From Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family
By Tara Schellenberg
All my mom could do was smile; all I could do was stare at the door.
It all started a couple of months earlier as an innocent drive to the local bowling alley with some friends in our family minivan. I had had my license for about six months, so my parents were comfortable letting me drive our family's minivan with three friends and my boyfriend to go bowling.
After bowling, while waiting in the bowling alley parking lot for our friend, my boyfriend and I started to argue. The ensuing fight turned into a teenage melodrama fit for TV. Beverly Hills 90210 was a comedy in comparison. I yelled at him to get out of the van and to find his own ride home. He refused to get out and continued to fight with me.
I have a bad temper, but I have since learned to control how I deal with my anger. But that night, full of teenage hormones, rage and a lead foot, I threw the van in reverse and slammed on the gas. My thought was that I could scare my boyfriend into exiting the vehicle in fear for his life. As an added guarantee to his flight from the passenger seat, I started to swerve.
I must say, I had seen that light post in the middle of the parking lot many times. I even drove around it that very night upon arrival at the bowling alley. But in my teenage tantrum, I was not paying attention to that trusty old light post behind the van as I sped backward, swerving as I went.
By Tara Schellenberg
All my mom could do was smile; all I could do was stare at the door.
It all started a couple of months earlier as an innocent drive to the local bowling alley with some friends in our family minivan. I had had my license for about six months, so my parents were comfortable letting me drive our family's minivan with three friends and my boyfriend to go bowling.
After bowling, while waiting in the bowling alley parking lot for our friend, my boyfriend and I started to argue. The ensuing fight turned into a teenage melodrama fit for TV. Beverly Hills 90210 was a comedy in comparison. I yelled at him to get out of the van and to find his own ride home. He refused to get out and continued to fight with me.
I have a bad temper, but I have since learned to control how I deal with my anger. But that night, full of teenage hormones, rage and a lead foot, I threw the van in reverse and slammed on the gas. My thought was that I could scare my boyfriend into exiting the vehicle in fear for his life. As an added guarantee to his flight from the passenger seat, I started to swerve.
I must say, I had seen that light post in the middle of the parking lot many times. I even drove around it that very night upon arrival at the bowling alley. But in my teenage tantrum, I was not paying attention to that trusty old light post behind the van as I sped backward, swerving as I went.
All my mom could do was smile; all I could do was stare at the door.It all started a couple of months earlier as an innocent drive to the local bowling alley with some friends in our family minivan. I had had my license for about six months, so my parents were comfortable letting me drive our family's minivan with three friends and my boyfriend to go bowling.
After bowling, while waiting in the bowling alley parking lot for our friend, my boyfriend and I started to argue. The ensuing fight turned into a teenage melodrama fit for TV. Beverly Hills 90210 was a comedy in comparison. I yelled at him to get out of the van and to find his own ride home. He refused to get out and continued to fight with me.
I have a bad temper, but I have since learned to control how I deal with my anger. But that night, full of teenage hormones, rage and a lead foot, I threw the van in reverse and slammed on the gas. My thought was that I could scare my boyfriend into exiting the vehicle in fear for his life. As an added guarantee to his flight from the passenger seat, I started to swerve.
I must say, I had seen that light post in the middle of the parking lot many times. I even drove around it that very night upon arrival at the bowling alley. But in my teenage tantrum, I was not paying attention to that trusty old light post behind the van as I sped backward, swerving as I went.
I think it was the post that actually stopped the van, not my delayed reaction to hit the brake when I heard the horrible crunch of metal. I jumped out of the van and ran to the passenger side of the van. That is where my life as I knew it had ended. How could one little light post do so much damage? That was the first thought that whipped through my mind. The next thought was that my parents were going to kill me.
As I looked at the damage and started to cry and scream, "I'm dead, I'm dead," my friends came running out of the bowling alley, and my boyfriend crawled out of the window of the passenger door. Starting at the passenger front door handle all the way back to the taillight, the once shiny paint was now deeply scratched, and the metal underneath was crunched and dented inward. The sliding door was completely caved in, and neither it nor the front passenger door could be opened.
I ran into the bowling alley and called my parents. I bawled on the phone that I had backed the van into a light post. Their first question was, "Are you okay? Can you drive home?" I answered yes. They remained calm and said to come home right away so they could survey the damage for themselves.
I cried all the way home. When I came into the house, they were waiting in the living room. I sat down and proceeded to tell them what had happened. However, I neglected to tell them that instead of just backing into the post, as they thought, I had in fact almost sheered off the entire right side of the van. My dad was a little upset but said that accidents happen, and he and my mother ventured out to the van to assess the damage.
As they walked up to the back of the van, they were bewildered by my crying hysterics on the phone and profuse apologies in our living room. They could only see a little scratch on the taillight. For some reason, though, my father followed that little scratch to its origins on the right side of the van.
From my vantage point in the house a hundred feet away, I could see my father's face go from confusion, to shock, to a festive shade of Christmas red as he walked to the right side of what used to be his immaculately cared-for vehicle. My mother just stood beside him in shock. Then my dad turned around and headed for house at a pace that my mother struggled to keep up with.
After the lengthy scolding and threats, I was to pay for some of the damage and grounded from using the van for anything but errands for my parents for two months.
One glorious sunny day in July, two months after my "accident," my family and I pulled up to our hotel after a long seven-hour drive to my fastball tournament venue. My dad got out and came around the passenger side to unload the luggage and equipment, and I got out of my teammate's parents' car to help my dad unload. As I stood waiting, he opened the recently fixed, freshly painted sliding van door, which suddenly fell to the ground as he pulled back on the handle. My father was still holding the handle as the door hit the ground with a crunch that sounded eerily like what a van sounds like when it hits a light post.
As my dad looked up at me, memories of the recent damage that he had just repaired came flooding back at the same speed as the blood rushing to his face. All I could do was stare at the door and think, "How ironic."
My mother, who had watched this whole thing unfold, sat back and smiled, struggling to keep from laughing lest she send my dad over the edge. She, who had witnessed the carnage my father had inflicted on many a vehicle they owned, knew that this was just another way that my father and I were very much alike.
After bowling, while waiting in the bowling alley parking lot for our friend, my boyfriend and I started to argue. The ensuing fight turned into a teenage melodrama fit for TV. Beverly Hills 90210 was a comedy in comparison. I yelled at him to get out of the van and to find his own ride home. He refused to get out and continued to fight with me.
I have a bad temper, but I have since learned to control how I deal with my anger. But that night, full of teenage hormones, rage and a lead foot, I threw the van in reverse and slammed on the gas. My thought was that I could scare my boyfriend into exiting the vehicle in fear for his life. As an added guarantee to his flight from the passenger seat, I started to swerve.
I must say, I had seen that light post in the middle of the parking lot many times. I even drove around it that very night upon arrival at the bowling alley. But in my teenage tantrum, I was not paying attention to that trusty old light post behind the van as I sped backward, swerving as I went.
I think it was the post that actually stopped the van, not my delayed reaction to hit the brake when I heard the horrible crunch of metal. I jumped out of the van and ran to the passenger side of the van. That is where my life as I knew it had ended. How could one little light post do so much damage? That was the first thought that whipped through my mind. The next thought was that my parents were going to kill me.
As I looked at the damage and started to cry and scream, "I'm dead, I'm dead," my friends came running out of the bowling alley, and my boyfriend crawled out of the window of the passenger door. Starting at the passenger front door handle all the way back to the taillight, the once shiny paint was now deeply scratched, and the metal underneath was crunched and dented inward. The sliding door was completely caved in, and neither it nor the front passenger door could be opened.
I ran into the bowling alley and called my parents. I bawled on the phone that I had backed the van into a light post. Their first question was, "Are you okay? Can you drive home?" I answered yes. They remained calm and said to come home right away so they could survey the damage for themselves.
I cried all the way home. When I came into the house, they were waiting in the living room. I sat down and proceeded to tell them what had happened. However, I neglected to tell them that instead of just backing into the post, as they thought, I had in fact almost sheered off the entire right side of the van. My dad was a little upset but said that accidents happen, and he and my mother ventured out to the van to assess the damage.
As they walked up to the back of the van, they were bewildered by my crying hysterics on the phone and profuse apologies in our living room. They could only see a little scratch on the taillight. For some reason, though, my father followed that little scratch to its origins on the right side of the van.
From my vantage point in the house a hundred feet away, I could see my father's face go from confusion, to shock, to a festive shade of Christmas red as he walked to the right side of what used to be his immaculately cared-for vehicle. My mother just stood beside him in shock. Then my dad turned around and headed for house at a pace that my mother struggled to keep up with.
After the lengthy scolding and threats, I was to pay for some of the damage and grounded from using the van for anything but errands for my parents for two months.
One glorious sunny day in July, two months after my "accident," my family and I pulled up to our hotel after a long seven-hour drive to my fastball tournament venue. My dad got out and came around the passenger side to unload the luggage and equipment, and I got out of my teammate's parents' car to help my dad unload. As I stood waiting, he opened the recently fixed, freshly painted sliding van door, which suddenly fell to the ground as he pulled back on the handle. My father was still holding the handle as the door hit the ground with a crunch that sounded eerily like what a van sounds like when it hits a light post.
As my dad looked up at me, memories of the recent damage that he had just repaired came flooding back at the same speed as the blood rushing to his face. All I could do was stare at the door and think, "How ironic."
My mother, who had watched this whole thing unfold, sat back and smiled, struggling to keep from laughing lest she send my dad over the edge. She, who had witnessed the carnage my father had inflicted on many a vehicle they owned, knew that this was just another way that my father and I were very much alike.
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