Driving through town on a beautiful day with the windows down, my sunglasses on and the wind blowing through my hair, and music blasting out of the car speakers. It has to be something loud and fast—something that really gets my blood pumping—something that gets me dancing in my seat and drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. 

 

I love the way the sun kisses my skin, the way it glistens off my hair, making it shiny and brilliant red. I love the way the wind brushes over my face, whipping strands of hair around me in a whirlwind. I love the rush of power I get from the rev of the car’s engine, the adrenaline of speed as we enter an open stretch.  

 

I pretend that the people in cars sitting around me at the stoplight are looking at me, but I don’t dare check. To do so would suggest that I care. And I can’t, because a truly cool person would be oblivious to all that. I imagine myself in a hot sports car instead of a sturdy four-door sedan. I casually prop my elbow in the open window and tip my head back against the headrest and smile, not brightly, just a smirk.

 

And then the light turns green and I shoot forward. I laugh and revel in the feeling of being alive. 

 

And cool. 

 

Sort of.