Realistic fiction prompt given to me in my english class, I kinda took it to another level. I based the story off of a song I had learned a dance to in class, but I put a twist on it.
My dad had a car I loved. This was not the typical situation where a teenage girl envies her father’s car just because she wants to drive, to be free, and independent. Not at all. This was no ordinary car. This was a glistening onyx Chevy with butterfly doors that would make you drop your keys from across the parking lot just to get a glimpse as the wings enclosed its VIP passengers and sped away. When my father was ready to sell it, I talked him into saving it for me. Although I wasn’t quite old enough to start driving, I fixed it up. It didn’t need much fixing, just a few paint touches here and there, but it was rather masculine, so I figured a few feminine touches wouldn’t hurt. After all, it was mine now. It was my turn to show it off. Over the course of a few months, I put some babysitting money aside for the paint, and all of my earnings from the local ice cream shop I worked at 5 nights a week, Mitchell’s, went toward the platinum leather interior I wanted installed. Lets just say Mitchell’s paid well. The paint took three weeks to arrive from overseas, and being only from a middle class family, the package at my doorstep made me feel of exquisite importance. I never would have a imagined a gallon of paint could make anyone so happy. For two blazon summer days I worked in the humidity chamber of my garage, sweat repeatedly making its way down the bridge of my nose and then with a splat to the ground. I traveled around the circumference of the car roughly seven times with that precious gallon of paint that gave the illusion I was carrying a bucket of carbon with specks of diamonds folded into its midnight waves. I made sure I hadn’t missed a single spot. I prepped the interior for the leather change and my dad took it to the shop. It was returned to me a week later. Being in the midst of its beauty took my breath away. It looked great. With that car I was the queen and the rest of the world might as well have bowed down to me as peasants. At least, that’s what my friends did. Although none of us could drive, I would sit in the drivers seat while the rest of them filled up any other possible space the car had, and we would just sit there, basking in its glory.
Finally, I got my license. Taking the car out for the first time, of all places, I decided to go get my hair cut. This chevy, plus some luscious locks meant one happy girl. The salon wasn’t too terribly far away, down the main road and then to the left. Despite the distance and the familiar road, my hands were trembling the entire time. I took long, deep breaths in order to keep myself steady. After six minutes, which might as well have been six days, I arrived at the salon. I parked my car very carefully; I didn’t want any dings on the doors. The salon was busy. I had booked my appointment in advanced, so I would still be able to get in, but there must have been some party or wedding or something because I had to fight my way through numerous groups of petty conversations to get to the front desk. Paranoid, I gripped my keys hard enough to make my palms sweat. When I came out about an hour later, I noticed some people standing by my car. About 20 women, all with their Louis Vuitton handbags and Ray Bans stood around my precious vehicle with the same expression on their faces. I progressed from the door of the salon to my parking space, my keys in my hand and my knock-off Ray Bans shielding my eyes, preparing to unlock the car and make even more of a scene.
Suddenly, a man called to me, and the group moved away. To my horror, I saw someone had crashed into my car. My keys hit the ground with a clank and a shattering echo as my jaw dropped. The whole right side of my car was dented in the way my brother’s bedroom wall was one night when he lost his temper. The wing was crippled and the glass of the crystal window was cracked. The paint was scuffed up like the bottom of an old pair of shoes. A tear trickled down my cheek. At this point I realized my Chevy was a dream and dreams don’t last forever. However, I was raised reasonably and I was raised right. I called my dad and told him what happened and then the towing company. My father arrived in four minutes, the tow truck in 12. The damage was reversible, thank god, so the tow truck took it to the same shop I had two months earlier. My father took me home. Insurance would cover all the damage and the husband of the snob women who crashed into my car even offered to repaint and glaze my car himself. I personally thanked him for the offer but I told him I wanted to do it, because it wasn’t his fault and that wasn’t how my parents raised me. I was taught to work hard for what I wanted and to appreciate what I earned because those who take things for granted don’t get very far.
So there I was, at the tail end of August working on my car again, lugging around that gleaming onyx paint in the cheapest bucket that superior foreign paint company could find. I went around the Chevy eight times, again making sure I hadn’t missed a single spot, and then some. Once the work was all done, I put down the paint and wiped the sweat from my face with my old t-shirt. I opened up the drivers door and sunk into the platinum leather seat, basking in my glory.