My friends nicknamed it “Clifford” after the big red dog. It was large, rundown, and red. The headlight was smashed in, held together by duct tape. The red paint on the outside was chipped leaving reminiscences of faded metal and rust. The windshield was broken in cracks so that seemed so intricately placed it was like a spider tried to weave its home. The windows couldn’t move, sandwiched in place by two wooden planks on either side. My passenger side window was open just an inch, allowing the spring breeze to blow on my face. The bed was built up with miscellaneous pieces of wood, improperly spray painted with bright red paint, and it rolled on mismatched wheels. It was synonymous in town with its driver: a man with road rage who frequently ignored the speed limit. Who would beep his horn loudly at any minor inconvenience. 

I gripped the assist handle on the passenger side to hoist myself up into the seat. We drove down the road and watched cars pass by. The silence is awkward. I don’t speak, not because I don’t want to, more because I don’t know what to say. By then, we weren’t talking much anymore. My right arm rests on the side of the door just below the window. I feel my fist leaving imprints on my face because of how much I lean into it. We come to a stop at the red light before and pause. I hear three clicks and see a white arrow on the dashboard start blinking. We turn right. 

“You weren’t supposed to turn there,” I stated simply. It was true. I held my breath, regretting my decision. 

“I can turn there. I drive here every day. You don’t know what you're talking about. Don’t talk back to an adult. You’re so fucking disrespectful.” 

I don’t know if this is exactly what he said. I'd heard it enough to know this was what it sounded like every time. I should have just ended it there. I didn’t though. On the cracked road below there were white letters painted in bold NO RIGHT ON RED. 

“You can’t. There is paint on the ground that says no right on red. I promise.” I wasn’t upset; however my voice started to crack, and it felt hard to blink. 

“I do this drive every single day,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. “You’re only twelve; you don’t know everything.”

I started to raise my voice as well. I knew I was right. This was why we stopped talking. Every time we did it would end with me in tears and a vein bursting out of his reddened forehead. It would end with me walking on eggshells in my own house. We take a sharp left around the identical apartments and pull into the parking spot deemed as his own. When I opened the door and empty cans clanked on the ground, I didn’t bother picking them up. Instead, I slammed the door and watched the cans roll away. I go inside and knock on the door to the room that belongs to him and my mom, and step inside. 

“Every day, Mom,” I sigh. I know she understands what I struggle to express. 

“I know,” she said solemnly. 

I sat next to my mom in bed and tried to think of the normalcy that was once my childhood. I missed being able to go outside with my friends, and playing at the park. I missed knocking on my neighbors doors in hopes we could play. This was my harsh reality. I then felt my phone buzz on my left side, smooshed between me and my mom. 

The text read, "U were rite. Its there. Must be knew tho bc I kno what im talkin about. Dont let this get to ur head."

I look at the text knowing it should make me upset. But I’m not. Instead I smile because I was right. I know I was right. He knows I was right. And that's one thing he can’t take from me.