It wasn’t often that I drove my car to school. In fact, it was my father’s rule that I take the Mercedes out for a spin only on weekends, and only with permission. Occasionally I broke the rules and drove Delilah to school. Delilah. She was my candy-apple-red birthday present when I turned sixteen. With a drop-top and a set of nice wheels, Delilah had become my prize possession. Only I didn’t get to spend much time with her. She spent more time parked in our garage than she did on the streets of New York City. That was the downfall of living in a city like this—one where it was ludicrous to drive around when it made more sense to walk, grab a cab or ride the subway. What was the point in having a vehicle that you couldn’t drive? Which is why I broke the rules occasionally. Driving her to school was like heaven. Especially at my old public school, where girls went crazy over guys who owned a set of wheels. At my old school, everyone knew me. I was popular and famous—well, my dad was famous.
