It's the last class of the day but it's also the most important. Sam's knee jiggles anxiously and her fingers grip the strap of her satchel backpack tightly where it lays atop her desk. She's presenting her genealogy project today, and if she doesn't get an A that's it. Her dream of getting a car before she moves out of her parents' house is over. Done. Crushed. Finished. She's shaken from her worrying by the sound of her teacher saying her name.

"Okay, Miss. Witwicky, you're up." She swallows heavily at that and clumsily rises to her feet, hands fumbling through her bag in an attempt to quickly collect her items. A few papers spill out and glide across the tiled classroom floor and Sam's cheeks flush a bright red as she bends over to pick them up, stuttering out apologies. She can feel the burn of the bright blue eyes belonging to one Mikaela Banes on her back as she finally collects her stuff and makes her way to the front of the room.

"Sorry, I got a lot of stuff." She nearly whispers, eyes darting around the room nervously as she tries to avoid making eye contact with anyone in particular without simply staring down at her shoes awkwardly. She can hear Trent whisper to Mikaela from the back of the room and her muscles tense in apprehension instinctively.

"Watch this." The words are followed by the sting of a rubber band striking her in the forehead before getting caught in her dark hair. She winces as she tugs the band from her hair, brown strands catching on it and pulling painfully. She forces out a laugh before dropping it to the ground, watching from beneath her lashes as Mikaela elbows her ape of a boyfriend reprimandingly and mouths out a 'stop'. Much to Sam's annoyance, her heart warms at the sight of Mikaela being decidedly not amused by Trent's picking on her. The rest of the class doesn't seem to share her opinion laughter breaks out around the room, students sniggering behind their hands or just full out laughing, not ashamed to find amusement at the expense of Sam.

"Who did-" Mr. Hosney surges to his feet and glares angrily out at the room of teenagers, palms resting flat against his desk, "who did that?!" He demands, eyes scanning the room, but no one answers. Even if they hadn't found it funny, even if Sam had a friend in this class, no one would dare snitch on Trent. Mr. Hosney, seeming to realize that no one was going to speak up, decides to chide the entire class. "People! Responsibility." He stares his students down for a few more moments before sinking back into his desk chair and giving Sam a nod to continue.

"Okay, um," she manages to get out only to be interrupted by more snickers that are quickly silenced with a look from Mister Hosney. "So, for my family genealogy report, I decided to do it on my great-great-grandfather, who was a famous man- Captain Archibald Witwicky." She plucks a photograph from her assortment of papers and holds it up for her classmates to see, an old and regal portrait of her grandfather that she'd printed from the internet displayed. She pauses for a few moments to allow them time to inspect it before moving along. "In fact, he was one of the first... to explore…" she sets the photo down and picks up the map she'd brought along, struggling to unfold it properly as she speaks, "The Arctic Circle," she looks down at the map she's holding up and points to the large amount of white continent printed on the edge before looking back up at her classmates, clearing her throat nervously. "Which is a big deal. In 1897, he took forty one brave soldiers into the Arctic Shelf."

Her eyes finally land back on Mikaela Banes, blue with gold meeting icy blue, and her words seem to get stuck in her throat. She stutters for a few seconds, seeing Mikaela smile at her nervousness, before forcing her mouth and brain to cooperate and continue on with her report. "So, that's the story, right?" She turns and places the map back on the pile of items she'd brought along before picking up a couple of bronze antique instruments and turning to show them to the class. "And here we have some of the basic instruments used by nineteenth century seamen." As soon as the word passes her lips she knows it's a mistake, laughter rippling through the room until Hosney shoots them all a look. Sam chews on her bottom lip before deciding to simply forge forward, only to stumble into the same exact situation again. "This here is the quadrant, which you can get for eighty bucks." She's taking a huge risk trying to sell these items in the middle of her project, but she needs the money if she wants a decent car. "It's all for sale, by the way. Like the, uh," she lifts up the instrument in her left hand, "the sextant here." The chortling picks up again and Sam winces at the angry look Mr. Hosney gives everyone. She can't help what it's called! What was she supposed to say? "Fifty dollars for this, which is a bargain." She tacks on hopefully, smiling brightly at a kid in the front row who looks sort of familiar. She turns and sets the two instruments aside and delicately lifts the cracked pair of spectacles that were the highlight of her report. "These are pretty cool. These are my grandfather's glasses. I haven't quite gotten them appraised yet, but they've seen many cool things." She rotates them as she speaks, admiring the history that they bore witness to and the way they glinted in the harsh classroom lighting.

Mr. Hosney apparently isn't amused by her attempts to earn money as he looks at her dryly, an eyebrow raised in what could only be derision. "Are you going to sell me his liver? Miss. Witwicky, this isn't show and sell," she fiddles with the end of her ponytail and nods as he speaks, shifting her weight from foot to foot, "it's the eleventh grade. I don't think your grandfather would be particularly proud of what you're doing." She blushes and nods in concession, looking down at the glasses still clutched in her right hand.

"I know, I'm sorry. I just," she clears her throat and turns a bit to the side to make better eye contact with her teacher, "you know, this is all going towards my car fund." She turns back to the rows of desks with a hopeful smile, holding up the glasses for them to see once more. "You can tell your folks. It's on Ebay, I take , cold hard cash works too." Rather than offering to buy anything her classmates simply laugh as she continues. "And the compass makes a- a great gift for Columbus Day!" That's apparently the final straw.

"Samantha!" Mr. Hosney barks out, causing the brunette to jump.

"Sorry! Um, unfortunately, my great-great-grandfather- the genius that he was- wound up going blind and crazy in a psycho ward. He began drawing these strange symbols and babbling on about some, uh, giant ice man that he'd thought he'd discovered." With her final word the bell rang, signalling the end of the school day and not a single student hesitates to leap to their feet and begin streaming out of the door as Mr. Hosney stands to make one final announcement.

"Okay. Might be a pop quiz tomorrow, might not. Sleep in fear tonight." As he speaks, Sam notices one of the exiting students' eyes linger on the glasses she's still holding and she doesn't wait a single second to pounce.

"Here, you want? Here, fifty. Forty. Thirty." Her classmate isn't won over by the continuously dropping price and doesn't look back at her once as he flees the room. Her auctioneer impression is interrupted by Mr. Hosney calling her name for what seems like the hundredth time.

"Sam." She spins on the balls of her feet to smile sheepishly at him, a hand coming up to rub at the back of her neck.

"Yeah, sorry. Sorry. Okay, pretty good, right?" She questions hopefully.

"Uh…" Hosney drags out, folding his arms and giving her a look she can't quite decipher. "I'd say a solid B-Minus." Her mouth drops open and her brows furrow as she takes a step forward, shaking her head in protest.

"A B-Minus?!"

"You were hocking your great-grandfather's crap in my classroom."

She almost protests his use of the word crap, they're relevant historical artifacts! "No, kids enjoy-" she cuts herself off, deciding mid sentence to try a different tactic, "look, can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Can you look out the window for a second? You see my father? He's the guy in the green car." She's pointing out the window, leaning forward as Hosney does the same.

"Nnnnh." He groans out for a few seconds before nodding, apparently having located her dad. "Yeah." He nods, and Sam quickly breaks into a passionate spiel that's almost rambling but not quite.

"Okay, I wanna tell you about a dream. A young girl's dream. And a man's promise to that girl. He looked at me in the eye. He said, "Sam, I'm gonna buy you a car. But I want you to bring me two thousand dollars, and three As." Okay? I got the two thousand dollars and I got two As. Okay? Here's the dream." She held her hands up to represent her dream of owning a car before mimicking it exploding. "Your B-minus. Poof. Dream gone. Kaput." Hosney is staring at her dead faced, so she straightens up and takes a deep breath, desperate and playing her final card. "Sir, just ask yourself, what would Jesus do?"

The weather is mild as she sprints across the school's front lawn and over to her dad's car, her pulled up hair flopping against her neck and the back of her head with each hurried step. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" She cheers excitedly, crossing the little space left between her and the green convertible with a few celebratory hops. Her smile is wide and bright, her eyes sparkling as she jumps into the car and beams up at her father.

"So?" He asks, like the answer isn't written all over her face as she buckles up.

"A-Minus. It's an A though!" She flashes him the marked paper, squirming in her seat and anxious to get on the road. A car! She's getting a car!

"Wait, wait, wait." He tries to calm her, one of his hands leaving the steering wheel and reaching up to take the paper from her. "I can't see." He peers down at it for a few seconds before looking up and giving her a proud smile, nodding at her hopeful look. "It's an A."

"So I'm good?"

"You're good." She cheers once again at his words and throws her arms up in celebration, her dad pulling the car away from the curb and onto the road, picking up speed. It's not long before he's beginning to slow down, shooting her looks from the corner of his eye.

"I got a little surprise for you, kid."

She turns to him in confusion and furrows her brow. "What kind of s-" she cuts herself off when the car pulls into a freaking Porsche dealership, and she quickly pushes up onto her knees to peer at the expensive cars over the windshield.

"Yeah, a little surprise."

"No," she states in disbelief before the excitement starts to set in. "No, no, no, no! Dad! Oh, you got to be kidding me." Her joy is quickly cut down by the sound of her father's laughter.

"Yeah, I am. You're not getting a Porsche." His laugh is damn near evil as Sam drops back into her seat dejectedly, staring at him incredulously as she does.

"You think that's funny?" Her dad's a cruel, cruel man.

"Yeah, I think it's funny."

"What's wrong with you?!" She cries, frowning.

"You think I'd really get you a Porsche, for your first car?" He asks incredulously, giving her a look that clearly states he thinks she's delusional.

She huffs and crosses her arms, turning to face away from her dad and stare annoyedly off to her right, determinedly refusing to look at him. "I don't want to talk to you for the rest of this thing."

"Oh, come on." He reaches over to elbow her playfully in the arm as he continues to laugh. "It's just a practical joke."

"It's not a funny joke," she's still not looking at him. It's only when they pull into another car lot that she turns to face him, the sight of the rusted, broken down cars that look like they won't even run forcing her to protest. "Here? No, no, no, what is this?" There's an older, dark skinned man who's obviously the boss and screams major slimeball, a latino man peeking out from the shoddy garage, and a man in a clown costume- his face paint melting grotesquely- all of which only feeds into her distrust of this place. They don't exactly look very professional. "You- you said half a car, not half a piece of crap, Dad!" The car pulls to a stop and they both step out, moving around the front of the vehicle to look at the first row of rusted cars before them.

"When I was your age, I'd have been happy with four wheels and an engine."

Sam sighs, pulling lightly at the end of her curly ponytail in annoyance before pinching the bridge of her nose. "Okay, let me explain something to you. Okay? You ever see 40 Year Old Virgin?"

Her dad nods, looking from her to the cars- if you could call them that. "Yeah."

"Okay," she points to the car to her right and stares her father down. "That's what this is." Her finger moves to point to the car to her left, it looks even rougher than the first one. "And this is 50 Year Old Virgin."

"Good."

She ignores him and forges on, crossing her arms and turning fully to face him. "You want me to live that life? Hm?"

Her dad nods, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of his daughter's virginity. "Yeah, actually, I do. Besides, no sacrifice-"

"Yeah, no victory." She finishes with him, rolling her eyes.

"No victory."

"You know, I got it, the old Witwicky motto, Dad."

"Right." They stop talking as the man in charge approaches them, a slightly slimy grin painted across his face and his eyes darting over Sam's body so quickly she isn't sure that she hadn't imagined it.

"My good sir, ma'am," he booms, his voice is full and loud and causes Sam to take a step back instinctively. "Bobby Bolivia, like the country except without the runs." His laughter is choppy and obviously forced, evoking an almost pained grimace on Sam's face. This man is in the business of customer service, and yet it doesn't seem like he's very good at it. "How can I help you?"

"Well, my daughter here," her dad grins as he places a heavy hand on her shoulder, squeezing it proudly in a way only dads can ever really manage, "is looking to buy her first car." Bobby Bolivia steps back and places a hand over his heart dramatically, looking down at her with wide, fauxly emotional eyes.

"You come to see me?"

She shrugs, not going to play nice or attempt to keep from wounding this man's ego. "I had to."

"That practically makes us family," he drawls with an impossibly wide smile, apparently not offended by her lack of enthusiasm.. "Uncle Bobby B, baby, Uncle Bobby B." Her nose scrunches when he calls her baby, looking up at her dad from the corner of her eye to see if he noticed the name too. Based on the downturned corners of his lips he definitely did. Bobby Bolivia holds out his hand, his last sentence trailing off as he obviously waits for her to introduce herself.

"Sam." It's short and not too sweet as she takes his hand, shaking it firmly once before dropping it to walk away and look at more cars.

"Sam," Bobby B jogs to catch up, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her towards the slightly bigger lot of cars off to the side of the building. "Let me talk to you, Sam. Your first enchilada of freedom awaits underneath one of these hoods. Let me tell you something, kid. A driver don't pick the car, the car'll pick the driver."

"Mhmm." She responds noncommittally, wishing Bobby B would let her go and get out of her personal space as her eyes search the lot for a car in halfway decent shape.

"It's a mystical bond between mankind and machine. Kid, I'm a lot of things, but a liar's not one of 'em."

"Mhm." She doesn't believe for a second that this man wouldn't say whatever he felt was necessary to get what he wants. He doesn't seem to notice her lack of participation in the one sided conversation he's having as he carries on.

"Especially not in front of my mammy. That's my mammy." He points across the way to a house neighboring the dealership, a few elderly women sitting out on lawn chairs in the green grass. "Hey, Mammy!" He waves at her over his head with the hand not gripping Sam's shoulders, and the girl has to hold back a snort when Mammy responds by giving Bobby Bolivia the middle finger. "Ooh, don't be like that!" He calls before lowering his voice angrily. Sam's not sure if she's meant to hear the threat he utters or not, but she definitely does. "If I had a rock I'd bust your head, bitch." Sam's eyebrows shoot up and she looks at him incredulously, her opinion of this man falling even lower. Did he just wish violence on his own grandmother? "I tell you, kid, she's deaf you know?" He forces another laugh before pulling her along once more, stopping in front of row after row of busted up cars. "Well, over here's every piece of car a person might want, or need."

Bobby B finally drops his arm from around her shoulders to gesture at his merchandise and Sam is quick to move out of his reach, eyes scanning the rows of cars before her attention is caught by one vehicle in particular. It's a Camaro and it's not in the best shape, but it has potential. It's a bright yellow, obviously old- maybe made in about the eighties or nineties?- and has two black racing stripes running parallel up the hood and over the roof of the car. She sets a hand against the sun warmed metal of the hood and swears it almost seems to hum with life despite the fact that the engine's not on.

"This one isn't bad. It's got racing stripes." She moves around to peer into the car through the open window, taking in the dirty, but decent, interior.

"Yeah, it got racing-" Bobby cuts himself off and does a double take, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and his mouth twisted in a frown. "Yeah… what's this? What the heck is this? I don't know nothin' about this car." He turns towards the garage and calls out loudly, "Manny!" She doesn't pay him any attention, smiling when she finds that the car is unlocked before sliding into the driver's seat. She shifts against the leather as Bobby Bolivia and Manny, who seems to be the mechanic, shout back and forth, the latter eventually switching to rapid spanish.

"Feels good." She mutters, running her hands along the steering wheel and using her thumb to gently caress the odd logo in the middle of it. Her dad, seeing the look in her eye, draws Bobby B back to the matter at hand.

"How much?" He asks, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Well," the salesman drawls out in a manner that lets Sam know this isn't going to go how she wants, "considering the semi-classic nature of the vehicle with the slick wheels and custom paint job-"

Sam is quick to cut in, her head ducking to glare at Bobby B through the open passenger window. "Yeah, but the paint's faded."

"Y-yeah, but it's custom." The salesman insists and Sam raises a skeptical brow, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

"It's custom faded?" She quips, earning her a scowl from Bobby B and an amused smile from her dad.

"Well, this is your first car. I wouldn't expect you to understand. Five grand."

"No, I'm not paying over four. Sorry." She doesn't know if that last bit is aimed at her or Bobby B, but she frowns nonetheless. It hasn't been long, but she's already in love with this car, it seems to call to her.

"Kid, come on, get out." Bobby bends down and slams his hands down on the edge of the open passenger window as he glares at her, earning him a scowl. "Get out the car."

"No, no, no," she desperately protests, gripping the steering wheel even tighter as if she could keep him from forcing her out of the car through pure willpower. "You said cars pick their drivers!"

"Well, sometimes they pick a driver with a cheap-ass father. Out the car." He coughs, standing up straight, and in the next moment that wide smile is stretching across his face again and the slimy salesman is back. He moves to pat the top of the pale yellow Volkswagen Bug to her right. "Now this one here for four Gs is a beaut." She sighs in resignation and steps out of the car, moving to stand next to her dad with a frown. She'd been disappointed when she'd realized that this is where her dad intended on buying her car, but the Camaro had changed that. She was finally excited, having quickly fallen in love with the beat up but still beautiful car, but now she's back to disappointment. Her dad, knowing the bug isn't her style, turns to point at a car down the row.

"There's a Fiesta with racing stripes over there."

"No," she shakes her head petulantly, well aware that she isn't acting the most mature but unable to help the disappointment flowing through her veins. "I don't want a Fiesta with racing stripes." She's staring down at her scruffy shoes as she talks, scuffing one against the blacktop every now and then.

Bobby is seemingly determined to sell them on this Bug, as he ignores their exchange about the Fiesta and Sam's obvious disappointment, simply patting the hood of the Volkswagen and continuing to talk it up. "This is a classic engine right here. I sold a car the other day-" He stops talking and stumbles back a step when the passenger door of the Camaro swings open on its own accord and slams into the side of the Volkswagen, leaving a massive dent in its wake. Sam jumps at the loud noise and her dad lets out a surprised:

"Geez! Holy cow."

She can almost see Bobby Bolivia start to sweat nervously as he chuckles, trying to force nonchalance. "No, no, no. No worries."

Her dad steps forward in concern as he speaks. "You alright?"

He just shakes his head and continues to force his trademark smile, one that still unnerves Sam. "I'll get a sledgehammer and knock this right out. Hey, hey, Manny!" He calls out, Manny poking his head out of the garage with raised brows. "Get your clown cousin and get some hammers and come bang this stuff out, baby." The man has a serious set of lungs. He turns back to them and steps over to a car a little further down, still not one Sam that can see herself driving. "That one's my favorite, drove all the way from Alabamy." They don't have even a second to look it over before the windows and windshields of every car on the lot shatter simultaneously, all except for one yellow Camaro with black racing stripes. They all stand there for a moment, Sam and her dad peering around in confusion while Bobby stares at all of his damaged product in horror. His voice is high pitched when he finally manages to get the words out, almost more of a hysterical shriek than a sentence. "Four thousand!"