“There.” “If only you could fix up a car the way you fix me up.” I said starkly. “I’m trying to wonder why the hell you’re under my car ...ucking up my engine.” She leapt backwards off of me with a shriek. “Did you get shot in the head or something?! I was fixing up your sorry excuse of a matchbox that you call a car! I have no idea why imports are allowed in America. Christ!” she yelled in exasperation, turning her back on me. She washed her hands in the small sink on the left wall of the garage. A week or so went by and it looked as though Heather had gotten away with it....until she found a summons from the student judiciary committee in her mailbox. It said that they knew about her tampering. Her heart stopped. Her hands went sweaty. What were they going to do to her? She read on.The letter said that she had two options: she could either accept the sentence of the student judiciary committee or be turned over to the police. Thank God, she thought, the cops won't get me. They'll. More

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