The conservation of mass states that things can't be created or destroyed. Mass can’t just show up, and it can't disappear either. But there I was, peeping through the window blinds and staring at the empty spot outside my house where my truck used to be parked.

Where’s Debbie? I thought to myself.

My silver 2003 Toyota Tacoma had been in my life since before I learned how to drive. She was there for the good and the bad: every break up I ever had, every stupid purchase I made with the money I earned from summer jobs.

Her windows were controlled by a lever you had to crank by hand. The doors had to be locked manually. She was an old-fashioned gal; she didn’t mess with any of that automatic stuff.

She was big, sturdy, and reliable. I named her Debbie.

I slipped into my flip-flops and stepped outside to inspect her mysterious disappearance. Unfortunately, staring at the empty spot from the outside wasn’t much different than staring at the empty spot from the inside. I scratched my head. Where could she have gone?

And just like that, the conservation of mass was disproven again. My parents popped up out of nowhere in a sleek, blue Prius. Parking where Debbie used to be, they hopped out and took both sides next to me.

“What do you think?” said my dad, resting his arm on my shoulder.

“We were going to buy you an orange one,” said my mom, “but all they had left was blue.”

I was speechless. I squinted at the rays of light the Prius reflected from the sun. It was like a tiny clown car.

“Thanks,” I said, unable to look at them. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You can take it for a spin if you want,” said my dad, handing me the keys.

“Maybe later,” I said. My head started to feel woozy.

Before you start judging me, I’m not one of those Sweet Sixteen girls on MTV that flips shit because Daddy bought me a car that was fire engine red instead of Rosso Corsa. My parents left their lives in the Philippines to work 9-5 jobs in America so I could have a good future, and I’ll always be thankful for their sacrifices. I just wish they hadn’t made this particularsacrifice.

I looked down at the key and saw the buttons for lock and unlock, shuddering to myself. I opened the door and crouched into the driver’s seat. As I took in the new car smell, I turned my head to the back and saw three tiny cushions that I assumed were for the non-existent girls I’d be picking up. Priuses were for middle-aged men, not young college students. How would I get any respect around campus driving this punch buggy around?

Debbie wasn’t just my ride. She was my wingman. Back in high school, girls would approach me and ask about her. She was a great conversation starter, and it always ended with me being lucky enough to drive them home. Some days I would let them sit in the trunk while I swerved around the parking lot. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw their hair flying with the wind, and I heard their bursts of laughter and screams. Debbie and I, we were a great team.

But sometimes when you reminisce, you tend to only remember the good times.

Driving the Prius to campus, I was surprised that $13 worth of gas lasted me over 300 miles. On the other hand, Debbie was a gas-guzzler. $20 bought me half a tank, which equated to about a week’s worth of driving from my house to my high school.

Debbie was also a little picky; she only took CDs and this ancient artifact my dad calls a cassette. The Prius had a USB port so I could charge my phone, and better yet, my phone’s music would pop up on the Prius’ screen. It - no - she, was much better to get along with.

As I drove my friends around during the year, I realized that the Prius didn’t have any problems fitting them inside. Although space was a little tight, we still made due. My passengers and I were closer to each other physically, unlike with Debbie, where I was only able to watch all the girls having fun from the back. Now I could actually be in conversations, instead of observing from the rear view mirror like a creep.

The Prius was shiny, convenient, and high tech. I named her Gladys.

Debbie will always be my first. And you always remember your first. While I made countless memories with her through out high school, I’m more than thankful that Gladys appeared in my life so I can make brand new memories.