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We finally got Bubbles packed up (trunk and back seat) and checked me in to my new dorm. Mom and I hit the road right around eleven a.m. and started the two-hundred-mile drive to Houston.

I was behind the wheel, because if I'm taking the car back with me in January (YAYness abounding), I need practice driving the distance so I don't get frightfully lost in central Texas. It starts raining. No prob; windshield wipers, lights. I'm a pro.

Then it gets hairy. The wipers are on full-power and I can still barely see. The side windows are frosting up, the windshield defroster is blasting. A car has to be twenty yards close before I can see it at all.

One truck comes barrelling up behind me and is almost on top of me before it realizes I exist. It's worrisome, but part of me rises to the challenge thinking, "This is my chance to prove I can do this."

Mom starts counting. There are five cars in ditches, trailed by deep mud tracks from where they skidded off the road. We drive for over an hour in heavy, heavy rain before it finally begins to let up.

It's past noon, and I'm thinking I could use a break from driving, since we're out of the storm and my stomach is a bit growly. I see a sign saying Shiner, Texas- Next Exit, and get into the right lane.

I head onto the exit turn, and it's much sharper than I expected. Mom is saying I should slow down more for this turn (we're talking ninety degrees here). The brakes don't seem to like me. The car keeps going even though my right foot tells me the brake is all the way down.

The guardrail says hello to our front headlight, and the car fishtails to smack full-length into it.

I know when I felt us start skidding on the water that I screamed "No!" but it wasn't in fear or sadness, it was in rage. I was absolutely livid.

I was this close. So close to doing something right for a change. So close to proving to my parents that I'm not an utter vehicular moron.

This is my third accident in as many years. That's it. Three strikes, I'm out. The damage isn't even that bad, just a busted headlight and a banged up fender, but I am furious with myself for screwing up yet again when I was so close to doing something like an adult, for handling a stressful situation with grace.

Moments after we crashed, I burst into frustrated tears like a five-year-old and it took forever to convince my mom that I wasn't a nervous wreck. She insisted on driving until I was able to talk her into letting me finish the drive over some Sonic tator tots.

Of course, all the good driving in the world won't make up for that one stupid, stupid, stupid... argh.

My dad hasn't said a word about it. We called him to tell him, or I should say Mom did, and he looked over the car, but he hasn't said a word. I feel like that king with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head on that itty bitty thread. Any second it will fall.

There's no way he's letting me take the car back next semester. No way.

And my savings will go toward paying the damage. Bye bye, Paris. Guess that week in Summer 2003 isn't happening after all. And I worked my ass off in that stupid waitress job.

God-DAMMIT.

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