I’ll always remember the cold leather on my

back. It wasn’t really leather, probably nylon or

something like it. Black was the color, with neat little

white stitches running in and out of the fabric, suturing

it to the cushion beneath. As a child I, wondered about

those tiny white stitches. They appeared to be so

perfect. The thought that a machine did them never

occurred to me then. When I was five, Aunt Mary told

me a story about elves that made shoes for an old man.

She described the miniature stitches and so later on I

assumed that elves had upholstered my daddy’s

Camaro.

A cigarette burn from Uncle Jake made a shriveled

gray hole in the upper right corner of the back

seat. I remembered when that had happened. I was

sitting between Uncle Jake and Aunt Mary. Up front

Daddy was driving and Momma was fixing her lipstick.

We were just about home when Mr. Howard’s

mangy old hound dog ran out in the road chasing Mrs.

Robbins’ fluffy white cat. Daddy hit the brakes, cussing

up a storm, and huffing like he was going to have a

heart attack. Momma’s favorite Avon lipstick broke in

half, which made her screech almost as loud as Aunt

Mary who chipped her tooth on the bottle of Cherry

Coke she was drinking. Uncle Jake’s hand that was

holding the ever-present unfiltered Marlboro flew

backwards, creating that little hole.

In the summer the sweat from my naked

thighs collected in a pool that created suction from my

legs to the seat. The summer we sold the Camaro I

had bought my first two-piece swim suit from the Sears

and Roebuck catalog. Momma said that I was old

enough to have it. That’s the summer that Robby used

to take my Daddy’s car to the beach every Saturday.

After Robby quit his summer job at the hardware store

he paid my Daddy three hundred dollars and an old

Chevy truck for the Camaro.

The faint uncomfortable feelings caused by the

cold leather digging into the warmth of my back

brought my attention to the present. I could feel it

through my silky white camisole that was a birthday

present from Mamaw last year. The white cotton bikini

briefs lying across the top of the passenger’s side

seat when I turned my head made me blink incredulously

as if I didn’t know what was going on. I knew

my body was warm but the arctic was in my veins. As

I stared at the white panties, I pictured pure, crisp

snow. The fresh zing of winter air in the early morning

rang in my subconscious. I breathed out carefully, taking

some small joy in seeing the white steam that resulted.

It was proof that I was still concrete.

My hand brushed the gnarled, dirty carpet between

the two seats on the floor of the Camaro. Closing

my eyes, the original color of the carpet—an off

white—came to mind. When Daddy first bought the

car, I was seven years old. The month after Momma

was taking me home from the drug store and had

bought me a chocolate milk shake. It spilled when she

went around the corner to our block and Daddy never

let her drive the car again. Whenever she complained,

he muttered something about women drivers. Momma

told me that I shouldn’t mind what Daddy said about

women drivers. I was going to learn to drive if it killed

her.

When Robby finished, he sat up and tossed the

filled Trojan out of the car window. I brushed my

bangs away from my face and reached for my panties.

He lolled his head back onto the carpeted shelf between

the back window and the seat. The moon shone between

the fogged patches on the windows, making my

panties glisten like my cheap rhinestone tiara from the

county fair. I located my rumpled shirt, stuck between

the crevice of the seat cushions and started to button it

up.

Robby moved to take me home and I climbed

over the seats to the passenger side. With my fingers I

righted my hair and my lipstick. Smoothing my rumpled

shirt, I pulled my sweater tight and bit my lip. He

started the old engine and revved it like high school

boys are wont to do. Shooting out of the driveway of

the parking lot and down the road to my block, I felt

the rush of blood between my legs. I knew I would

have to clean myself up when I got home. The towel

on the backseat would not be enough. Bobbi Sue had

not said there would be so much blood.

Robby cut off the headlights on the Camaro and

rolled carefully onto our gravel driveway. The stones

made soft crunching noises as they lodged in the tread

of his tires. My hand immediately went for the door.

Robby put his hand on my knee and turned to face me.

He said something about how I was his girl and then

tried to kiss me. His breath smelled like the $2.25 special

down at Lulu’s. Quickly, my lips brushed his

cheek, grating against the stubble from yesterday’s

shave. I opened the door and stumbled to my bedroom

window.

Once I was at the window I heard Robby pull

away as quietly as possible. I took a deep breath and

felt a tear make its path down my face. The cool air

slid around my legs, dancing upwards and giving me

goose flesh on my arms. Noiselessly, I climbed in and

landed safely on my bed.

Later, as I cleaned myself up in the bathroom

and disposed of my clothing, I knew for certain that

Mamaw was right. Fast girls go to hell. It isn’t the

kind of hell they talk about in church on Sunday. It’s

the eternal shame that she’ll feel when she walks

around the next day, certain that everyone knows exactly

what and whom she was doing last night. It’s the

kind of hell that’s endured in the back seat of a car on a

cold night.

Jennie Easlick is majoring in English with a Professional and

Technical concentration. Her minors are Political Science, Spanish,

and Gender Studies. She would eventually like to go into either

print journalism or the publishing business in New York City.

She has her own scrapbooking business and is very active in her

hometown church, Kingston Wesleyan. Her family heritage has

much influence on her writing. Her mother’s side is full-blown

Sicilian, and her father’s side is very Irish.