Man, the
last few months have been super exciting. As soon as I
turned fifteen and a half I got to go to driver training
school. Learned all the rules and stuff, but the best part
was practicing driving Marcela's car. She was a nervous
wreck sitting beside me. I tried not to laugh, because she
was trying so hard not to show how scared she was, and she
praised even my lamest efforts.
I
finally sat for the driving test on my birthday when I
turned sixteen -- legal driving age. Getting my license was
so awesome.
I've
been saving my money from working at The Vibe (though I
don't like to get paid for being with Nash and only agree to
take some money when Marcela makes a big deal about it), and
from a little part time job I got at a thrift shop (I work
in the back sorting through stuff and pricing it -- pretty
easy). Well, I had enough to put down on a bike. It's
pretty hot looking -- blue with purple trim, and a blast to
ride.
Both
Nash and Marcela nearly had a heart attack when they saw me
on it.
"A
motorcycle," Marcela kept saying. "Are you insane?"
"No."
‘A
motorcycle!"
"Well,
what else can I afford?"
"Anything other than a motorcycle. An old Honda civic or a
nice safe, used Volvo?"
"Get
real. I'm not going to drive some old beat up car around,"
I told her. "When I can ride on a bike."
The
conversation ended up dying after that, because what could
she say? I'd already bought it. With my own money. And
she wasn't my mother, after all.
Nash was
a different story. He agreed that it was cool, but said he
didn't feel comfortable with me riding in such an
unprotected vehicle.
"I'll be
careful," I told him.
"You know, I
understand that you don't have a lot of money. Neither did I.
But I was able to find great transportation for cheap. You
could have asked me to help you search for something. I would
have."
Having him
spend time with me car shopping had its advantages, I'll admit.
In fact, it would almost be worth giving up the bike, but . . .
well, though Nash is gorgeous and nice and wonderful, he's
sort of a nerd. He likes old stuff. Old cars. Old music. He
doesn't dress great -- no baggy jeans, no hot belts, no cool
shoes. That's okay, I mean, I'm not a fashion statement
either. Wouldn't know how to look like a girly girl if I tried,
but at least I know a good car when I see it. Nash doesn't.
I told him
not to worry. I was happy with my bike. He gave me one of his
sexy grins. "If you're happy, I'm happy, Lupe. I know you'll
be careful."
And that was
that. Why couldn't Marcela be that reasonable?
Besides, I really am careful. If you're under 21, you have to
complete a motorcycle rider training course given by the
California Highway Patrol and provide a certificate of
Completion of Motorcycle Training to DMV and then they can issue
your motorcycle license. I
learned a lot and follow all the rules. Well, most of them.
It's sort of hard not to go fast.
I feel so
free now. I can go to school on my own and not have to wait for
a stupid bus. When my parents give me a hard time, I can just
go for a drive. I don't have to walk past leering guys on the
street, and listen to all the disgusting things they'd like to
do to me.
I don't care
that Marcela and Nash aren't happy. I am. I'm thrilled. I
have my own transportation and if feels amazing!
I
knew getting older was going to be great. Now all I have to do
is finish high school and I'll be completely free to do whatever
I want, whenever I want. No one telling me what to do ever
again.
