Courtney LeBlanc

It was a ’69 Mustang – all chrome 
and glossy red. Her father’s weekend
hobby, her mother’s chief complaint, our desired
ride to Saturday night’s drag race, the one
on the dirt roads behind the Miller’s farm. We ghosted
past her parent’s dark bedroom, eased open 
the door. The license plate read FAST CAR
and she held the keys in her hand. After coasting 
down the driveway she started the engine, killed 
it once before she pushed the clutch down hard 
enough to engage it. This car didn’t purr, it roared. 
Our laughter was drowned by the engine’s 
rumble as we whipped around corners. The first
race was done by the time we arrived and we pulled
into line beside a yellow Camaro – new and pristine 
and no one’s father spent weekends under that hood.
We watched for the sign – a red t-shirt waved – 
and then dropped the clutch, the engine revved
as we shot forward, gravel spitting behind us.
We screamed, our 16-year old voices bright
with excitement. The car beside us blurred,
the end in sight as she down-shifted, my stomach
lurched with the high squeal of the engine.
We passed the finish – a white t-shirt waved – 
and slowed, the dust in the air tornadoed
around us. We looked to the officiant – a high 
school dropout we usually avoided. He tipped 
his head toward the winner. The Camaro’s window 
slid down silently, Nice driving, he said, then flashed
a thumbs-up. We nodded, returned the thumbs-up,
already thinking of the next race.