American Vacanza

walmarts don't even exist here • madison

Ethan had been sucking up to me all day, and I still wasn't buying it. Sure, it was nice to see him sober and finally piecing together what he'd done and why it was wrong, but sober Ethan was like a drunk normal person. He kept stealing kisses, which in any other situation, I would have thought was romantic. But Ethan was, at this point, a disgusting pig. And trying to kiss someone who was driving a car was hella dangerous.

Especially since the time that the Lamborghini in the lane next to us decided to switch lanes without putting their turn signal on, at the same time that Ethan leaned in for a peck on my cheek, was when the fates decided that it was time for disaster to strike on our little red rusty Ford.

In a blur of lights, metal, screeching tires, and Siena's squeals, our car swerved into the other lane, provoking the most terrifying (and deafening) crash ever: the side-swipe.

It was one thing to scrape the side of your car on some other old car. But this was no old car. This was a brand new, just-waxed, fancy European sports car. This wasn't something you could just get over. Well, for us it as. But for the guy who owned a $200,000 car, it definitely wasn't.

Once we'd actually pulled over and surveyed the damage, I realized it really wasn't bad. It was honestly just a scratch in the yellow paint, while our old car had an entire chunk of the door taken out. Still, it probably cost more to fix a paint scratch on a Lamborghini than a giant dent on a rusty Ford.

I rummaged through my purse for my checkbook, hoping as he approached that I could just give him a check and he would be happy, but anyone who drove a Lamborghini would probably be really picky.

The owner, who seemed to be about forty years old and compensating for his looks with his fancy car, stood in front of the driver's window, which I'd cranked down. "Hey, I'm really sorry. Wasn't paying attention. How much do you think it'll be to fix the car? Whatever it is, I'll pay double for your troubles."

"Rebellious teens. It figures." I ran my fingers through my hair self-consciously as his face morphed into a malicious sneer. "I highly doubt your couch change'll suffice. This is at least a fifteen-hundred dollar fix."

I doubted it was that much, but I was in no mood to argue. "Listen, my dad's got a lot of money to spare. I'll write you a check, it's no big deal, we'll move on with our lives. Good? Good."

The man sneered, his bald forehead creasing like a piece of paper. "Oh, he is, is he? Well, I'd love to hear what daddy would think when he finds out you've been in a crash."

"I actually wonder," I retorted, "what my father, Pete Ray, would think if he found out I was being grilled by some condescending ass with only ONE Lamborghini?"

I could hear Siena whooping from the back seat, which made me surge with pride. I kind of liked being friends with Siena. It was like having my own personal cheerleader.

His face, and the top of his (did I mention very bald?) head, turned eggplant purple. "You're nothing but a runaway. A runaway and a liar!" he spat.

"Then why do my checks say Madison Ray? Listen, you can Google me, I exist. If only on my father's Wikipedia page. Just tell me your name, I'll write you a check. I've got better things to do than waste time arguing about something that can so easily be fixed," I said coolly.

He looked at the name on my checks- because I'd shoved them in his face.

"Uh, never mind. I'll just fix it myself," he replied, embarrassed, running back to his car and quickly driving away. This was what name-dropping did. As much as Siena chastised me for doing it whenever possible, you couldn't deny that it had an effect on people. If they thought I was a normal pink-haired teenager, they would've thought I was just rebellious, annoying, and untrustworthy. But as a billionaire pink-haired teenager, I was trendy and playful and wise beyond my years.