layla

I am out-of-my-head pissed. My teeth lock together and my whole face tightens; I can feel it from my jaw through my pony-tail. I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it … well, I’m not going to take as much of it as I’ve been taking.

I sit in the car for a second, speculating on where they’ve gone. Let’s see. They’re headed east on 10? Brett’s in charge. Now, going on the evidence of the past five years, when it comes to devising interesting places for excursions, his imagination doesn’t extend much beyond the multiplex.

As I drive, I wear an expression that frightens even me when I see it in the rearview mirror. I cut off a guy in a pickup truck, and he guns it to get even with me and glare or flip me off or something. But as he draws even, he sees the face I’m wearing. He then pretends he’s just looking around, minding his own business, and is suddenly intensely interested in a billboard advertising The Valley’s Leading Lady for Real Estate!

Damn straight, buddy.

Then I remember something beautiful. Scott signed me up on a website that lets people follow where he is, using the GPS on his phone. I told him it was totally obnoxious and a little unsettling: Why would anyone want people to be able to follow their every move on the Web? I imagined tech-savvy high-school kids telling their skeptical parents this would be a great way to make sure they were keeping out of trouble on a Saturday night, then linking the tracking site to a little GPS they’d leave in a friend’s bedroom while they went party-hopping. But at this second, I’ve become a big believer. I just hope he’s logged in and active.

C’mon, please.

Bingo!