Four months shy of my 16th birthday, my parents departed to winery-revelry, and left me home accidentally accompanied by a spare set of my mom’s car keys. Speaking on the phone with my best friend, I established I couldn’t come to her house because I had no ride. I then defectively disclosed I knew the spare key’s location.
Her immediate response: Drive over here now!
My reply: No, I’m not serious, no.
Her: I’m hanging up, I’ll see you in ten minutes!
Me (to an abandoned phone): No, I... oh, all right.
And I drove. Hands horrified, body brandishing, substantially sweating, foot fluttering, I drove, distressed, to my best friend’s house. She cantered to the car and we escaped, ecstatic for our impulsive profitable plan. We circuited through the countryside, gas-station-baffled, halting for sandwiches, delighting in our independence. Driving along a two-lane rounded road, the car abruptly stumbled into a dip and the car careened, I, helpless, as the car spun in an intact 180. We screeched and shrieked. The car stopped in the opposite lane facing, fortunately, the correct way. I continued driving. We were elated to live. I rambled back to her house, and then to my own. Her parents immediately bombarded her with questions. The following day my parents inquired if I did anything illegal over the weekend. They clearly already knew, so I replied with the truth.
Though I pilfered my mom’s car, my best friend’s punishment was far greater, because she lied.
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