Jesus, she’s giving her a hard time, he says.

My mother looks bewildered and she clutches her elbow as the yoga mom continues to talk angrily down at her, one hand on her hip, her other still holding her Starbucks drink. By now the entire lawn of people has drifted over. From somewhere back in the car line someone honks, and others do too.

That’s my mom, I say.

Jordan turns to me. Sunlight on his tanned skin creates a golden color, which looks odd against his powder blue eyes.

I know, he says. I’ve been to your house, remember?

I just wanted to make sure you knew.

He studies me strangely.

Yeah, okay, Gabe.

I leave him and head towards the car. And there is nothing I can do but stand there, close to the yoga mom. Her son, Ben, glances up at me, shifts on his feet, and though he seems embarrassed, fingering his stupid red vest, I’d like to put my ice pick through his cheek. My fingers jitter. I do not know what to do with them. People study me, many of them wondering if I am in a car pool with Mom, though maybe some are putting my features together and figuring out who I am.

Mom is peering up at the yoga mom.

I’m sorry, she says.

The yoga mom’s hand is on her slender hip, its bony shape visible beneath her dancer’s stretch pants. That doesn’t fix my dent, she says. She shakes her head and sighs. Do you realize this is a new car?

Mom tilts her head, like a bedraggled little sparrow. I’m sorry.

The yoga mom ignores her and turns to some random girl standing nearby. I mean, really, some people, she says. I was only a few feet away.

She turns back to my mother. I mean, what were you thinking?

I don’t know.

You were only a few feet away.

I know.

The yoga mom stares at her.

You know? You know and you still hit me? God. Can you understand? I’m going to have to bring this truck in, deal with the fucks at the dealership, rental cars. The yoga mom clenches her teeth, her jaw muscles pulling taut beneath skin yellowed from too much suntanning, and she breathes deeply through her nose, a sort of sigh, then opens her mouth again. I’m a busy woman, a female producer working in sexist Hollywood—I don’t have time for this kind of shit.

The yoga mom shakes her head. Well, then you’d better give me your license and insurance carrier.

Mom touches her elbow. I don’t have insurance, she says.

You don’t have insurance.

No.