Dad, Me, and His Car

One night I stole my dad’s car.  I was so mad at him. We had a huge fight.

I yelled, “Dad! I hate you! I’m in my room now!”

He screamed back, “I don’t care! You need to grow up!”


I stomped on my floor.  I scratched the walls. I was so mad at him.  He had to pay.  In my room, there was a big hole to creep out of the house from.  I threw a big, soft chair out of the hole to the ground.  I grabbed my bag, climbed out the hole and up on to the roof.  I looked down a saw his dumb car.  Yes!  I thought.  I will steal it!  I flew off the roof and jumped on the big, soft chair.  In my bag, I had a steel bar that could pry a car door but not break it.  I had a key that worked for what I need to get, too.  I sat in the car, turned it on, and drove it down the street.  I parked it next to a deep lake.  I got out and pushed the car.  Splash!  Then I ran home fast, climbed up the side of my house and through the hole.  I sat on my bed with a book and a smirk on my face.

My dad yelled up to me, “I have to go to the store to buy a piece of cake for your mom!”


“AAAAAAAAHHH!  Where is my car?!  Where is my car?!” my dad cried.  “Why?!  Why?!”

To this day, no one knows but me.  I wish I could tell my dad.  I feel so bad. I said I would make him pay and he did.  But so did I.  Now I have to take the bus to get to school and work.

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