Barry the Teenager

Mark and I watched Barry the teenager wash his car. After buffing it with a chamois, he offered to take us for a ride. He perched us on the trunk, and then slowly drove forward on his driveway. Though electrified, we soon realized that we had nothing to hold onto. When Barry gently braked, Mark’s face smashed into the rear window. Clutching his mouth, Mark started crying. Barry got out, cautiously lowered us down, and said he was sorry. Mark ran home. Not knowing what to do, I ran home too. Mom, angry, said we were not to go to Barry’s house again. He was too old for us, period.