“Get in,” the General says.  She pulls off the road and lets me in.  I get the feeling she’s been prowling the streets looking for me.  I’m not hiding; I’m on a walk enjoying the beautiful weather.  I suspect my wallet will regret this.

“I’m holding you hostage,” she says.  “I need something from you.”

People scare the crap out of you when you start having kids.  “Just wait until they’re teenagers,” they say.  “You think diapers are difficult; you just wait.”

I had kids very young so I was already scared.  By the time they were teenagers, I’d used up all my fear.  I counted the years until they’d be adults and figured I could last.  I’ve gone through worse.

I learned the word ‘no.’  Contrary to popular belief out here in the ‘burbs, teenagers don’t turn into aliens if you use it on them.  If you know this, you’ll survive.  You might even have some money left by the time they move out.

Without slowing, the General turns a corner into a residential area.  She’s still in third gear and almost stalls.  To avoid this she speeds up to about 35.  We’re in the older part of town where older people walk on the streets without sidewalks.  She zooms by a few pedestrians who scoot over when they hear her coming.

“Is this how you drive?” I ask.

“No.”  She knows this word too, apparently.

She pulls out a couple of Blazer tickets and hands them to me.  She’s not looking where she’s driving; she’s almost on the other side of the road.  I’m too scared to say anything.

“Look what I got,” she says.  “Free!”

“Good, then you don’t need anything from me.”

“We need a ride,” she says.  “Meagan and I are too scared to drive up there by ourselves.”

“I’d be scared, too, the way you drive.  I’m busy, though.”

“Whatever you’re doing isn’t as important as me.”

“No.”

“Okay, whatever.  I need $10 for food at the Blazers game tonight.  You can add it to what I owe you.  Can I drive you to the bank?”

“No.”

“You don’t have any cash,” she says.  “I checked all your hiding places.”

“Yes I do.”

“Oh. You have new hiding places.”  She smiles.  We’ve been playing this game since she was two.  She wants something she can’t have.  I hide it.  She finds my hiding spot.  I find a new one.  The difference between then and now is that then, she stole.  Now, she tells me.  At least she’s honest although no one else in the house has yet to take anything, even money, even left out in the open. 

“You should be proud of me,” she says.  “I’ve only been absent five times this year so far.  Last year at this time I was absent 18 times.  Aren’t I good?”

“No.”

“My friends all have, like, 30 absences.”

“Get new friends.”

“I’m serious.  You should reward me.”

“Are all their absences on Mondays, like yours?”

She pulls up to the driveway, quiet for once.  She got what she wanted and I’m only out $10.  We both feel victorious. 

“We got bored,” she said, arriving home early.  “I couldn’t sit still for that long.”

“Speaking of A.D.D,” Charlie says.  “How’s that Dr working for you?”

“We have the most awkward silences,” she says.  “He’ll be like, ‘Hi, how are you?’  I’ll say, ‘Fine.’  Silence.  ‘How’s school?’  ‘Fine.’  Silence.  We just sit there staring.  Awkward.”

“Silence?” I say.  “You?”

“He has me put boxes in these structures,” she says.  “He says, ‘No one’s ever been so careful as me on tests.  I can remember all the details when copying drawings.  I can remember lists.  I can still remember them: ‘chair, table, bench, crayon, pencil, book, car, boat, tree.’  See?  He says I’m OCD.”

“I thought you were A.D.D,” Charlie says.

“All I want is the Adderall.  I wish he’d hurry up and prescribe some.  I could buy it in the hallway.  Seriously, I could easily be an addict.  I want that stuff so bad.  I could sell it, too.  $30 each.  That’s a lot of Abercrombie.”

“Do I need to explain why the step-daughter of a Cop shouldn’t be selling meds in school hallways?” Charlie says.

“Speaking of Cops,” she says, “Meagan got a ticket for parking on the crosswalk.  She wanted me to tell you.”

“What am I supposed to do?  I didn’t give it to her.”

“The parking tickets look like gift certificates,” she says.  “Did you know that?  They look like someone left a gift certificate on your windshield.  Then you open it up and, lucky you, you owe $237 for parking on the crosswalk. 

“Just for that,” she says, looking at Charlie, “I think you should make me hot chocolate.”  She knows better than to look at me.  She knows my two-letter response.

“I can make you mashed potatoes if you want,” he says.

“No thanks.  Hot chocolate.  And toast.”

Charlie gets up like a well-trained dog.  It takes a lot of tenaciousness to want Charlie to step in the kitchen again after the mashed potatoes, even if it’s just toast and hot chocolate. 

He’s taking a long time, a lot longer than normal.  I could help but that’d start a backwards trend.   Teenagers can sense backing down, even from upstairs in their room. 

“Have you ever used a toaster before?” I ask Charlie. 

“No.”  He sounds like he’s happy, like he’s working on a project.  I leave him alone.

He brings her toast and hot chocolate up to her room.

“It’s burnt,” she says.  “And the hot chocolate is goo.  I’m hungry, so I’ll eat it anyway.”

“Anything else?” he says politely.  Honestly, the rest of us all have first and second-degree black belts.  She’s only a yellow belt but she rules the house.  Martial Arts are no match for 16 year-old Generals.

She softens up, becoming very whiney and sweet.  “Well,” she says.  She coughs a couple of times for effect.  “There is one thing.”

“What?” Charlie says.  “I have a few minutes.”

She coughs once more.  “A credit card.”

He started laughing so hard he couldn’t even say ‘no.’

Meagan and the General getting ready for the Blazers game.  If I were my Mom, I'd be saying, "You're not going out of the house looking like that, are you?"

A little help? [] 1:10:09 PM