Mother never gives me the keys to my car unless I beg my father to convince her that I have been following their rules, and hadn't caused any trouble (none they are aware of, anyway). The only trouble I get into is for a good cause, be it for protesting, animal rights, gun prohibition, or saving untouched lands from being plowed over; here in Montana, that can easily label you as an odd ball.

"Janet, baby, just let her have 'em," Dad said rolling down his sleeves, he then wipes away the grease off his face; he had been fixing his truck all morning, and had no time for his two favorite ladies to be arguing. My mother narrowed her dense eyes at his smudged face, quickly throwing a wash cloth to him.

She held the keys tight, then flung her arms in the air saying, "Oh, don't get in this! She doesn't even need to be out driving, simply wasting gas, cruising with some friends!"

I rolled my eyes. She was doing it again; pretending I had a record of being a criminal, which I wasn't, though I have been escorted home by officers more than once. But, just to be clear, my grades were high-ish, and my popularity with boys low. In all truth, I only had one real friend, Kyle; even he barely had the time to spend with me due to his own overbearing parents.

Crossing my arms, I sealed my eyes trying to make my mother's voice disappear in the mountains of thoughts I was ushering into my mind; Grandma's funeral, dad's songs, Kyle's big soccer win, funny youtube videos I watched weeks ago, first kiss, the time I sang in church

-they all blended, forming one contorted picture.

They always start fighting, and it is my fault, that's what I believe, because I ask one to defend me from the other; resulting in my parents bickering, like now. It would be easier if my mother wasn't such a firecracker, though.

"She's seventeen, old enough to be out and about! Ya know if you keep hoggin' them keys, then what the hell was the point in buying'er the car?!" Dad raises his voice. "Janet, seriously!"

"I told you she needed it for school! School only!"

"Just let her go! She's been out of trouble, you know that!"

"Kyle, and her, together they join or start some silly-ninny movement, and I don't want her near him!"

There it was again. The drivelled rant about me refusing to simply let customs be how they've always been here. Eyeing dad, I admit he is the reason I was different the the small town folks; my father was from California, and had been an activist in his early years, which I always admired in photographs . How he met my mother, then fell in love with, well, is a mystery to me. Solve it for me, please.  

It must be because she is pretty, I told myself as my eyes took in that puffy face; her braided, black hair was coming apart as she shook her head. When she was calm, it swayed like oily ribbons, matching her coal eyes. Yes, she was pretty, and I was jealous sometimes that I didn't look like her.

"Don't act like you don't remember him throwin' out all the roasted pigs from the town's BBQ last year, right into the mud -him saying we were the real pigs! The boy is trouble, Mitch!"

Ah, Kyle and his rebellious ways; his parents were overbearing, but I could see why they had to be. He was a fighter, and could be a bit of a judgemental asshole due to his early years of being bullied, but other than the fighter for animal/human rights, I also knew another side to him; the one that would allow me to open his books, then read all the personal poetry he had written every single night since middle school.

"Why not write every morning?" I remember asking, to which he replied with a chuckle, "because I am occupied with the wood."

Shaking my head, I smile to myself and the memory. He's something, all right.

As I circle to see my parents still barking, my eyes then glance at the kitchen clock above my mother. Four-thirty, shit, I am going to be late to pick him up.

Quickly I spot my dad's keys; they're still covered in grease as they hung next to our family portraits. I debate whether it was too early to cause them another headache.

I mean, they will find out about what we have done, though I had hoped they wouldn't have had to worry till tomorrow when the mayor would give them a call. A small grin begins to spread. Oh, what the hell.

Causally, but ever so quietly I make my way across the living room, past the kitchen entrance, and to the keys. With my left hand I cup the bottom of the keys to avoid them from jingling, and with the other I unhook them. Mouthing 'sorry' as I walk out the door my dad hadn't bothered to close, I couldn't help but bite my lip, smiling.

I won't be tamed. Sorry.