Disclaimer: All characters are property of Marvel and are not being used for profit, only an exercise in creativity.

Water sprayed in every direction, misting the surrounding area and settling on my skin. I glowered through the haze, silently cursing my luck. I ran my eyes over the hood of my ruined vehicle. The hood was bent in the middle and now resembled a recycled soda pop can more than a car. The car was barely a month old and I had ruined. Smoke billowed out from the hood in alarming quantities, mixing with the water and making it nearly impossible to see how bad the damage was. What was exceedingly clear was that the front of my car was crumpled around a bright yellow fire hydrant. Aside from leaning at a 45 degree angle and spewing water across the street, the fire hydrant was fine.

I, on the other hand, was dead. The car was totaled. I didn't need to be a mechanic to tell that. I supposed I should have been grateful that I ran over a fire hydrant and not a tree; the water had at least put out the flames when the engine caught fire. I couldn't help but think I would have been better going up in flames in my ruined Mini Cooper. It wouldn't compare to what my parents were going to do to me when they found out. I had a sudden image of all of my summer plans floating at the window as I realized the pool party I had been on my way to would be the first missed party of many.

"Miss?" a patrol officer approached. He was squinting into the sun at me, his clean shaven face and dark brown hair obscured by the mist in the air. He was standing at a safe distance to ensure that he stayed dry. I was forced to step directly into the spray to get to him. Bracing myself, I ran through. Apparently I wasn't quick enough because the water saturated my clothing. The cotton clung to me like a second skin and I again cursed my decision making. The officer was gracious enough to keeps his eyes on my face. I pushed my damp baseball cap back from my forehead and looked him in the eye. We were about the same height. He was an average sized man; I was tall for a girl. I had long since gotten used to being taller than much of the population, but the officer seemed slightly taken aback by it.

"Yes?" I drew his attention back to the matter at hand, namely, my totaled car.

"We need to take your statement," he regained his professionalism. He pulled a pen out from behind his ear and poised to write. I felt panic well up in my chest. How was I going to explain how I somehow managed to get in a game of chicken with a fire hydrant and lose? I took a deep breath, trying to mentally catalogue my thoughts. There had to be a way to talk myself out of this…

"Well?" the officer was looking at me with annoyance. He was going to be a tough cookie to crack; time to stall. I reached for the bill of my Yankees cap and tugged it off my head. With the exception of my bangs, my hair was mostly dry beneath it. It fell in messy waves down to my shoulders. I watched the officer's eyes widen. I resisted the urge to sigh. My hair, the exact color of newly fallen snow, always attracted attention. On a dare, I had purchased some cheap hair dye in lilac and my best friend Jean and I had highlighted the under layers in front of the mirror in her bathroom. I was pretty pleased with the result, convinced that it added to the shoulder length-cut I had gotten as a graduation present to myself. The car had also been a graduation present. Now it was a smoking pile of scrap metal. The thought brought me back to my current predicament.

"Uh," I stalled, trying to find the best way to phrase my story, "I was driving down the road and I dropped my cell phone. It rolled out of my hand and under the gas pedal. I had to reach down to get it, but I didn't want to do it in the middle of the street so I tried to pull over…"

"And then what happened?" The officer egged me on when I paused.

"I pulled over to the sidewalk. I thought I put the car in park, but I might have forgotten and when I reached down my phone got caught and pressed the gas pedal and I rolled forward."

"And that's when you hit the fire hydrant?" he asked.

"Yes…" it was tough not to keep the shame out of my voice.

"What's your name miss?" the officer seemed undaunted by my tale of stupidity.

"Ororo Munroe," I responded.

He looked up at me skeptically. "I'm going to need to see some ID please." I repressed another sigh. I fished my State of New York driver's license out of my purse. I struggled for a moment, trying to pull it out of the plastic pocket where I kept it. The officer chuckled at my Superman wallet. I felt myself flush. He studied my picture for a moment. I knew the details of the ID were confusing. My height was listed as 5'10", my hair white, my skin brown, my eyes blue. I was a walking contradiction.

"Huh…" the officer mused. He handed me back my license. "Well, Miss Munroe, I'm going to need to see proof of insurance and to contact the owner of the car."

My heart fell into my stomach at the thought of having to call my parents. I felt myself numbly going through the next hour on auto pilot. Another patrol car pulled up, shadowed by my mom and dad. They piled out of their Silver Chevy Impala, my mother already lecturing me. She was shouting in Swahili as she walked toward me. I felt my knees begin to shake. My mother terrified me more than any other force in the world. For the most part we got along, but there were the moments like this that made me quake in my sensible flats.

"Ororo Iquadi Munroe!" the police officers and firemen who were still working on righting the fire hydrant looked up in alarm. My mother had a commanding voice that carried. In the good times, it was as comforting to me as warm, melted chocolate, smooth and rich. Right now, it was terrifying. She had the uncanny ability to command the center of attention no matter where she was. I supposed it was a byproduct of being a Kenyan princess. I've been told that she left her homeland of Africa to be with my American father. He was standing behind her. He was a few inches taller than my mother and I. The brown of his skin held a copper hue that my mother's lacked. He was silent, as usual, observing the damage to my car with what almost looked like indifference. I knew it was anything but. I would be getting my scolding from my father in a more private setting and it would be much more restrained than my mother's disciplinary tactics. My father, David Munroe, liked to employ the "disappointment" approach to parenting, something that had a greater effect on me than my mother's shouting. Right now though, her yelling was doing the trick. I saw my father disappear from behind her to go talk to the authorities and the tow truck that had just arrived.

My mother continued yelling as I shamefully crawled into the backseat of their car. She yelled as we followed the tow truck and got the receipt for my car. She yelled so much that the police chose not to charge me with anything, perhaps assuming that the law could not punish me half as well as she could.

I was beginning to think they were right. So far my phone, internet, television and driving privileges had all been revoked. My father nodded and interjected here and there, talking about responsibility and asking me to clarify for the tenth time how the accident had happened.

"I told you, I dropped my phone and—"

"You shouldn't have been using your phone in the car in the first place!" my mother cut me off. "Who were you calling? Was it that girl Jean? Such a bad influence…"

"N'Dare," my dad interrupted her. My mother never approved of Jean. She was nowhere near as reserved as I was. Her parents were liberal; Jean was allowed to have boys over and cut her hair when she wanted to and dye it when the mood struck. The fact that she and I had sheared nearly a foot off of my tresses and added "that terrible color" was a sore subject with my mother. I thought it was best to keep my mouth shut about the fact that Jean had been calling me.

"The point is, Roro, you acted recklessly." My father continued. "We bought you that car for college under the assumption that you would be responsible enough to care for it and take it to school with you."

"How are we to trust you when you leave for NYU if you cannot even drive down the road at 20 miles an hour?" my mother spun around in the passenger seat and trained her cobalt eyes on me. It was uncanny how much we looked like one another. With the exception of my height, skin tone and age, I was my mother's clone.

"You can trust me mom," I launched into Swahili. It was easier to reason with my mother in her native tongue.

"We know," my dad moved to smooth over the situation before my mother could start again. "But you will have to earn our trust back." I nodded.

"You father tells me that your car can be salvaged," my mother turned back around and folded her arms beneath her breasts.

This was news to me. I felt myself smiling a little at the thought that I might be able to drive my little yellow car again.

"It will cost money. Money that you are going to have to earn," my dad clarified.

I nodded. I had expected no less. My mother must have sensed my growing relief because she turned around again to shoot me down.

"Your father has a friend who owns a mechanical shop. You will work there and learn to repair your own vehicle." My face fell.

"You start tomorrow," my dad clarified.

"I know nothing about mechanics! I nearly failed the subject in school because of my clumsiness!" This unfortunately was true. I had barely managed to squeak by with a C, something that had lowered my GPA and jeopardized my chances at a scholarship.

"All the more reason to learn." My mother said this in a tone that made it clear the conversation was over.

My visions of a relaxing summer flitted away.

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