The Van Pact

1: Valerie

Okay. So I flipped my Jeep.

It wasn't my finest moment. But put yourself in my shoes, here for a minute:

It's a Saturday evening. The end of August. The parking lot by the Linden river is unusually-eerily, even- empty. It's dark enough so that the white parking lot lights have turned on, but it's not so late that the hobos and the drug dealers get actually dangerous, no matter how much Stevie's worrying about it in the back seat. Carla reminds you of that YouTube video you watched on her phone after band camp last week. The one made by the twenty-something car guy with the skeptical eyebrows whose attractiveness is hotly debatable (Carla says yay, Stevie says nay, you can make a case for either side). You figure that now is about as good a time as any.

You just gotta do a donut.

And oh my lanta.

I guess Stevie was right when she said I have poor impulse control.

"The important thing," I insisted, as I kicked open the driver side door and jumped over the upended chassis to the asphalt below, "is that we still have our health."

"Shit, Valerie!" Carla shouted after me. "I think you broke Stevie's arm!"

Stevie was fine. A little bruised up, but fine. Honestly, I think the flip was good for her. The poor kid could use some adventure in her life. She wouldn't even try the hot-sauce allergy cure I found online for her last March. It was just Frank's Red Hot. Not like I tried to drip habanero sauce down her throat. Tooo spiiiicccy at 450 Scoville units? Some people, I tell ya.

Anyway, the AAA helpline I called sent some guys over to right-side my Jeep and survey the damage. Carla about lost it when they got it running again, but I wasn't shocked one bit. He's a scrapper, my Wrangler. Sort of a burnt-orange, and over ten years old, but he's mine.

Or at least he used to be.

See, the whole ride back to Carla's house, Stevie was freaking out about what my parents were going to say when I got home.

"How are you gonna tell your dad?" Stevie shoved her face up over the center console, between Carla's seat and mine, "My dad would probably murder me."

"Your dad wouldn't murder you," I swatted Stevie's face away from the shift stick. Stevie's dad was great. A Bostonian. A big Fleetwood Mac fan (which, incidentally, is how Stevie got her name). I've known him for almost half my life, since Stevie moved into the house across the street from mine when we were nine. Definitely not the type to go honor-killing his daughter over a flipped jeep.

"What about your mom?" Stevie prodded, "Don't you feel guilty for ruining the paint job and the, uh-"

I peeked at her through my rear-view mirror. Her grey-blond brows knitted together as she looked out Carla's window. I knew what she was gonna say as soon as I saw her eyes bug.

"-the smashed side-view mirror!" she yelled like an idiot, "You smashed the side-view mirror!"

"Yeah, well. If the rents make me pay for it, I'll just get a job." I couldn't be bothered to speculate about what my parents would think. They'll think what they think, I figured, and whatever happens I'll manage.

I dropped Carla off at her house. When I got home and pulled up in my driveway, Stevie was still all doomsday predictions and how "a stunt like this could have ruined all of our upcoming senior year." Jesus Christ on a motorbike. My parents were asleep by the time I got inside, but Stevie's dad woke them up with a semi-angry phone call toward morning. Stevie, hypochondriac that she was, had to go and make sure her arm wasn't broken (as if I couldn't tell a broken bone when I saw one. I've read Wikipedia and my mom's medical journals. I know all that shit).

Well, what happened, happened, and I'm managing.

***

"But wouldn't you rather I just got a job?" I pleaded. "I can pay for the side view mirror, it'll be fine."

My dad rested his elbow on his knee and his cheek on the palm of his hand. He looked at me with those wide, honey-brown eyes he has and sighed.

"It'll be fiiiine," I repeated, and smiled my biggest, dimple-making smile. Usually that works on him. My dad tends to be pretty lenient on me. I think it has to do with the fact I take after his side of the family. He sees his own face in mine.

"It's not fine," my mom interjected. And before I could argue that I used the future tense, and while the Jeep looks a bit- ehem, rough- now, after we get its paint job done, and switch out the mirror, everything'll be hunky-dory, she added. "It won't be fine."

My mom is less lenient on me than my dad. I think that has to do with the fact I take after his side of the family. My dad is a weirdo. Most men in their middle fifties listen to classic rock and try to relive the nineteen-eighties. Not my dad. He knows every top 40 song, at any given time. I think it's because he insists on listening to the radio in his car. He's too lazy to mess with the iPhone jack. As a result, the chorus to every Taylor Swift single has become inscribed in his subconscious mind. He sings them under his breath when he comes home from work.

"Now, now, no need for drastic measures here," I tried to keep my eyes on my parent's faces and off of every other object in the living room. "Let's think about this rationally-"

"Valerie," my dad said softly. "You could have killed somebody."

"I mean," I pictured Stevie's bruised forearm, "I guess-"

"Gary was very explicit about that," My dad blankly pulled on his earlobe. Stevie's dad, being from Boston and all, could get pretty loud. Just because I could hear him yelling through my bedroom walls didn't mean he was all that angry-

"You want to know what he said about you?" My mom placed her hand on the back of my dad's recliner. Her voice has a tendency of getting very shrill when she is very frustrated. Her voice was very shrill.  At least she didn't start yelling in Spanish. She only does that when she doesn't want my dad to know exactly what's she saying. That's when you knowher mom anger has hit XTREME LEVELS. "I can tell you what he said about you!"

"Oh, she doesn't have to hear that-" My dad glanced up behind him at my mom.

"He said you're on the fast-track for juvie."

"Juvie?" I repeated. Okay so maybe Stevie's dad was all that angry. Ooooops.

"Did you have to tell her that?" My dad winced.

"She has a right to know what people will say about her, Vinnie."

"Yeah, but," my dad shook his head. "Gary didn't mean that. He was angry. Besides, she's not really gonna end up in juvie."

"I'm an upstanding citizen," I agreed.

"You're losing your jeep privileges," my mom crossed her arms, "that's what you are." This was the same position my parents held a few minutes ago, before they sat me down in the living room in the first place. I was amazed at their steadfast resolve. My parents weren't often disciplinarians. Even if they wanted to be, I was usually able to talk my way out of the occasional scrap I'd find myself in. It didn't look like I was gonna get out of it this time. Better bring out the big guns. Early morning band practice. 6:30 AM. Before the buses even begin their routes. Gotta punch 'em right in the sleep deprivation zone.

"It was reckless of me to attempt a donut," I conceded, "but school's starting Monday. What do I do for band?"

"We considered that," my dad said. "Which is why you're losing your jeep privileges. Not your driving privileges."

My dad drives a 2010 Toyota Camry. My mom drives a 2014 Lexus GS. Both of these cars are superior to my 2004 Wrangler. I was eminently confused. My mom must've read the look on my face.

"You're going to drive the van," she pointed to the garage door behind her.

***

A/N: Most of us have had a rough week, so I thought I'd upload this chapter a little bit earlier than I thought I would. I won't be able to update regularly until I actually get more of this written, but I feel comfortable with the plot I've planned so I figured why not? It might cheer somebody up.