Good Kids, Bad Choices, and Second Chances
By Neidy Hess
@neidyhess
“Stop joking around, Ashley! I need to get out!” Panicked, my friend, the only sophomore I knew with a lip piercing, ember-colored hair, and her driver’s license, squished the brakes of her weathered blue 1960s Ford Fairlane. I pulled with all my weight on the door handle. It didn’t budge.
“It’s not stopping, Neidy! I also have to get everyone else home on time!”
Six teenagers were jammed into an antique car with barely-legal seatbelts and doors that stuck to the frame. We inched 3-5 miles per hour through my apartment complex’s parking lot. Three of us sat in the front seat, the other three squished in the back. All six had zero common sense.
So this is how I die, I rehearsed in my head. But it wasn’t because I couldn’t get out of my friend’s moving car. No—the small Mexican woman who gave me life was now going to take it.
I lied to my mom earlier. I wasn’t allowed to go many places without an adult present, much less ride in a vehicle that a teenager drove. And hanging out with boys? Absolutely forbidden. But I told her that Ashley’s dad was driving the car. He wasn’t. A sixteen-year-old with a six-month-old license drove instead—just so I could meet up with a boy.
The closer we drove to my apartment, the closer I felt to my impending death. I lied. She would kill me, but I knew she would place a set of dignified prayer candles at my vigil along with several blooming marigolds. She’s thoughtful.
My sweaty hands kept slipping on the door handle as I tried break open the door. I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Despite my frenzy, I collected myself. I had to get out. I grabbed the window handle instead and started to roll it down. Will the truth set me free? As soon as the window opened all the way, I stuck my sharpie-decorated chucks out of the window, my other friend pushed on my head, and I shimmied out. Teenage cheers and applause erupted from the antiquated powder blue car as it peeled away. I couldn’t believe I did this all for a boy named Jacob who stood me up earlier in the day.
I lived to tell the tale at fourteen. But the day wasn’t over yet.
***
After hitting 30, my affinity for nostalgia grew. I have a little propensity for melodrama, and 90s telenovelas satisfy that need. “Maria Del Barrio”, with superstar Thalia as the main protagonist, hits that note for me. Why? In my opinion, the villain, Soraya Montenegro, is the most diabolical television character to date—perfectly melodramatic in every way. I also have a tendency to inform my friends about my love for melodrama. And how do I delight my friends with my knowledge of 90s melodramatic nostalgia? With my gif game, of course! My favorite one to send shows Soraya’s signature reaction with the best tongue-in-cheek closed caption—[Gasps in Spanish].
For example, if my husband texts me that he’s bringing home Scooter’s coffee (it’s the Midwest, after all), I text back [Gasps in Spanish]. It adds pizzazz to my conversations.
But on one particular Thursday afternoon, at precisely 2:07 PM, I didn’t need pizzazz. For once, Midwest weather gifted me 56 degrees. Housework—done. I sat down to enjoy Wordle and a cookie. This average, typical day didn’t need a plot twist.
That’s what I thought before I opened my email. [Gasps in Spanish.]
My darling child, a child who excels in testing, whose report cards sing praises about his behavior, “sets all sorts of examples in the classroom and among his peers,” did not do his assignment. Not only did he not do it for two weeks, but he also shrugged his shoulders at his teacher when she asked if he could catch up. [Gasps in Spanish.]
I started to feel bad for Soraya Montenegro; I finally understood her blind rage. My face flushed. My blood boiled. A scream began to build up from the pit of my stomach. However, melodrama would not save me here. Despite my frenzy, I collected myself. I decided to text the same friends to whom I often sent my melodramatic gifs.
One affirmed my murderous feelings but reminded me they were also illegal. Another, my more pious friend, recommended teaching him a Bible verse since it was “sharper than a two-edged sword,” and it would stab him in the conscience. I received an outpouring of ideas when suddenly, a nugget of wisdom came across in a blue bubble.
“Maybe check in on the ‘why’, too.”
Another wisdom bubble popped in. “Approaching it from a ‘you are a good kid who made a hoodrat choice’ might be helpful in relationship maintenance.”
Oh—my darling child is also human. And he made a very human mistake. Huh. Why does this seem familiar?
***
My 14-year-old heart raced as I ran towards my apartment door. Life or death waited for me on the other side—my mamá was the judge for my sentence. I took a deep breath, grasped my key, and opened my creaking apartment door without wasting a single second. My head leaned in first—just in case my feet needed a head start. I found my mom placing laundry from the dryer into an empty basket. I nervously smiled. She remained focused on our laundry but asked how it was.
“Fine, fine. I think I have to go … cleanmyroom!” She furrowed her brow. I could feel my legs ready to give out. So long, Fifteen! I wish I had known you!
“Oh? And what brought that out? If you could just clean up your room more often, you’d go out with your friends more.”
Miracles really do happen. I successfully lied to my Mexican mother and got away with it. She even gave me permission to go out more! Even when she’s agreeable, I still felt guilty—only she has that gift.
I nodded and then sprinted to my room, where my computer resided. I logged into AIM to see if Jacob, the 15-year-old stander-upper, wrote an apology. He did—kind of.
“Oh, hey! Sorry I wasn’t at Oliver’s house. I just got caught up, ya know? K. TTYL.”
No, I don’t know, Jacob. I glared at the screen. I lied to my mother because of you. You’re not worth almost dying over.
I set my away message to “*~Had a G8T time! Anyone who wasn’t there missed out lol~*”. I turned on the screensaver, fell backward on my bed, sprawled out, and closed my eyes. When I have kids, I’ll never be this strict. But I’m also never lying to my mom again.
***
The door leading from our garage into the kitchen creaked open. I looked up from my Instagram scrolling and saw my darling child. I made sure my husband picked him up from school since I needed a second to collect my thoughts, but mostly I wanted to peruse nostalgic 90s Instagram Reels.
“Hey, how was school?” I asked.
He shrugged. I wondered when he’d confess. I also wondered how ESPN would have described his stellar defense. While he rummaged through the fridge, I asked him from our living room to join his dad and me along with his backpack. He looked confused but complied with little begrudging.
At this point, I was ready to bust out with a “You got served, son!” but it didn’t seem appropriate. I knew the cultural reference would be lost on him. Instead, we sat in awkward silence for a minute while my husband and I made knowing glances at each other. No, you do it first. No, YOU.
“So, why am I sitting here?”
“Let’s begin, shall we?” I started. “First, you didn’t do your assignment for one week. Not great, but hey, you can catch up. Two weeks though? Who are you, Ferris Bueller? And the Zack Morris shrug? Do I need to explain more?” At least, that’s what I wanted to say, but a simple approach seemed best. I breathed in.
“We got an email from your teacher. Can you tell us why you didn’t do your assignment?”
The look on his face said everything I needed to know. He’d made a bad choice. He rattled out a quick apology and excuse and hung his head. He was ready to accept defeat. We discussed everything—the consequences, next steps, and set a plan in action. He wasn’t thrilled but agreed to the terms. He stood up and sighed. I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him.
“Hey. You’re a good kid,” I said.”But you definitely made a hoodrat choice. Trust me—I’ve made my fair share of those.”
He nervously smiled. “I want to be a good kid.” I embraced my little scoundrel and closed my eyes. For a second, I thought I wore my olive green flannel with my sharpie-decorated chucks. I only wished my son could hear the roar from the Ford Fairlane and the back seat's teenage ovation. Here’s to second chances, kid.
Guest essay written by Neidy Hess. Neidy (pronounced nay-dee) is a multi-disciplinary creative that writes, draws, and films daily life. She lives in western Iowa and is mamá to 3 incredible niños. She's also the proud wife of Zach, a Marine Corps vet and firefighter/paramedic. You'll never find her without cold brew coffee and a fresh playlist.