Weeping Willow (Spanking Story)

Chapter 6, Part 1: Owen's POV

"Ok, O-man. Left blinker on... Down, son, not up. Accelerate through the turn, don't stop."

The steering wheel felt slippery under my clammy hands, and my thumb kept rubbing over this one almost-greasy worn spot on the frayed edge. I couldn't tell you where we were or where we'd been, even though I'd probably driven up and down these streets a thousand times. There's something about being behind the wheel that renders your mind into some sort of amnesia; suddenly you're in control and the streets of your hometown may as well have been streets on another planet. It's funny how the moment you're put in control you feel so out-of-control.

"It's the yellow duplex down there."

"They're all yellow, Dad."

"Okay, smartass. The address is 920, but the numbers fell off a long time ago, so that'll do you a lot of fuckin' good." I guffawed, momentarily forgetting my anxiety of driving for the first time in my life. "Not that one... this one! On the right. Pull against the curb... not on the curb! Christ, Owen, you drive like your mother!"

"If you want food tonight, you'll shut the hell up," Mom remarked from her position in the backseat, leaning forward so her elbows rested on the console. I tried not to take notice of her white-knuckled grasp on the arm rest.

"Shut up, Dad! I haven't had Mom's tacos in... never. Don't ruin it!" I mock scolded, shifting the gear to park as I'd been taught. "You're a brilliant driver, Mom. Dad's just jealous." A painful nudge in my ribs from a certain finger said otherwise.

"So, are we gonna sit in here all day, or...?" I deadpanned, foot still on the brake of the old, beat up car. At least if I learned to drive in this, I'd be much better at driving a decent running car.

"Gimme the keys, there's only room for one felon in this family!" Dad said. I probably should have been cringing, but I just laughed.

I'm not really superstitious or anything, but I swear I could feel my life changing the moment I crossed the dingy threshold. The house was... unappealing. There wasn't any other way to describe it. The floors were simple concrete, not covered with wood or tile or carpet. But concrete was... solid, at the least. And an easy cleanup, so I could definitely see the benefits. The furniture was lacking, save for a single futon and a really nice looking roll-top desk settled along the south wall. The couch and the desk chair made for plenty of seating room for the entire family. They had a TV, too. I could almost picture myself watching Saturday morning cartoons with Dad, smelling fresh bacon from the closet-sized kitchen, laughing when Jerry outsmarted Tom once again. Those were things a real family did.

"How long can you stay, O-man?" Dad asked, lifting the futon cushion to search for the remote.

"Just til about 8:30. Ben said I could go back to my dorm tonight, but curfew's still 9 on school nights," I answered regretfully. It was already nearing six o' clock, and time just never seemed to be on my side.

"Lame," Dad remarked, and I couldn't help but agree. It was lame. What fifteen-year-old had a nine o' clock curfew?

"You like football?" my father questioned, finally locating the remote between the wall and the futon.

"Um, totally," I lied. I could learn to like it, at least.

"Awesome! Who's your favorite team?"

Okay... play it safe, Owen. "What kinda question is that? Who do you think?"

Dad's eyes crinkled in laughter, and he slapped me on the back jovially. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh? Let's see the Steelers kick some more ass, then!"