We strode across the driveway to our cars. We were sixteen years old, finally achieving suburban vehicular freedom, and whenever we had to go somewhere after practice, whether for a team dinner or meeting, Cathy and I would drive together but separately: me first, leading the way in my beat-up hand-me-down old car with thousands of miles clocked on the odometer, bestowed from my mother, who, after careful calculations, realized she would, over time, save money and office reputation by giving me the family car and buying another used car for herself so she could stay longer at work instead of
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