I Used to Be the Cool Girl
All it got me was a string of mediocre sex
My friend used to drive a Trans Am. He called it his dream car, and he would beam with pride whenever he spoke about it.
He couldn’t stop bragging about its speed and performance.
I drove my mother’s Toyota Matrix, but I still agreed to race him. He was sure his sports car could outrun my mom’s hatchback.
We found a long stretch of road that didn’t get a lot of traffic after hours and met there after dark. We took off at the same time, driving at reckless speeds, trying to overtake each other.
As it turns out, his sports car was no match for me. I beat him.
But neither of us won, exactly. That’s because there was another car on the road that night — a police cruiser, to be exact. Before we could make it to our arbitrary finish line, we saw the flashing lights and were pulled over.
We were teenagers with a warped sense of risk, but we knew better than to get into a car chase with a cop.
We were scolded by the officer and handed fines for speeding, but I still felt thrilled by what we had done. It was confirmation that I was the Cool Girl.
I wasn’t the girl in daisy dukes waving a flag at the finish line. I was the sexy bitch…
