Chapter 4

The phone immediately started ringing again, Jessica's name flashing on the screen. I ignored it. Then a text. Then another. The back seat was a flurry of hushed, angry whispers.

"She's not picking up," the girl who wasn't Jessica said, her voice panicked.

"What are we going to do?" Mike asked, finally speaking up. "Her parents are going to kill us."

"Just keep calling her," Tiffany snapped, glaring at my phone as it buzzed incessantly on the console.

I looked at the clock on the dashboard. Time was ticking. I turned to Tiffany.

"Your friend is stranded because of you," I said, my voice flat. "And every minute you sit in my car arguing is a minute she's left waiting. The longer you take to figure this out, the harder it will be for her to get home."

I saw a flicker of panic in their eyes. I was using their own selfish urgency against them.

"You're an adult! You're supposed to help us!" the fake Jessica cried out.

"I'm not your parent, and I'm not your keeper," I said. "This is your problem to solve."

Suddenly, Tiffany's face contorted into a mask of mock distress. "But... but I can't possibly walk all the way to a bus stop," she wailed, gesturing vaguely down the street. "My ankle... I think I twisted it getting out of your cramped car. You'll have to carry me."

It was so outrageously fake, so patently absurd, that I almost laughed. I just stared at her, my expression blank.

Seeing she was getting no reaction from me, her "injury" miraculously healed. With a furious huff, she threw open her door.

"Fine! We'll handle it ourselves! You're useless!"

She stomped off down the sidewalk, the others scrambling out of the car to follow her. She wasn't limping. She was practically sprinting, her expensive sneakers hitting the pavement with angry, purposeful strides.

I watched them go, this pack of entitled, manipulative children. I watched them until they turned a corner and disappeared. The silence they left behind was a profound relief. For the first time all day, I could breathe.

I leaned my head back, the exhaustion hitting me all at once. I thought about my two years of doing this, of the shy, grateful kids I'd driven before. Kids who said "please" and "thank you," who talked about their dreams and their fears for the future. What had happened? Where did this new breed of ungrateful, demanding narcissists come from?

Doing a good deed, I realized, felt a lot like being taken for a fool. There was no reward, no gratitude, just a constant, draining demand for more. My kindness was not seen as a gift but as a resource to be exploited.

Just as I was about to put the car in drive and finally head home, my passenger door was flung open. It was Tiffany, a furious look on her face. The others stood behind her, a sullen posse.

"We decided you're going to take us for lunch," she announced.

I stared at her, speechless.

"We're hungry. And this whole day has been super stressful because of you. It's the least you can do."

"Are you serious?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.

"Yeah," she said, crossing her arms. "And we want that new burger place downtown. The expensive one."

That's when something inside me finally snapped. The patience, the restraint, the desire to be the 'bigger person'-it all evaporated.

"No," I said.

The word was quiet, but it landed in the car with the force of a slammed door.

"What did you say?" Tiffany asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I said no," I repeated, my voice louder now, harder. "I am not your chauffeur. I am not your wallet. And I am not your mother. I volunteered to give you a ride to and from your exam. That is all. You have been nothing but rude, demanding, and manipulative since the moment you got in my car. You endangered our lives, you damaged my property, and you abandoned your friend."

I took a breath, my anger a clean, hot flame. "You seem to be under the impression that the world owes you something. It doesn't. And I certainly don't. The fact that you have the nerve to demand anything else from me is absolutely staggering."

They were silent, their smug expressions replaced by shock. They had pushed and pushed, expecting me to bend, and I had finally pushed back.

"So no," I said, my voice ringing with finality. "I will not be taking you to lunch."

For a moment, they just stared. Then, Tiffany's shock morphed back into her default setting: rage.

"You know what? Fine," she hissed, her voice venomous. "We'll just report you. We'll tell the coordinator that you were reckless, that you verbally abused us, that you abandoned a minor. We'll ruin your little volunteer reputation."

The threat hung in the air, ugly and potent. But instead of feeling scared, I felt liberated. They had played their final card, and it was a bluff.

I looked her dead in the eye.

"Get out of my car," I said.

"What?"

"I said, get out of my car. Now." My voice was steel. I pointed to the curb. "If you think you can threaten me, you are deeply mistaken. So get out. And good luck with that report."