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Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal. I_m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Fortunately, Kate_s lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. It_s early, and I don_t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. She_s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful _ and she_s my dearest, dearest friend. But then Kate can talk anyone into anything. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. And thanks Ana _ as usual, you_re my lifesaver._ Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I made you some soup to heat up later._ I stare at her fondly.
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I don_t want you to be late._ _Okay, I_m going. Make notes, I_ll transcribe it all._ _I know nothing about him,_ I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?_ _Nyquil, please.
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How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. Please,_ Kate begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. It will take another six to reschedule, and we_ll both have graduated by then. It took me nine months to get this interview. Kate is huddled on the couch in the living room. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious _ much more precious than mine _ but he has granted Kate an interview. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I_m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no _ today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she_d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I_ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. Damn my hair _ it just won_t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.