Wow, I'm so shocked the light remains green. But wait! It's just turned to yellow. Peyton pushes her foot down on the gas. The tires squeal, and she races through the red light right past Luke. In fact, she races through an entire street of red lights. Cars honk, but nothing really happens. She's playing some sort of really messed-up game of chicken with herself. She's so tortured. Blah tempting death, blah playing with fate, blah blah yawn.
Credits. Blah be yourself, blah me tweedle dee blah, all I want to be blah.
Tim is at Nathan's house. They're shooting hoops on his front driveway. Swoosh. Sweat. Swoosh. Tim asks, "So you and Peyton are history?" Nathan answers, "Nah. I wouldn't count on that." Tim tosses the ball to Nathan. His shoulders are very sweaty. He seems almost like a man, except he's a boy who really wants to be a puppet. Nathan continues, "This is what she does. She freaks out. We break up. A few days later we make up." Tim asks him why he puts up with it. Dude, the "making up," of course; he is a teenage boy whose girlfriend has no parents. Nathan wiggles his eyebrows and smirks. Shut up, Nathan's smirk. A huge, hulking mass of unhappy man comes jogging up behind the boys. He screams, "Hey! Ball!" Nathan throws it to Dan, who then gets the ball into the basket. He gloats, "Expect plenty more of that at the father/son game, 'cause we're going to crush you guys." Dan points one finger at Tim and the other at Nathan. Sniff. Sniff. Is that smell desperation, because it's left a nasty stain all down the front of Dan's t-shirt. Nathan nods at Tim, who bounces the ball hard on the driveway. Nathan bounds up and slams it through the basket. He smirks, "And you can expect more of that!" Dan smiles, "Bring it on!" And there goes Torrance, rolling in her celluloid grave. Someone that old should never say, "Bring it on." Ever. Shut up, Dan's jive-talking false bravado.