Six months later
The carpet scratched against my legs as I sat at the front of the classroom before a flickering analog television set. The 1992 film adaptation of the classic novel Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte played from a VCR tape. It was one of my favorite stories, although it filled me with a longing and loss I could not quite wrap my teenage brain around. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Leo standing up and walking to his desk. It was nearly time for us to pack up our things and leave seventh period English. At the front of the school, a bus would be waiting to transport the Meadow Wood High Forensics team to the district competition.
I waited for him to leave the classroom before I got up and walked to my desk to collect my things. Oddly, my English book lay open on my desk to the poem, "To the Virgins, Make Much of Time." I raised a suspicious eyebrow and read the opening stanza:
Gather 'ye rosebuds while ye' may,
Old time is still a flying
And the same flower that smiles today,
To-morrow will be dying.
A smile tickled the corners of my mouth as I recalled Leo's smooth talking and even smoother dancing at the masquerade ball. It felt like ages ago. I avoided talking to him since our fight the morning after the dance, except for the occasional group project where we were forced to interact for academic purposes. I could tolerate that on occasion. Today, he would ride the bus with me to the Forensics competition and I hoped he wouldn't try to rekindle our friendship--if you could call it that. He was still the same old jerk obsessed with climbing the social ladder and flirting with all the ladies. I planned to keep my distance, as usual.
When I flashed the teacher my early dismissal pass, he waved me on and went back to grading papers. I wandered into the empty hallway and stopped at my locker, put in my combination, and popped open the door. A small mirror hanging inside bounced my reflection back to me, and, for the first time in a long time, I liked the person staring back at me. Under the mirror hung a photograph of four smiling girls: Jordan, still looking a little like the singer Lisa Loeb in her cool cat eye glasses; the strawberry blonde beauty with brains Courtney, who was my biology lab partner and confidante on the J.V. cheerleading squad; Sam, the drama diva and clarinet player with a fiery personality and dyed burgundy hair to match; and me. They were my new tribe of friends. Real ones. The kind that pass notes in the hallway, giggle about boys, and have sleepovers.
I slammed locker shut and quickly adjusted my outfit, a preppy, pastel purple ribbed cardigan with short sleeves and a flared polyester skirt almost the same color, and white, open-heeled loafers with chunky high heels—and speed-walked out to the front of the school. Luckily, the shiny yellow school bus rattled right there at the flagpole with the door open. I passed a row of blossoming dogwood trees and leapt inside.
"Good afternoon, miss," the wrinkled and gray man driving the bus said with a nod as I climbed aboard. "Take a seat."
I searched for an open spot. Any spot would do, as long as it was far away from Leo Goodwin. I spotted him sitting in the middle of the bus on the right side. As if he could sense my stare, Leo raised his head and the shock of his gaze shot down my spine like electric current. I dove into the first open seat I saw.
That was close.
The bus rumbled out of the parking lot. A substitute teacher, who looked well beyond retirement age, sat behind the aging bus driver, snoring. Mrs. Tuttle was not back from maternity leave yet—the baby came two weeks late, a healthy little boy nearly ten pounds and all red in the face like his father. For the past month, I practiced my speech with the substitute after school on Wednesdays, but it wasn't the same. The sub had a theater background and coached me to use more inflection, well-timed pauses, and hand gestures.
After I finished reciting my speech last night, Dad clapped and said, "Bravo."
Gloria just smiled and told me, "That's my girl."
Ryan said, "You killed it," which was kind of funny considering my speech was about the death penalty. Against it, actually.
Things were good at home. Mom had a new job as a receptionist for a mortgage company. Dad spent his free time working on the Firebird, and Ryan and I helped most weekends. Dad even let me try welding a new corner panel, after watching him carefully doing all the metal work. We tackled small jobs like dismantling the panels and carpet to fix all the rusty spots. Dad opted to sand the body ourselves to save money, but it took us days of elbow grease to get rid of the caked brown rust. Then came the bonding filler to repair in the little waves left on the surface. We installed the axles, suspension, and the brakes and I actually enjoyed it almost as much as my driving lessons.
Every Sunday since I got my learner's permit, Dad took me behind the wheel for a couple of hours in the Dodge. It was touch and go at first, driving up and down the streets in the neighborhood ever so slowly learning to drive stick. By January, we made it out onto the main roads, stopping for red lights, changing lanes, making left turns and yielding to oncoming traffic. Finally, in March, I made it onto the highway at speeds of sixty miles per hour.
I felt confident thanks to Dad. He never berated me for a mistake, even when I saw him stomping at an imaginary brake pedal the time I accidentally ran a red light. His voice was calm and steady, so I was too. I guess he was a pretty good teacher even though he showed up to my first lesson wearing a bike helmet.
This past weekend as we headed out of the house for our weekly joy ride, Dad surprised me with the keys to the Firebird. It was finally ready to hit the open road, despite the ugly old paint and bonding putty dotting the exterior. When I climbed behind the wheel for the first time, the cream-colored vinyl upholstery felt a little tacky. The dried out trim scratched like burrs against my legs. Its deteriorating finishes put off a stale and musty odor, with notes of motor oil and exhaust despite the green air freshener in the shape of a pine tree dangling from the rear view mirror. I hesitated, wondering if I was worthy to sit behind the wheel of Dad's prized vintage Firebird.
"What are you waiting for?" Dad asked as I clutched the key nervously between my thumb and forefinger. "Let's get this baby out on the open road. Let me know how you like that power steering conversion kit we installed."
When I slid the key in the ignition of the 1967 muscle car, she shook and roared to life, the engine purring beneath me with the fierce grace of a lion. My hands clutched the thin, three-spoke steering wheel. I stared past it at the two deep gauges on the dashboard. I tapped the gas pedal and felt her power.
"That's what I'm talking about," I said and grinned at Dad, "a throaty 400-cubic inch V8."
"That's my girl." Dad shot me a knowing smile.
I gripped the wheel tightly as I drove on a winding, two-lane highway lined with stone fences and ancient oaks up to the northern tip of the county. We stopped to fuel up and grab a sandwich at a greasy gas station nestled among the rolling hills and farmland.
"Now that you've gotten used to how she handles, let's put the top down and hit the road," Dad said. I watched carefully as Dad dropped the top with a touch of a button. The creaky shell came to life, folding into a neat stack behind the back seat.
"Sweet." And it was.
The afternoon sun shined down on the freshly polished interior. How long had it been since she felt the cool, spring air and sunshine against the smooth skin of her upholstery? Years? Decades? The excitement of taking a small part in the Firebird's rebirth swelled my chest with pride. We gave the rusted, old car a new lease on life and it felt like something inside me transformed too. It was safe to say she had grown on me, although I still preferred the safety of the Dodge to driving exposed to the elements and oncoming traffic. It was equally terrifying and liberating, like I was risking my life in exchange for the euphoria of flying down the road with sunshine and a spring breeze rushing through my hair.
The farmland gave way to rolling hills, dense woods, and sharp turns, then a narrow bridge as a wide, ancient river spread out beneath our feet. It was a magical moment. I dared to take my eyes off the road and peek at Dad with a smile that restored his youth. In that moment, we could have been the same age.
"You're really growing up," he said.
"Yeah, it won't be long until I get my drivers' license."
My sixteenth birthday was only a two weeks away. I already had over twelve hours under my belt with a private driving school, and the last two-hour class would be my driver's test.
"Dad, do you think I can borrow the Firebird once I get my license?" I asked over the wind noise.
"We'll see. She still needs some work. Maybe on special occasions," Dad called out with his eyes firmly on the road.
I thought about going out with my friends to dinner and a movie to celebrate and felt giddy with excitement. It was still amazing to me that I actually had real friends to invite to an impromptu sweet sixteen party. That never would have happened back in Oklahoma. I was a total outcast back then, so sad and desperate, but when I forgot about all those popular people and focused on just being me--not the cheerleader chick--something just clicked and I wasn't afraid to be me.
I remembered that awful morning after the bonfire when Leo called me an old lady in a teenage body. It still made my blood boil, but I knew his label no longer applied. Jordan, Sam, Courtney and I were the quintessential band of teenage girls. We spent hours chatting on the phone, going for walks and shopping at the mall. We spent our allowances on things like Bath and Body Works lotions, little pots of body glitter and shimmery blue eyeshadow, Jelly shoes and butterfly hair clips and cute barrettes from Claires. I was a full-fledged teenager in mind, body and spirit, right on the cusp of my sixteenth birthday. He was wrong.
"What's up?" a deep voice called out, bringing me back to the present.
I looked up to see Leo standing in the bus aisle and frowned. Speak of the devil.