
"Girl Braves"
I flung the Marlboro Lights onto the dashboard. They skittered across the faded green vinyl then wedged up against the windshield. My shiny metal key slipped snugly into the ignition. The hulking International Scout shook to life, its engine hoarse and raw. It sounded as if metal were eating metal and the whole thing was about to blow.
“Whoa, Tess! It’s gotten louder,” Lisa said.
“You think?” I bellowed.
Our black Labrador-poodle backed away in the driveway, a ridge of fur pricking up on his curly back. The Scout’s commotion swallowed up his scolding barks.
“It’s okay, Robber. Don’t freak,” I called out to the dog.
It was probably against the law for any vehicle to be as loud as the Scout. And decibel level wasn’t the only thing illegal about the boxy, rusted-out jeep. With its five-years’ expired registration and my learner’s permit, requiring an adult to be present whenever I drove, Lisa and I were outlaws on the dirt roads of Crested Butte. This only added to the goose bumps percolating on my forearms. Being at the wheel of my own car — at least for the summer – was a thrill. If we made it out of town without getting busted, we were home free.