What Matters

by Allison Whittenberg

We had eggs. Eggs and bacon, too. But Dad wanted an Egg McMuffin—with sausage. And we didn’t have sausage, and we didn’t know how to make it taste like McDonald’s. 

He could’ve gone himself. But the night before, he got smashed. Claimed he had to—said it was the only way to survive the sleepover chaos. I had three friends over—my bestie,  Meave, Luna, and Oaklynn. Yeah… it got loud. It got wild.

The dishwasher was humming its final rinse when he handed me a twenty and said, “Take the car. Drive to McDonald’s. Get me the usual. You can use what’s left for your friends.”

“A twenty, Dad? What’s gonna be left?”

“You can get at least an OJ.”

“That’s about all.”

I handed the bill back. “I don’t want to wake them up.”

He shoved it back into my hand. “They’ll enjoy the ride.”

“Dad… I don’t even have my license.”

“And I don’t feel like driving. Your giggling all night kept me up. You owe me this.”

I didn’t take the money. But I took the keys.

I went up to Oaklynn. Told her. Everyone got up, still in pajama bottoms and t-shirts. Nobody even put on shoes. Barefoot, they piled into the backseat—no one in shotgun. The streets were clear, bright. It was early. Saturday. Empty roads.

And Spotify was loud. I was driving.

The next part… I don’t remember.

Tires squealing. A horn. Maybe the crash. Metal folding. Oaklynn in the center back, doing her TikTok dance, her head thrown back—was that the point of impact?

The song request.

Then tubes. Machines. Taste of blood and lip gloss.

Dad was over me, stroking my arm. When he saw me rouse, he leaned in.

“I wanted to be here when you woke up. We don’t have much time before the police come in.”

“What?”

“Just listen. You’re okay. That’s what matters. When they ask you… say you took the car without asking.”

“But you—”

“No. No. You took it. You took the car because you wanted to go out with your friends. That’s all.”

“My friends… are they—? Are they in this hospital? Are they okay? Oaklynn? Luna?”

“Quiet.”

“Where are they?”

“You didn’t ask. I didn’t tell you to.”

“Where are they?”

A nurse appeared at the door. My dad leaned in close. Whispered in my ear.

“I’m sorry. They’re all dead.”

He looked at the door. Then back at me.

“They don’t need to know the rest. What good would it do?”

“Good? Dad—they’re dead.”

“You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Teenage omnipotence, right? That feeling you’re invincible. Like nothing bad can actually happen. Oaklynn always smelled like some citrus perfume, always talking about prom—two weeks away. That English class she had to ace for first honors.

“They’ll ask questions,” Dad said. “But they’re just questions. I was asleep. You took the car. I know nothing.”

His hands were fists now. No longer stroking my arm.

“Promise me. Or you’ll lose me too.”

So when they came in—the woman with a clipboard, the man with the badge—I said it. The story.

I took the keys. I went for a joyride with my friends.

That’s all.

I didn’t talk about the music. Or how we were singing. Or how Oaklynn kept grabbing the phone to change the song. Or how maybe I looked away from the road for just… a second.

That part’s true: I don’t remember the tilt, the world sliding sideways.

I laid back against the pillow, air dry in my throat, and watched my dad wring his hands.

And I said what he needed me to say.

Like I was instructed to get an Egg McMuffin.

I said the words, even though they felt foreign, like I was wearing someone else’s skin.

And the cop nodded.

“We all make mistakes,” he said.

We do.

I did.

 

 

Allison Whittenberg is an award-winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Feminist Studies, J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a six-time Pushcart Prize nominee. They Were Horrible Cooks is her collection of poetry.