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"We're like thirty seconds away from the parking lot," he protests, "And our teachers stopped caring about us being on time weeks ago. As long as it's only a minute or five, they won't even mark us late."
"Still, I'm sorry. It was my fault." And again, "I'm sorry."
He reaches over and squeezes my leg again. "Dude, I'm not mad at you," he laughs. That laugh almost makes me miss the turn.