I Killed the Car (Continued)
I protested that the bus had already passed, so Dad volunteered to drive me. An intense argument followed, not uncommon between us. My mother always says that my father is the second most stubborn person in the world; she also says that I am the first. As my mother is only home on weekends, this made for an interesting situation growing up. Most nights included shouting matches, the two of us hurling words back and forth with reckless abandon.
But that day I won the argument, and Dad relinquished the keys. Content, I said good-bye and walked out to the car. There was about an inch coating the roads of my neighborhood. So much for “snowy roads,” Dad, I thought sarcastically.
The Mazda's steering wheel and stick shift were cold, but the little car warmed up quickly and I pulled out.
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