Bad Attitude, Golden Heart

Seattle has exactly one thing going for it compared to Wendell—it’s a city. Not a ghost town, not some one-horse dump with a post office and nothing else. Of course, it rains like the sky’s been holding a grudge since forever, but when the sun finally shows up? It’s like a bully with a magnifying glass, ready to roast you alive. Case in point, I had to slap on my sunglasses to keep from going blind. “The spare key is behind the mailbox, don’t forget,” Aunt Annette said, her voice oozing that brand of overly involved concern she’s made her trademark. “And there’s bus fare in the piggy bank by the door. You’ll need to twist its tail to get the coins out.” Charming. I was halfway to zoning out when she shoved a little scrap of paper into my hand. It had a phone number on it, written in her uptight cursive. “This is Miranda’s number. She’s an old friend of mine and lives three blocks away. Call her if you need anything,” she said, like I was incapable of surviving two weeks on my own. “I’ll be in San Francisco for work, but only for two weeks,” she added. “I’ve stocked the fridge—pasta, pizza, all microwaveable. Just heat them up for five minutes, and you’re good to go.” “And if you’re sick of those, there’s a Chinese takeout menu on the fridge. But don’t—” “Okay, got it!” I cut her off, yawning. Was she trying to set a new record for Most Unnecessary Instructions? Honestly, her endless fussing made her sound like one of those hummingbirds outside—cute for five seconds, then you want to scream. I’m sixteen, not six. What did she think I’d do, starve because I couldn’t find the microwave button? “And don’t even think about going to a shooting range,” she said, voice sharpening to the “I’m Not Playing” tone. I swear, the woman could find new ways to overreact daily. “I don’t care what Eric taught you. He’s irresponsible and completely unfit to be around a teenager. Shooting isn’t something you should even be thinking about.” To be honest, Eric and his bad-influence vibes were the least of my worries. The real reason I tagged along with Aunt Annette was simple: escaping Wendell. Even my parents couldn’t stand that dead-end town. They bailed to Atlanta the first chance they got. My golden-child sister Samantha? Oh, she loves it there, of course. Wendell is perfect for her boring, low-maintenance life. As for me, I stayed behind because my parents had bigger priorities—like funding Samantha’s private school tuition and her inevitable future at Georgia Tech. My high school diploma? They couldn’t care less as long as I didn’t flunk out. And, sure, I’m not exactly a straight-A genius. Getting an A in calculus? Not happening. My last social studies essay? Half the points came from copy-pasting random stuff online. But who cares? People are making millions from TikToks, and I’m supposed to stress about GPAs? Please. I could probably stroll down Sunset Boulevard and get scouted on the spot. “Are you listening, Rachel?” Aunt Annette snapped me out of my daydream. She gave me that patented mom-stare, the one that said, I know you weren’t paying attention. “Of course,” I said, giving her my most convincing I’m-totally-responsible tone. She sighed, like she already regretted leaving me alone, and glanced toward the street as a yellow cab pulled up. Turning back to me, she hesitated, her face a mix of worry and I’m trusting you, but don’t make me regret it. “Tomorrow’s your first day of school. Don’t cause trouble, okay?” “I promise,” I said, all sweetness and light. If I’d been wearing a bonnet, I could’ve passed for a Victorian debutante. Annette didn’t buy it for a second, but what was she gonna do? She climbed into the cab, still looking like she expected to come home to a disaster zone. I gave her a bright, innocent wave, a picture of angelic compliance. Behind my sunglasses, though, I was already plotting. “Safe travels!” I called after her, adding a perky cheerleader wave for maximum effect. The cringe was almost unbearable. The day before school starts, most students are busy raiding supermarkets for a year’s supply of highlighters and overpriced notebooks. Not me. I knew what truly mattered on the first day of school—and it wasn’t some pack of rainbow gel pens. It was showing up in style, with my own car. That’s why I found myself standing in a dingy used car rental lot. When the salesman peeled back the hideous gray cover, my instincts kicked in immediately—this pink sports car wasn’t just a car. It was destiny. Without hesitation, I tossed a wad of cash at him. A chunk of that money was “borrowed” from Samantha’s precious little savings box under her bed. Sure, she worked hard all summer for it, but she didn’t need it right now. And if she ever found herself in a pinch, I was confident her golden-boy boyfriend, Daniel, would swoop in to help. She’d get over it. I’m not exactly the work hard for your money type. I prefer the kind of lifestyle where cash just magically falls into my lap. But whatever. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the gorgeous, bubblegum-pink car parked in front of me. “Your cash only covers three days,” the salesman said, like he thought I’d care. Ugh, what a buzzkill. His words went straight in one ear and out the other. Didn’t he understand? Once I handed over that cash, this car is mine. I snatched the keys from his hand, flung open the door, and slid into the driver’s seat with the confidence of someone who’s never heard the word “budget.” At a quiet intersection, I gripped the wheel, tapping my fingers impatiently as I waited for the light to turn green. The silence in the car was deafening—mostly because I hadn’t figured out how to work the radio yet. When the light finally turned green, I yanked the wheel and sped around the corner. My tires screeched like I was in some kind of action movie. For a split second, I felt invincible— Then I heard the unmistakable sound of another car skidding. I looked up just in time to see a black Jeep barreling toward me, stopping inches from my door. My heart lurched as I slammed the brakes. My forehead almost smacked into the steering wheel in the process. “Are you insane?!” I yelled, rolling down my window and glaring at the Jeep. I was ready to drag whoever was driving out of their seat. But the coward just sat there, hiding behind their tinted windows. Eventually, the driver rolled the window down. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and thick black glasses that screamed serial killer chic. “You crossed the line,” he said coolly. “Excuse me?” I snapped. But a quick glance at the ground confirmed it—my front tire had, in fact, crossed the lane marker. “You couldn’t just move over a little?” I huffed. Back in Wendell, no one cared about stuff like lane markers. Half the roads didn’t even have them. People just drove wherever they wanted. If someone crashed, well, that’s what insurance was for. The guy stared at me like I was some kind of “Teen Karen” and took a long, deep breath. “I’m in a hurry. If we’re done here, I’m leaving,” he said, glancing at his watch like I wasn’t worth his time. That’s when the most brilliant idea hit me. “Ow! My arm!” I wailed, clutching my shoulder like I’d just been hit by a freight train. “It was just a hard brake. There’s no way you’re hurt,” he said, completely unimpressed. “How would you know? You’re not a doctor!” I snapped, batting my eyelashes for dramatic effect. “I think I need to call 911! And my therapist!” I said, pretending to hold back tears as I dabbed at my face. The guy looked like he wanted to call me out, but the growing crowd of pedestrians at the intersection forced him to think twice. He sighed, visibly trying to hold onto his patience, and finally asked, “What do you want?” “$1,000, and we’ll call it even. No cops, no drama,” I said, giving him my sweetest, most innocent smile. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, his face a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Oh no, now my other arm hurts, too!” I gasped, doubling down on the act. He glared at me, clearly weighing his options. After a moment, he sighed and said, “Fine. $500.” “$600,” I countered, cradling my arm like it was about to fall off. “$550.” “$600, or I call 911 right now,” I said, holding up my phone for effect. With a groan of defeat, he reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek leather wallet that probably cost more than my rent. “$650,” I added with a grin. “For emotional damages.” His jaw tightened, but he peeled off a few bills and handed them over through the window. “Here’s $700. Just shut up,” he said, his voice dripping with frustration. I took the cash with a smug smile and mimed zipping my lips. He rolled his window up without another word, glaring at me one last time before speeding off. What an i***t. I smiled, feeling the sweet weight of the cash in my hand.