"Do not cry." Stone commanded.

"I will and you will have to deal with it." I threatened before mentioning "I am a really ugly crier."

"No." He deeply said, sounding like an almost growl "You are not."

I bit my lip to contain my smile.

I had to get out of the small space between us. If I stayed and started to enjoy my time with him then he won. I could not just let him drag me away and willingly stay with him.

The only way to get him to give me the keys was to annoy him until he wanted to get rid of me.

I spotted a black radio on top of a workplace, so I skipped over and jumped up to sit on the high counter.

Sitting next to the old speaker that looked straight out of the eighties with a big antenna, I called over to Stone "Last chance. Give me the keys or I will start singing at the top of my lungs and it will make your ears bleed."

He looked up from the car and raised an eyebrow, a silent way of telling me that nothing was going to make him change his mind.

After a few attempts of hitting the right button on the forty-year-old machine, I got it to start playing.

As soon as I heard the first line of the song, I swung my legs in delight to the time of the music and started to sing loudly enough that I could even hear how bad I was.

"Her name is Noelle. I have a dream about her. She rings my bell."

Stone continued to stare at me, and he looked shocked at how appalling I was at singing.

His judgement did not intrude my performance of Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus.

"I've got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby. Come with me Friday, don't say maybe. I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby like you."

He watched from the hood of the car. His eyes were on my face as I sang and laughed through the lyrics. His gaze only strayed when I started to shimmy my hips to the rhythm.

The song finished and silence hung in the air until something miraculous happened.

Stone started howling with laughter. It was a deep rough noise of amusement, but it made me feel a little proud of myself that I had achieved the impossible.

"Stop laughing at my singing!" I pretended to be mad "I have been practising to master that song for years. It is the best song in existence."

He went back to fixing the car while I thought of other ways to bedevil him.

His voice interrupted my scheming "You think Teenage Dirtbag is the best song in existence?"

"In the afterlife, Beethoven is secretly asking himself why he did not think of it." I joked before adding seriously "It is the theme song of my life. Nothing says adolescent angst like that song."