My breath really does smell pretty deathy.

It all started on TV. Mike Conley was playing for some Laker-colored basketball team most of whose members had ridiculous mohawks. Mike didn't though. And he wasn't wearing their jersey either, now that I think of it, so maybe he was on the other team. Way to go, Mike. Beat those stupid haircuts.
The jersey I was wearing was from my first year playing basketball with the Washington Wildcats, one of those reversible bits. I was wearing it with the white side and not the blue side showing. It was so tight that when I decided to take it off I had to get help from my father. I was quite grateful until he told me, at a volume audible to every person near, that my breath smelled horrible. And so I played the angry pout.
I couldn't understand why there were no instructions further than "Write about the Civil War." I couldn't get an explanation from anyone and time was winding down and I couldn't decide just what to write about and WHY CAN'T I BE ASSIGNED A MORE SPECIFIC TOPIC? "Surely I will fail," I thought, mesmerized by the scoreboard.
On our way out, my father and I ran into a rather cheery Yani. She needed a ride and my father more or less ignored her. We were the ones giving her a ride, but she led us to our car, which wasn't quite ours. It was an old Subaru-looking piece. She got in. And so it ended right there, Yani, in the car my father was supposed to drive, and I, standing outside wondering where the car came from, wondering where any of it came from.