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garden.
    In my defense, the road curves right in front of old Mrs. Dunwitty’s house. The road curved, and I did not.
    “Chuck,” Greta screams, half in my lap trying to grab the wheel. My car has bumped up the small curb and laid tracks through the green grass, through a small decorative fence, and over some orange flowers.
    I crush the brakes and fishtail in the mulch, spraying it all over the yard and ripping up a few more bushes of flowers. Once I manage to stop the car, it’s in the middle of Mrs. Dunwitty’s garden. There’s part of a rose bush on the hood.
    “Everyone okay?” I ask turning to Greta and then James.
    James’s eyes are wide, but his lips are set in a grim way. Greta’s hands are a little shaky, but she manages a sympathetic smile, until she notices the carnage. “Oh, Chuck,” she says on an exhale. “Look what you’ve done.”
    I look at the yard. My stomach sinks to the threadbare floorboards. I’ve totally screwed up Mrs. Dunwitty’s garden—the same garden that has won her the coveted Yard of the Year award seven years in a row. It’s the only thing on this earth Dimwit loves. She loves her garden more than I love MIT.
    Greta shoves at my shoulder, saying, “Go! Go tell Mrs. Dunwitty you’re sorry.”
    “But we’ll be late,” I say, jabbing my finger at the digital clock on the dash. 6:42 a.m. The lines in the middle of the six and four don’t show up anymore so it looks like hieroglyphics. “I’ll stop by after school.”
    “She’ll have called the cops. You’ll be in way more trouble. Do it now.”
    I look at James for backup.
    His muscles are clenched so that his square jaw looks like it’s made of rock, not flesh. Instead of agreeing with me, he nods at Greta who doubles her effort to shove me out of my own car.
    “Fine. But when this old lady turns me into compost, I’m coming back to haunt both of your asses.” I can hear the final strains of Charlotte’s song still playing on the radio as I slam the car door.
    Mrs. Dunwitty’s front door is painted a sickly shade of pink. The only reason she gets away with exterior pink paint (total neighborhood no-no) is she’s been here longer than anyone else. And she’s way meaner.
    Dad grew up with her son. He’s witnessed her wrath. Once, her son neglected raking the leaves to go to a movie with Dad and some girls. She made her son pick up every leaf. One by one. By hand. Dad says she sat on the porch overseeing her sentence, calling out whenever he missed a leaf.
    My hand hesitates by the doorbell. I peek over my shoulder and see James glaring at me. One false move and he’ll be out of the car and ringing the bell himself. I take a deep breath and press the button.
    I hear the lock click . Before I can blink, Mrs. Dunwitty whips open the door, and stares out at me with hawkish eyes and a too-wide mouth that seems to stretch from ear to ear. She’s rail thin and about a foot shorter than me, so I try to stand in front of her so she can’t see the wreckage behind me. No use. She sees past me to her war zone-esque garden and starts shrieking.
    “What happened? Did you see what happened?” She’s breathing fast and clutching her chest, her brown weathered skin turning ashen.
    Oh, crap. She’s not going to kill me. I’ve killed her. I hadn’t seen that one coming.
    “Charlie?” Her voice shakes.
    “Um…” I stumble. My brain is telling me to lie. Lie real good. Tell the woman you were on your way to school and you noticed some vandals had torn up her garden. Charles Mortimer Hanson = Good Samaritan. “See, what happened was—”
    “ You ,” she says, jabbing a bony finger at me. “You did this, didn’t you, you little shit?”
    Too late. I blink away my surprise. My parents work with young kids so their vocabularies are pretty PG. I’ve never had an adult speak to me like Dimwit.
    Mrs. Dunwitty pushes past me. “My beautiful garden. My roses.” The sagging skin on her arm flaps as she gesticulates