I was ten, but I remember the day like it was yesterday. My dad and I rested on a cold, metal bench just outside the airport, waiting for a bus to take us away from the unfamiliar fumes that engulfed the surrounding air. Fog consumed the night. Flickering street lamps attempted to fight against the darkness, but they were no match. As I watched the road — surprisingly empty — suddenly, two headlights pierced through the brume and blackness that plagued the sky. The car, a spirited, vivacious, and electric shade of blue, reflected onto the puddles that lay in the street, lighting each one up as it purred by. I involuntarily rose to my feet to get a closer look, my eyes increasing in size, and my hands stretching over my surprised mouth.
I scanned the vehicle, investigating for any clues about the owner (I could smell the success of the man driving it). His fingers drummed the steering wheel, leaving me to wonder if impatience or excitement kept him tapping. When the stop light flashed green, the car’s engine roared, its tires spun, and its taillights disappeared as it peeled into the night, leaving me with the darkness once again.
After the exhaust settled, I sat back down on the bench, turned to my dad, and confidently said, “I’m going to buy that car one day.”
He shook his head with a smile. “Good luck explaining that to your mother.” I laughed at his joke, and we never spoke of the car again.
Four years after my encounter with my dream car, I got my first official job at Dairy Queen, the only place that would hire a 14-year-old. I spent my days making ice cream orders, stocking napkin holders, and cleaning the floors where rainbow sprinkles decorated the linoleum like confetti. When I turned 16, I transitioned to the restaurant scene and moved up in the world; I bussed, hostessed, and — finally — waitressed. I spent the next two years smiling at customers and pocketing my tips, and at 18, I had saved up enough money to buy a used, but safe car.
One Sunday morning, everything felt right. The sun shone brightly, awakening the flowers from their sleep: spring was blossoming. My dad decided it was the perfect day to visit our local car dealership (and I happily agreed). A copious number of cars filled the lot, forming endless rows that snaked around the side of the building. As I studied the gray sedan that sat adjacent to my dad’s car in the parking lot, I noticed the same blue reflection I saw in the puddles that night at the airport. Time froze and daydreaming commenced. Visions of me driving my dream car occupied my mind; I pictured myself rolling down the convertible top, my strawberry-blonde hair flying through the wind. My heart, fluttery and agile, raced at the thought. Before doubt could infiltrate my mind, I turned around.
It was the beacon of light that called me eight years ago.
The car was just as — if not more — beautiful in the daylight and sunshine as it appeared that cold night. I whispered in shock, “Dad that’s the car. Th-that’s the car.”
The windshield had no price sticker; I questioned if the car was even for sale.
“How much do you think —?” I queried before trailing off.
My dad sped into the dealership, the bell ringing as he briskly walked in. I waited outside for what felt like hours.
My dad waltzed out of the shop, giving me a warm grin. “It actually is for sale, but it is more than what you saved.”
Disappointment (and confusion at my dad’s glee) washed over me. My dream car — the one I worked for all these years — was here and for sale. Questions raced through my mind. Can I take out a loan? Should I just wait? X, who are you kidding? The chances of seeing this exact car again are slim to none. My thoughts came to a halt as they were interrupted by my dad’s rich, yet soft, voice.
“Emma, I will pay half.”
I stood stunned. I croaked a “thank you” and felt his arms wrap around me.
After a few seconds, my voice returned.
“You’re my best friend.”
“You’re mine too.”
One of his hands returned to his side, the other resting gently on my head. “Now, why don’t we take it for a test drive?”
My fingertips traced the detailing on the exterior before gripping the keys that the dealer gifted my palm. I slid into the car and rested my hands on the steering wheel. I no longer sat on the cold bench; I sat in the driver’s seat.
I reached my goal: I bought that Grabber Blue Mustang with the racing stripes in the middle. As I shifted the car into gear for the first time, the only thing that crossed my mind was this thought: my mom is going to kill my dad.
Emma Scott is a third-year student at the Pennsylvania State University where she is majoring in supply chain management and minoring in information systems management. Emma credits her creativity to her performing arts high school because it was there that she fell in love with the arts and grew a deeper appreciation for diverse perspectives. In her spare time, she enjoys long walks on the beach, sipping pina coladas, and many other clichés.