“Want the top up or down?” He asks me as we pull out of the doctors office's parking lot. “Doesn't matter”, I mutter under my breath. I had never really seen my father happy. Except when I was younger of course, but the long term effects of the many drugs had taken charge, and my childhood memories were a foggy haze. Maybe I should act nicer towards him, I thought. But the few scars left on my arm pierced my eyes and I quickly changed my mind. He had bought this used 2001 dark green convertible mustang a few days ago and was eager to use it fully, so down the leather top rolled and my hair whipped me in the face while I pulled it back and tried to concentrate on the music blasting through my earphone. My father's midlife crisis struck the whole family with shock. Was our strong willed, dark haired father getting older? Just by looking at the shiny green metallic paint on his mustang you could tell his age and how he felt the need to go back 20 years and drive with his balding head in the wind. He looks at me, he smiles and asks how much community service I have to complete. I answer with a small grin, almost as small as pencil tip, and reply with a simple “20”, and look back down at my phone as if he had interrupted something important. I didn't like the idea of him happy, or of him speaking to me. It didn't fit right. Like trying to fit a piece from a cat and yarn puzzle into a dog and Frisbee puzzle. It just didn't work. I looked up, we had made it to our next destination. Osceola county's juvenile justice center. I shudder, open the tan leather paneled door and step into the sticky Florida heat.