“Just ignore him,” one of her track friends whispered, keeping her eyes on her calculator.

Trent stepped over the low woodchip border, rocking from toe to toe.

He stopped right at the edge of the dirt where our property began.

“Your dad looks like he audits receipts on spreadsheets for a living,” Trent shouted, smacking his lips in a loud kiss.

“Maybe he can audit my squat numbers once I finish my set.”

His three gym buddies laughed, and one of them tossed a heavy canvas bag onto our freshly cut lawn.

“Come on,” Emily said, her words running together so fast they blurred into one panicked sentence.