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.
And after the man had driven away, I realized: that was possibly the most anticlimactic car crash ever.
The car was silent for a while; everyone was replaying the previous, awkward events in their heads, just as I was. The silence was soon broken by Siena's angry complaint:
"Are we in New York yet?" Her voice was low and full of disappointment.
"Ethan, will you map it for me?" I sighed, taking off my sunglasses. The sun was starting to set, and as much as I wanted to avoid any accidental eye contact with Ethan, I couldn't see anything on the highway. Was it even worth mapping all the way to New York? Like, could Google Maps actually give me step-by-step directions cross-country?
"Yeah," he replied, pulling out his (non-RAY, I might add) cell phone. "We've almost passed into Wyoming, like, the corner of south Wyoming. We've still got two thousandish miles to go."
"Ugh, really?" I hit the steering wheel in anger, clenching my teeth. "Oops. We were at 2,200 at Doubleside. We haven't even hit the two thousand mark?"
"Babe, we're not even halfway," he replied.
"Um, I know," I replied, squinting at the explosive sunset. "We'd have to be 1,500 miles away to be halfway, since it's three.... oh. You didn't know that."
"What are you talking about?" he asked. "You know I hate when you talk all AP Math."
"Mad, you take AP Calc?" Siena scoffed, her headphones dangling precariously around her neck. "I didn't know you were that smart."
"Yeah?" I hated when people doubted that just because my hair was an unconventional color, I wasn't smart. "I've only been taking it forever. You don't remember when your mom made brownies when I got into it?"
"No," she replied. "I remember the brownies, but I didn't know they were--"
--"Exactly," I replied.
She shot me a look through the rearview mirror with two possible interpretations. The first was what else don't I know about you? The second one was you showoff.
"Whatever. Let's try to get past two thousand miles today. That was the most depressing thing I've heard all day," I lied.
The real most depressing thing was realizing that Ethan might not even feel sorry for being such a douche last night. Not that him being sorry would change anything; he was still getting left behind at the soonest possible opportunity. But he didn't even feel bad. I would've thought he was an actual psychopath if he weren't so clueless.
"Ohhhhh!" Ethan finally interjected. "I get it now! Half of three thousand is 1.5 thousand! Sorry, I was being a little slow there, babe," he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek for literally the four thousandth time. I wanted to slap his brains out.
I swatted him away. "Don't! Seriously! You're just asking for another crash with a dude who's way less forgiving."
"Any guy's forgiving if you offer him a two thousand dollar check for a hundred dollars' worth of damage," Siena piped up from the backseat.
She obviously didn't know Rule One of being a rich girl: throwing money around like nobody's business works pretty well if somebody's mad at you. I even got out of detention once for fifty bucks- although that teacher got fired two weeks later. Huh- I wonder if that was why. My brain could do AP Calc, but it couldn't put two and two together.
"Anyway, just stop," I replied, putting a hand on his shoulder to let him know it was no big deal. Was I sending mixed messages? Because I was totally still mad at him about the kiss.
"All right," he replied, reclining his seat to Siena's dismay; she was sitting right behind him. "I'll stop. I just can't wait to be in Italy with you, babe. Something tells me you'd rock a bikini."
I could almost feel Siena, who was normally kind of annoyingly feminist about these things, quaking in her seat, but she didn't say anything. The girl must have finally been learning to shut up.
"Look! We're passing into Wyoming!" she opted to say instead.
"Yay. The state of open fields and buffalo. Exciting."
"Hey, you were excited when we were three-quarters of the way into Nevada, the state of deserts and gamblers. I wouldn't be talking if I were you," said Siena.
"Whatever, loser. Anyway, we need to find a place to sleep tonight. There's probably nowhere."
"I'm not sleeping in a Wal-Mart parking lot, if that's what you're suggesting!" Siena cried. It was weird. She'd gotten really used to the luxurious lifestyle in the six months she'd lived with us, and she wouldn't give that up. She even hated when it was threatened.
"Well, whatever. They probably don't have Wal-Marts here, anyway. They don't even have a million people in this huge state. And besides, we've got time. It's only, like, three o'clock."
"I'm sure there's a Wal-Mart SOMEWHERE in this state," she reasoned.
"Probably. Somewhere. But I doubt it," I replied, and we were both quiet for a while, trying to figure out where in Wyoming a Wal-Mart could exist. Or maybe it was just our normal awkward silence.
But no silence was normal on this road trip. Nothing was as it was back home. Everything had changed - and like the guy sitting next to me, not all change was good.