“Finally that class is over,” I thought to myself, as I worked my way through the crowded hallways of a school I had grown to hate. The semester was over, and most of us had survived exam week with passing marks. Some of us passed just barely, but barely passing still gets you through (just not as proudly). A long semester break lay ahead and from the excited voices of all the people in the halls, many of the tired students had vacation adventures planned – I know that I sure did.
My bags were already packed and loaded in the back of my car, a 1966 Mustang my father and I restored from a rusty mess while I was in high school. The sun gleamed off of the chrome and shiny paint, as I walked up to the only thing I had left that reminded me of my father. I threw my book bag into the backseat as I climbed into the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind me with a thud. Turning the key in the ignition, the Mustang’s engine rumbled to life with a deep throaty roar you can only get from an American muscle car.
“God, I love that sound,” I said with a grin, as I revved the engine a few times before putting the car into gear and maneuvering out of the crowded parking lot. Pulling out onto the main road, I twisted the knob on the radio and the melody of “song title here” came pouring through the speakers. I slammed the accelerator to the floor and smoked billowed up behind me, tires squealing. The tires grabbed and pushed me back into the leather of the driver’s seat as I sped off. My adventure had begun. Continue reading