I stared down at my open notebook, trying to make sense of my chicken-scratch handwriting. From what was legible, it was a decent first draft. I needed to type it up, but Scott was using my laptop. Apparently, he didn't like writing by hand. And from the number of times I'd heard him unstick my not-quite-broken backspace button, I guessed he was an edit-as-you-go type.

When I grew tired of waiting, I asked, "What topic did you pick again?"

Without looking up from the screen, he replied, "War of the Spanish Succession."

"Huh."

Now he looked up. "What?"

"Nothing. It just seems a little broad."

"Of course it does to you, Miss 'The popularity of Robinson Crusoe in the eighteenth century reflects the rampant colonial imperialism of the time.'"

I had to admit, I was impressed he remembered my thesis statement verbatim.

I stood up and crossed to his side of the table. "All right then, let's see how you're doing."

He moved to shield the screen in protest. "Hey, no reading till I'm done!"

"Oh, come on! You can read mine!"

"No I can't, your handwriting is terrible," he teased.

I plopped down in the chair beside him to face him better. "Well, I could've typed it up by now if someone"-I jabbed his side-"wasn't hogging my laptop."

"Last I checked, we made a deal," he laughed. "I get to use your laptop, and you get to ride to school in my car."

"But we can both use your car at the same time!"

I moved to jab him again, but he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let go. Glaring in mock anger, I tried the other side, but that just resulted in him having hold of my other wrist as well. He was grinning until I yanked back as hard as I could and we both tumbled to the floor; then we were both laughing. I'm not sure which one of us started the tickling, but I do know I was the one who yanked a cushion off the nearest couch and whacked him over the head. And then he chased me around the table with a throw pillow. I think he was the one who knocked the chair over, but I can't be sure.

We were on the floor, laughing breathlessly, when we heard a chuckle coming from the doorway.

"Everything okay in here?"

Scott bolted up, his ears as red as his glasses. "Storm! Um, everything's f-fine."

From my position on the floor, I said as matter-of-factly as I could, "We're just finishing our history essays."

We stayed silent until Storm's footsteps could no longer be heard down the hall. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing all over again.