Page 43 of The Do-Over

“Hey. Lisa.” I turned around and gave her my biggest smile. “Does my dad still keep the keys to the Porsche in his workbench in the mudroom?”

“Why?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at the pie pan in the sink. Which, to be honest, was bothering me, too.The dishwasher wasrightnext to the sink; why would anyone leave a dish in the sink?

I forced myself to ignore the pan.

“I’m running late and need something with a little more kick than my car.” On the Day of No Consequences—which I would henceforth refer to as the DONC—a Porsche would serve me better than the van.

Without bothering to wait for an answer, I ran into the mudroom and pulled open the drawer. “Sweet—he does.”

“Now wait just a minute. Did your father say you could take his car?”

He would never. He loved that car. Adored it. Would tongue-bathe it if that were guaranteed to forever protect the shiny black paint. My dad had bought the crappy old Porsche from a junkyard when I was a kid and spent countless hours fixing it up with my Uncle Mick. It didn’t look that cool, but it was fast and sleek.

And also not an Astro van.

“Don’t worry about it. You guys have a great day, ’kay?”

“Emilie, you are not taking that car, do you hear me?”

I tilted my head and turned my lips downward. “I hear you, hon, but I’m afraid Iamtaking the car. Toodles.”

I left and closed the door behind me, half expecting her to chase me out into the driveway.Toodles?I giggled as I realized what I’d just done and said.

I hummed as I went into the unattached garage and got the Porsche before Lisa could stop me. That baby purred to life, and I pushed my aviators up the bridge of my nose and squealed out ofthe driveway faster than you could sayBitch got it goin’ on.

Wow. I stomped on the gas and flew down Harrison Street, hugging the road and stretching the legs and doing all those amazing car-things that amazing cars were said to do on TV commercials.

Translation: I hauled ass.

Gone were the Valentine’s Days that started with crappy cars and car accidents. Gone were the Valentine’s Days that left me crying in the school bathroom. Gone were endless days of borrowing Nick Stark’s old jacket, and gone were the days that’d felt important but obviously were not. This new-and-improved Valentine’s Day was beginning with fast cars and Metallica on blast, and Idaredthe universe to dump on my parade.

Not this time.

I glanced in my rearview mirror just as the cop turned behind me and flipped on his lights. My stomach clenched for a second until I remembered—no consequences. Technically, I could lead him on a high-speed chase that would make it on all the national news channels if I wanted to, but that seemed like more trouble than I was interested in.

Especially since Iwantedto get to school. I had a lot to do that day. I pulled over, got out my license and registration, and rolled down my window.

When the cop appeared, he looked grumpy. “License and registration, please.”

I handed it to him and said, “I know I was speeding, by the way, and I’m sorry.”

“You were going ninety-six miles per hour in a forty-five zone.”

Oops. “I’m really sorry.”

“You’re going to need a lot more than an apology, young lady. I’ll be right back.”

He went back to his car and I turned up the radio a little. I started singing along to “Blackened,” my not-at-all random musical selection for the DONC, and then I amused myself by waving at every person who gawked at me when they drove by.

Was this how it felt to be a rebel? Because I kind of liked the way this felt. I kept cackling to myself, giggling uncontrollably, when I thought about the wild fact that I’d been pulled over in the car I’d stolen from my dad without permission for going thirty miles over the speed limit.

Who even was I?

I started to get nervous when it was taking so long, and especially when the tow truck showed up, but then I had to remind myself that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Whatever happened, I would wake up tomorrow, free and clear.

The officer finally came back to my window. He handed me the registration and insurance card, but he kept my license. “You’re getting a citation for reckless driving. You’ll have to go to court for this. Because you were going so far above the posted limit, this is not a ticket you can pay without seeing a judge. Do you understand?”

I nodded and squinted up into the sun that was shining behind his big head.

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