First semester of university was a big culture shock, and I was relieved to be going home, 90 miles away from school, for Thanksgiving break. There’d been a cold snap, and the few leaves still clutching to tree branches flared scarlet in the headlights’ beams as my father drove me through my hometown back to the house.
After family hugs, kisses, questions and answers, I made my excuses and headed downstairs to my old stomping grounds. My hand flipped on the rumpus room lights, picked up the cordless phone, and dialed my best friend’s number without any conscious effort or memory on my part.
“Hey man, glad you’re back!” Jay drawled in my ear. “Come on over at ten, we gotta go out tonight. Bring your car, ‘cause Roxanne is in the shop.” Roxanne was his red 1991 Pontiac Firebird that had replaced Betsy, his green 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass, early in his senior year. I hadn’t been allowed to take my car to school as a freshman. He’d been roaring around town in bucket seats, scraping by in basic courses, while I’d been grappling with distant lecture halls, weed-out organic chemistry, and a student body that had two women for every man—none of them interested in me.