“What
is that thing?” my mother asked.
Parked at our curb was the most beautiful car I had ever seen. Sleek, red, and
glossy. Kit sat behind the wheel looking like the cat that got the automobile
equivalent of the cream.
“It’s
Kit’s eighteenth birthday present from her parents,” I said in awe.
“A.
Pontiac. Firebird.” My dad said it slowly, as if the meaning of life had just
dawned on him.
“I love it!” I squealed. My best friend was
waving, urging me to get in. “Kit, it’s so cool!” I opened the passenger door
with great care.
“Have
you even passed your driver’s test?” my mom asked Kit.
“It’s
a beaut, all right.” My dad seemed to be in some kind of trance.
Twenty
minutes later Kit and I were driving, somewhere, we didn’t know where exactly.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had passed your driver’s test?” I yelled into the
wind. My head was hanging out the window, like a golden retriever with floppy
ears blown back.
“I
haven’t,” I heard her shout.
In an instant, I was back from retriever land. “You
haven’t? Wait . . . what? You don’t have a license?”
“Nope.”
She pressed her foot harder on the gas pedal. “But it’s in the works.”
“Stop!!!”
I screamed, turning down the radio and Chaka’s voice claiming to be “I’m Every
Woman.”
“Relax.
I’ll have one soon enough.”
Later,
over dinner, my dad asked, “So, Val, I expect you would like a car too.” I had thought about this a lot, since I did
at least hold a recent license. But with Kit in her flashy new vehicle, and
never really going anywhere without me, I wasn’t in any rush.
“She’s
in no rush to get a car.” For once, my mother, who was spooning peas onto my
plate, seemed to have her finger on the pulse of the matter.
“Every
kid wants their own car. They all want to drive, right, Val?”
“Some
do,” I offered weakly, mentally scanning my group of friends. Cynthia Hogg
didn’t drive, but the Hoggs were so wealthy they had a chauffeur. Eileen
McMullen went everywhere on her bike, which probably accounted for her overly
developed calf muscles. And then there was Bart Purcell, who definitely didn’t
drive, but mainly because he was currently in juvie. I felt sure stealing a car
would be at the top of his list once he got out.
Dad
was not convinced. “How about we go car shopping? I have a couple of options in
mind.”
“Make
sure it has four real seats.” My mother was now spooning carrots onto our
plates. “Not those baby seats in the back like Kit’s death trap.”
The
following Saturday, I gingerly drove home in my new (to me) 1969 Chevrolet
Corvair. It was a misleading shade of cream, or possibly white, depending on
the light. The seats were hard black plastic, and there was a strange banging
sound when the engine was turned on. I did my best to avoid driving it, but
wanted to please my dad, who seemed happy with the purchase. Luckily, my mother
came to the rescue when she produced Ralph Nader’s 1965 report in which he
claimed the Corvair was unsafe at any speed.
That
did it. The Corvair was returned and the new search began, this time with my
older brother. I love my dad dearly, but note to self: don’t go car shopping
with a man who is on a first-name basis with the local bus driver.
