Find You in the Dark

pay for the towing, you pay for the repairs. Deal?” My dad put his tea mug in the sink and filled it with water. I felt guilty having my parents pay for my car in any way, shape, or form.
    I had been the one insisting on buying the shit-mobile outside. My dad wanted me to shop around more, to get a CARFAX report, all that rational stuff that I, of course, wouldn't listen to because I am seventeen years old and I know way more than my parents. Well, I learned that lesson the hard way.
    But I knew I most likely wouldn't have enough money to pay for the tow and the repairs. My savings from my job at the ice cream stand over the summer was almost depleted and I would be firmly in mooch territory soon if I didn't find another way to earn money.
    I mumbled something unintelligible, not bothering to formulate words. Dad only chuckled. “I'll interpret that as a thank you.” He said, shooing me out of the kitchen. I walked out to the family mini van, not focusing too much on the social mortification of having my librarian father take me to school. If I wasn't feeling so negative, I'd appreciate how considerate my dad was.
    I really was lucky in the parental department. My mom and dad always seemed to take my teenage moods in stride. Not much ruffled their feathers. Not that I'd done much ruffling in my seventeen years.
    So here comes the obligatory life run down. I was your typical teenage girl, living in small town America- (or Davidson, Virginia if you really wanted to know-) on the corner of cliché and stereotype. My life had been typical and uneventful. I grew up, the only child of the local beauty queen and the bookish guy she fell in love with. We had an apple pie life of family dinners and games of Monopoly on Thursdays- (Wednesdays if it was mom's week for Bunco-).
    My best friends, Rachel Bradfield and Daniel Lowe had been my partners in non-existent crime since the womb. Our mothers had grown up together and it was predetermined that we would be as close as they had been.
    I was suitably smart, sporting a solid B plus average and had aspirations of college; just like my friends. I did my homework, followed the rules, and basically bored myself to death. What I was, was in a very deep, crater-sized rut. How sad to be a senior in high school and already done with it all. And the year had only just begun! It was just the third week of September.
    So my car's refusal to cooperate this morning only added to my overall sense of malaise. I waited less than patiently in the passenger seat, tapping my fingers on the dash board in an imperfect rhythm. “All right, Maggie girl, buckle up.” My dad's persistent use of my childhood pet name- (only mildly less obnoxious than the fact that I was named after some seventies rock song by a guy with really bad hair and a penchant for super models-) was sort of grating this morning. I wasn't sure if dad had yet to realize that I wasn't ten anymore. My parents had a really hard time accepting that I was – gasp - almost an adult. Though to be fair, most days -(this morning included-), I didn't necessarily act the part.
    I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Rachel and Daniel, letting them know I was running late. Judging by the time, I was at least missing the painful drone of our assistant principal, Mr. Kane, as he read the morning announcements. He always sounded as though he needed to blow his nose.
    So maybe the day was still salvageable. I tried to minimize conversation as dad drifted lazily through our tiny town toward the high school. He sang along, rather badly, to the Righteous Brothers, his voice an alarming falsetto. He swayed his shoulders with the beat.
    Dad was being so over the top that I couldn't help but crack the barest hint of a smile. He caught me, of course, my emo facade at an effective end. He let out a whoop. “There's my girl's smile! I knew it was hiding somewhere.” My dad reached over and poked me in the side, causing me to squirm and laugh grudgingly.
    “You are such a dork, Dad.” I told him, not unkindly. Dad only grinned and turned up the radio. The auditory torture didn't last much longer before we pulled up in front of Jackson High School. I barely gave my dad time to slow down before I had propelled myself from the still moving vehicle.
    “Don't forget to call the garage at lunch.” Dad reminded me again. I gave him an ironic salute and turned to walk toward the school. I was glad to see I wasn't the only straggler this