The Sprint

It is your average autumn Kentucky day. A crisp October morning, but not too cold for the new mid-thigh plaid jumper my mom recently bought me at the mall. I have slept in pink sponge rollers and with rolled down white socks and my new brown penny loafers, I am truly a sixth grader on her way to the in-crowd. Due to the fact that I have purposefully "forgotten" my huge saxophone, which is at least half my weight, I am on the verge of appearing "cool".

What makes this day even more special is that I have "accidentally" missed the bus (again) without getting in trouble for it. It just so happens that my dad was heading into town any way, so I have manipulated the system without getting caught. Avoiding the bus ride to school (a ride wherein I and whoever chooses to sit with me have to bump along the country roads on top of my beat-up sax case) is a beautiful way to start my day. And today, as I spritz one last bang into place, I head to the garage expecting to finally look as cool as Katie Jacobs and Rob Ogden (whose parents are teachers and therefore never ride the bus).

The perfect day's first hiccough came when dad didn't join me in the garage. It suddenly became all too clear that, rather than ride to town in our light blue Previa mini-van or our deep green Corolla, Dad was motioning me toward the Sprint. In society's social standards, the "Chevrolet ultra-compact Sprint" is one step - and only one, very small step - above the bus. It's only advantage is that, being a car, the ride is only 20 minutes long vs. the hour long bus tour of the county's finest farms and trailers. The Sprint is gray (lacking all personality) and it's a two-door (a tight, tight squeeze). The steering wheel is covered in mesh, the interior plastic is dirty brown, and I am sitting on a tan beaded seat cushion. The seatbelt reaches across me, lax over my shoulder and too tight across my lap - a sticky torture strap. The Sprint is a stick-shift and, once again, my dad reminds me of its excellent gas mileage... like a sixth grader with boys and middle school popularity on her mind really cares about gas mileage.

Dad is in heaven. He drives super, super slow. He gives his usual friendly wave to passersby and I keep my head down, making eye contact with no one. I wanted desperately to look cool today. Today could be the day that Chris Cummins asks me to sit beside him at the church hayride and my father has no idea of the social damage he is causing.

Harrison County Middle School is set up like so: the sixth grade wing on the far right, the seventh graders in the middle, and the eighth graders on the far left.

As we approach the hilltop, I suggest that Dad drop me off at the local Dairy Queen. "I don't want you to get stuck in all that a.m. bus and commuter traffic."

Nothin' doin'.

"It's not every day I get to take my favorite daughter to school," I'm sure he said.

He hangs the left into the school driveway and the car audibly creaks. (I really feel that cars are not unlike bread or milk - one should really respect the shelf life and then toss them.) The busses are all edging for spaces in front of the school and I realize that if I can time it just right, I could run from the car once we're hidden amongst all the yellow. Dad begins to slow down while I'm gathering my bags and then tries to pull to the curb at the sixth grade wing. That's when I see Chris. He's helping Paul Roberts send the flag up about one bus length away. If I got out now, he'd see me for sure. So, a quick thinker, I blurt out, "Oh, uh, Dad! Uh, I forgot that I need to, um, be dropped off at the eighth grade side today. Um, you know. School stuff."

My dad grins, forces the stick shift into one of the slots, and putters away. I exhale. I can't believe he didn't give me any grief, but I thank my lucky stars and apply some kind of watermelon lip gloss. One last look into the mud covered side view mirror and I unbuckle, my nerves a wreck. The last part of Operation Get-In-That-School-Before-Somebody-Sees-You-In-This-Piece-Of-Aluminum was drawing near.

Dad is approaching the eighth grade wing when I throw him a curve. "Stop! Here's fine." He slams on the brakes and is squashed between two busses and an angry looking pick-up. I lean over for a quick peck on the cheek and slide outta that seat cushion before he could finish his "have a good day".

Five quick steps to the sidewalk and I'm a free woman! Hurrah! My hair is bouncing! My short skirt is swishing! My. . .

Dad????. . .

is HONKING?!?!!

I glance over my shoulder to see my dad - wearing a full beard, glasses, flannel, and the biggest smile you've ever seen - waving like a maniac and honking the Sprint's horn, which basically sounds like a cow giving birth.

Ironically, no girl has ever run so fast.