She Drives Me Crazy(5)
I ignore her and check my front bumper. Miraculously, it’s only slightly dented; I’ll have to get it fixed, but it’s still drivable.
Behind me, Irene is examining her own car. “Shit,” she grumbles. “My parents are gonna kill me.”
“Yeah, well, so are mine,” I say, kicking at my front tire. I can feel tears building behind my eyes, but I fight against them. I hate the idea of crying in front of Irene Abraham ever again. I take a deep breath to steady myself, but when I turn around to check her car, the bottom drops out of my stomach.
Her rear bumper is a craggy, mangled disaster; the right half of it hangs off the frame, dragging against the pavement. There’s no way her car is drivable like this. My anger suddenly turns to panic. If her car took the worst of the hit, does that mean it was my fault, even if I had the right of way?
I steady my breathing and look at her. “Damn it. I’m sorry.”
Her dark eyes sizzle like I’ve just said something offensive. “Do you know nothing?” she snaps. “You should never apologize after a car accident. It’s an admission of fault.”
I’m so thrown off, I can only stare at her.
“Lucky for you, I’m not the type of person to fake a serious injury or some bullshit emotional trauma so I can sue you and your parents for all you’re worth, but someone else might be. Use your head.”
Anger flares inside me again. “You really wanna be giving me a lesson right now? You’re the one who backed into me!”
“Why didn’t you stop when you saw my car?”
“Why didn’t you stop when you saw my car?”
We’ve created quite a scene in the parking lot. A bunch of people from our class run over, checking to see what happened. Even though school’s been out for hours, there are enough kids here that our accident is impossible to hide.
“Are y’all okay?”
“Ohhh, your bumper’s fucked.”
“Aw, shit! Tow Truck Girl fucked up her car again!”
One of the cheerleaders hurries over, her eyes popping out of her head. It’s Irene’s best friend, the same girl who asked me if I was okay earlier: Honey-Belle Hewett. She’s the great-granddaughter of the legendary Mrs. Earl. Her family still runs the Emporium, and she’s exactly how you’d imagine a girl from a Christmas-business family to be. Sugary voice, cartoonish expressions, and a little out of it sometimes. Like a Care Bear magicked to life.
“Holy shit-balls,” she exclaims, running straight for us. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Irene drags a hand down her face. “I have to call my mom. Fuck.”
She stalks away on her cell phone, her brow still furrowed with anger. Honey-Belle gives me a sympathetic look, but I turn away and pick up my own phone.
My mom shows up fifteen minutes after I call her. She smooths the hair back from my forehead and reassures me in her steady, measured voice. The whole world could explode and my mom would say, Hmm, now how are we going to handle this?
“Are you hurt anywhere?” Mom asks.
“No.”
“Were you on your phone?”
“No.”
Mom nods, searching me with her I-don’t-miss-a-trick eyes. “Okay. Let’s call the insurance company.”
Irene’s mom arrives soon after that. She’s an attractive, sophisticated-looking woman, with curly dark hair and pristine lipstick, dressed in lavender scrubs with a name tag that reads DR. ABRAHAM. She has the same scrutinizing facial expression as Irene, like she could figure you out in a second. It looks like that’s what she’s doing to Irene right now.
“How did this happen?” she asks, cocking her head at Irene. Her voice is calm but commanding.
Irene huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was backing out, and I didn’t see her coming—”
Her mom cuts her off. “You weren’t looking?”
“I was, but—”
“But you were lost in your head, imagining more cheer routines?”
Irene’s mouth sets into a thin line.
“This is what happens when you don’t focus,” her mom continues. “You know better than to be careless. Make sure to take pictures of this bumper. Every angle!”
There’s an unbearable stretch of time when our moms are on the phone with the insurance companies and Irene and I have nothing to do but pointedly ignore each other. When all is said and done, our moms exchange a nod and announce that we’re both responsible—since both our cars were moving—but that Irene is primarily at fault since I had the right of way.
“That’s not fair,” Irene says, shaking her head. “She came zooming around the corner—she wasn’t even looking—”
“How do you know I wasn’t looking?” I say heatedly. “Besides, you’re one to talk! This is the second time you’ve messed with my car!”
My mom frowns. “What does that mean?”
There’s a hanging silence. I never told my parents the truth about how my car was towed last year; I lied and said I’d accidentally parked in front of a fire hydrant. I was too embarrassed to admit that I’d been bullied by the head cheerleader.
Now Irene and I stare at each other for a blistering moment. Her eyes are wide and anxious. It’s the first hint of vulnerability I’ve seen from her.