the door. We lie still. "Think they saw the note yet?" she says. More footsteps on stairs. Now they see the note I wrote in Spanish, saying that we went to bed early and need to be at school at 7:45. Now their door closes. No more music tonight. Now we start laughing again.