The moral of this story: do not let your kid drive your car to school.

When my parents were househunting in Chicago my senior year, I decided to drive my Mom's ride to school one day instead of taking my own. How cool I felt pulling into the parking lot in a shiny new ride instead of my old beater, especially when I pulled up next to one of my least favorite high school degenerates who had picked on me in my younger days and saw that he drove a beat up old Subaru.

After school, I piled a few friends into the back seat to take a ride down to the lake. For some magical reason, I didn't have baseball practice and the afternoon was all mine!

As we're driving through the lot to leave, Colin Williams decides to get my attention by whacking the quarter panel, causing me to turn around. Just as I turn around, Mike Van Gemert pulls out of his spot in his big ol'Cutlass Cruiser and plows into my British-racing-green door.

I raced home and put the car in the garage. Mom and Dad were gone for 3 more days, so surely I could get it fixed. I called our insurance agent just like they taught me to do in Driver's Ed, thinking that I'd be able to magically get the car fixed, and that Mike's insurance would cover it and I'd be able to have a check the next morning. It was his damned fault for plowing into me, right?

WRONG.

The car was still dented when the parents got home on Friday night. I was scarce. I got home, and there was hell to pay.