“Mary Beth has to sit in front,” my philosophy prof announced, opening the passenger door. Our fall semester class was meeting off-campus, there at the top of the Indiana sock, and he was driving. My classmates piled in the back of his van and I looked first at them, then at him, then back at them again, horrified. She—she does? Was this not the sour turning point of every single After School Special? Had I learned nothing from Candice Cameron and Mark-Paul Gosselaar?
But with six womens’ college witnesses, all with notebooks and excellent communication skills, I clambered into the shotgun seat.