Driving Her Insane

02

C H A P T E R     T W O

I HAD EXPECTED TO GET into trouble – I kind of walked into that one – just not this much trouble.

And by trouble, I did not mean a simple grounding – you know, when parents take your phone away for a week, thinking that they had just cracked the code to parenting teenagers. Where they'd think they'd soon be offered book deal after book deal for their lacklustre parenting technique.

No, I meant actual trouble. The kind that had me contemplating running away to join the circus. The kind that had me thinking about a name change. The kind that meant I was unable to drive (although, I kind of walked. . . or, well, drove into that one). As in, the kind that would make me have to take the bus to school and back. Until next year. Meaning I would have to endure four months of being confined with horny freshmen. I didn't know why I didn't think of this idea on my own. Maybe because I actually have some self respect.

But to top everything off, I was only allowed to go to and from school, until I proved that I was not a psychopath in the making. Which meant that I'd be grounded for an eternity. At the shortest. And, at this point, I was kind of hoping Officer Collins had just locked me up. It would actually be better than this – if it was anything like Orange is the New Black, that is.

And the worst part was that I had to go out and find someone to teach me to drive. My mom couldn't. For obviously reasons. She was confined to a wheelchair. But, yes, she did drive (as she so proudly liked to tell strangers who looked at her with pity). Just differently. She uses extensions to the gas and break that allows her hands to control them. And Greg has been recently working overtime. He doesn't have enough room in his schedule for his favorite stepdaughter.

"You can't be serious," I moaned out, about ready to scream out all my frustrations. It was unfair – how much my mom and Greg thrived off of condemning me to a living hell.

"Do we look like we're joking?" Greg asked, arms crossed over.

Greg was a burly man – more bear than human. Imagine Ron Swanson. Just with a lot less facial hair and a softer appearance. And maybe a couple pounds lighter. With his hair cut short into a uniformly shaven buzz cut and a good pair of camo slacks to go with any outfit. The only time I've seen him without camo pants was when I was younger and took all his pants out of his closet and laid them in my messy bedroom. Because I thought they would camouflage the mess. It didn't exactly work that way.

But, besides his mostly rock exterior, Greg was a tender guy. My mom said that when he was deployed, the war seemed to mellow him out. She had known him briefly before he was sent off – when she was still married to my father. And from what she tells, it seems like he just started to appreciate things more, to put life into a better perspective. One of the many reasons my mom was so attracted to him, apparently.

"I don't know," I expressed, delving into the rhetorical question Greg posed, "you kind of have that Kristen Stewart thing going for you."

The thing about Greg and my relationship was that we could joke around. He was really light-hearted and not many things riled him up. You could break all his prized DVD's – he's an avid movie fan – and he wouldn't get mad. He'd be disappointed and not afraid to tell you that. But he would never be mad. Especially because I'm sure all the movies he owns are pirated.