A tale of a young girl run amok

What happens when an awkward, too tall, overachieving ninth-grade clarinet playing goody two shoes decides to recreate herself as a quasi-punkrock rebel in central Minnesota, circa 1987?
Bad things happen, people.
Suzie McEvilstein was one of my cronies in that era of life that included lockers and hall passes. She was smart, she was pissed, and her parents were total pushovers. It could be that they were just plain weary, as they were much older than my parents, and the rest of their children were in their 30's. Suzie was one of those really younger siblings. Suzie had suddenly changed from a girl with a pink bedroom into a nightmare in a black trenchcoat with a hairstyle she had fashioned after the late Andy Warhol's. She referred to her parents, whose names were Dar and Don, as a unit: Dardon. Sometimes she would call me and whine, "I CAN'T watch THE SOUND of MUSIC again because Dardon wants to take a NAP. GOD!!!!"
She was obsessed with the Beatles' White Album, The Smiths, Andy Warhol, and her Mom's new white Honda Civic.
Cars were somewhat of a necessity where we grew up--some miles outside of a town of 10,000 people where they'd never heard of public transportation and where it was also mostly wintertime. Where we lived, it was many miles to the nearest opportunity to see somebody other than your family, and even further to the nearest pizza or movie.
Suzie mostly just got whatever she wanted. In our little clique of Dark People, she was the ringleader, and you really wanted her to like you. She was, to her credit, quite funny most of the time. She was the Mean Friend you couldn't tear yourself away from, even though you knew she was bad news for you, and you knew she'd hang you out to dry someday. She said and did things you wished you had thought of, and because her parents were so old and so tired, she got to bleach her hair like Andy Warhol's and take their car to the Mall whenever she wanted to.
One blustery winter day as I was languishing in my parents' home, probably sulking and reading Sartre, Suzie McEvilstein rang me up.
"Lynn!" She barked. I hated that. Lynn is my middle name, and McEvilstein had decided that Lynn would be my name from now on, and she always called me that. Typical dictator type stuff. "Lynn, " she hissed, "something VERY BAD has HAPPENED."
There was a silence on the line.
"Well, what?" I asked her. I imagined that her copy of the White Album had a scratch on it, or maybe that Dardon had demanded she eat her peas or something.
"I ran over Don with the car!!!" She shrieked. "It is TOTALLY NOT MY FAULT. He just, like, fell under it while I was trying to drive away!!"
It turned out that McEvilstein had been bored and wanted to go to the Mall and buy some jeans. Dardon had told her no, she couldn't do that, because it was icy and snowy, and also because they said so. Suzie threw one of her patented (and truly dramatic) "Nervous Breakdowns" in an attempt to tire them out so they'd acquiesce. Miraculously, they failed to fold. Her reaction to this odd challenge to her authority was to take the car keys, and get in the car. While it was idling in the driveway, warming up (a must in the hinterlands), Don, her old dad who in fact was quite frail, positioned himself in front of the car, blocking her way.
She decided to gun it and ran over her own father with the car so she could go buy some jeans.

Now that I think about it, I'm lucky I got out of there with all my limbs.