Here it is. Today's the day. The last 16 years have led up to this. I scramble out of bed. Taking the stairs two at a time, I race to the front door, past the enchanting aroma of fresh monkey bread for breakfast and distant calls of, "Happy birthday!" Stella, a 2001 Ford Taurus, waits patiently at the end of the drive. Her sassy scarlet paint job and cool body design beckon me forth. (Red is definitely her color.) My dad stands beside her, grinning ear to ear, as he places the keys in my hand. From that moment, everything changed. In the Leonard household, I was now an honorary adult.
Getting your first car in my family is a rite of passage. From the second you stick the keys in the ignition, you take on a new kind of responsibility. Part of this responsibility comes with forking over three hundred dollars of hard-earned, lifeguarding money every six months. Part of it comes with taking on a sliver of Mom's workload. Now, whenever "Little Sister" needs a ride home from track practice, or Dad could use some fresh steaks because he scorched the poor guys on the grill (along with his eyebrows) preparing dinner, it is no longer cause to holler, "Mom!" That job has been passed down, and you were next in line. You have a car now, and you are now at Dillon's searching for the sirloin.
One of the greatest perks of this transition from childhood to adulthood also comes down to a measly piece of asphalt with three simple numbers painted on it: a school parking spot. No longer are you kissing your mother goodbye before hopping out of her Prius every morning in front of practically the whole school. Farewell to all those days of almost being late because, "the speed limit is 40 miles per hour," and Dad is "already pushing it going 45 miles per hour." "Sayonara" to those hard times of being the last one to get picked up after practice. It is crazy to think all of that was also only one year ago. You now hold the instrument of your freedom and it has taken the shape of a single metal key.
She is just an old Taurus, but you better believe that baby purrs like a Cadillac. Drop her windows, "rev" her up, and let your mind be convinced she holds the engine of a G6. Let your brain play in slow motion as the gravel sprays and the dust cloud forms as you make a perfect donut on some old Kansas back road. All of this.
Let all of it race through your mind in one moment: the moment of truth, as you are handed the keys by your dad. You are an adult now. So quit gawking. Pick up your jaw, fella. Because perfection has a name, and she goes by Stella.
