So the whole story is that this homeschooled girl -who incidentally is a lot like me except that she's good at sewing- has to go to "real school" now, and then she and her mom somehow end up in a fairytale and have some sort of adventure. Most of the story is up in the air at the moment, scenes floating around in my mind. Here's what I have so far.
********

"Put it gently in reverse and back it up slowly." Lynn did as she was told. As she did, her mind wandered, her eyes went from focusing on the mirror to staring into space, and that weird blurriness came into them that often does when one is not focusing on any particular thing. This happened often these days. Lynn always seemed to be preoccupied with one thing or another, and her attention wandered frequently.
"STOP!" screamed Ms. B., her driving instructor. Screeech! went the brakes as Lynn snapped back to the world around her and hit the brakes with all her might. She had almost run over the deaf old man who was walking on the sidewalk. The elderly pedestrian continued on his merry way, apparently never having noticed his momentary peril.
Lynn winced, foreseeing the explosion. She could see the magma slowly heating up, making it's way to the top. Ms. B. erupted. Flaming ashes and debris flew everywhere in the form of, "What on earth were you thinking of?" and "How many times must I tell you to keep your mind on what you're doing?" and "Why can't you focus?" and "What's your problem kid?" and "You're lucky I didn't die of a heart attack just now!"
She was a woman of little patience.
As honesty is an important factor in storytelling, it must sadly be known to the reader that Lynn would have felt herself luckier if the heart attack had happened.
When Ms. B. calmed down, the lesson continued. Things didn't get much better. Lynn knocked down a stop sign, ran over a bicycle, and ran a red light, among other things.
Her driving career was not progressing quickly.

The screen door squeaked. The backpack hit the table with a muffled bang. Lynn threw herself into a chair, heaved a melodramatic sigh, and hid her head in her arms on the kitchen table.
"Driving lesson didn't go well, I take it?" said her mother, walking in with a basketful of laundry in her arms. She dumped the clothes on the table and started folding. Lynn's only response was a groan.
"I'm sorry sweetie. Daddy or I would be glad to teach you, but I'm much too busy with your brothers and sisters, and your father is away on business. We had to sign you up for the school course. I wish we didn't have to, I know how much you dislike Ms. B."
"And the award for Understatement of the Year goes to... my own mother, Emily Brown!"
"Why do you call her that, anyway? Don't you know her real name?"
"Because even with my extensive experience in the study of Eastern European languages, I simply can not wrap my tongue around that woman's last name," replied Lynn crankily. She grabbed a t-shirt and joined in the folding. When they were done, she took her pile of clothes and said, "I think I'll go finish that skirt."
"Maybe that will cheer you up a bit, Grumpy." Lynn gave a half-hearted smile and shoved her mom playfully.
"Oh, before you go upstairs, what do you think of chicken for dinner?"
"Sounds fine to me."
Lynn went upstairs. She walked down the hallway to a door with a sign that said, "THE TOWER". She opened it and proceeded up the stairway that appeared behind it. On the third floor, she went to a door covered in quotations. Everything from lines from her favorite books to pro-life quotations were stenciled, taped and puttied on that door. She walked into her spacious, blue-and-brown themed room, put the laundry on her bed, and sat down at her desk, which contained a sewing machine. The fabric positioned, the pedal plugged in. A few minutes of whirring, a few more inches of hemming, the skirt was done! She tried it on and twirled in front of the mirror. It was the best she had ever made. The fabric was gorgeous, the seams almost perfect. She ran downstairs to show her mother.

Two days later, Lynn walked out the door with a resigned look on her face. Like Mary of Scotland on her way to the guillotine, she walked down the street to the bus stop. Another Monday. Another day in the torture chambers of Kimberly High. She ascended into the executioner's cart, also known as the school bus. Lonely as can be, she sat down on an unoccupied seat and tried her best to turn invisible.