Joey
Joey
by C.R. Truitt
by C.R. Truitt
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Joey shut the car trunk lid with finality, not a slam, but a firm close. Nevertheless, it marked the end of packing and time to go. She rounded the convertible, pulled open the door, slid into the driver’s seat and swung the car door shut with a firm pull, but not a slam. She fastened her seat belt, placed her hands on the steering wheel, took a deep breath and turned her head to face her younger sister, Sam. “Are you ready for this?”
Sam answered, “Do we really have to?”
“You heard the Judge.” She twisted the ignition key and the thirty-five-year-old Ford Mustang GT convertible purred to life. It was a satisfying sound for Joey, because she had built it from a piece of junk from yesteryear into a fine machine in auto shop. With the help of her dad and some of her own money, it had all new suspension, a new four speed manual transmission and a new beefed-up engine. She had gotten as far as new seats and remodeled interior. Now if she could just get enough money together to cover up the primer gray blotches with a nice candy-apple paint job and replace the top cover. And she could certainly stand a better stereo. But all that would have to wait.
“Why can’t you take care of us?” Sam whined.
Joey glanced in the left side view mirror, turned her head for extra safety and pulled away from the curb. “I’m not old enough. I’m not even eighteen yet.”
“You graduated high school and had a job,” persisted Sam, still trying to cope with the drastic change in their lives.
Joey was proud of graduating early, not that it would get her anywhere. College was for rich people or the gifted. She was neither. She was just a good student, but since this sudden change in her life, she had, at the moment, no means to pay for college.
Without looking at Sam she answered, “Slinging hamburgers will hardy pay the rent for the both of us. Now quit whining, Weiner—and put some tunes on.”
Neither Joey nor Sam looked back at their house. There were too many memories and too much left behind. Their only surviving relative would retrieve some of their stuff later; at least that was what they were told.
A snappy beat pealed from the hundred and fifty dollar CD/FM/AM/USB stereo, on sale as the last of its kind for sixty-five dollars, as she eased to a stop at the end of the residential street. She was stuck waiting in the static hot morning air before she could turn right into the heavily traveled street that would take her to the freeway. While she waited for an opening, an impatient male driver in a deep blue sedan behind her tapped his horn in a timid toot. She knew he lived on the street although she had never met him. Aw what the hell, she wouldn’t be back this way. She held up a finger to add to his frustration. She knew he couldn’t pull out any faster than her and by his manner and gray business suit, she knew he wouldn’t be brazen. She was safe to express freedom of sign language. A space appeared in the traffic and she turned into the main road with finger held high. The guy behind her only moved to the stop sign to wait for another space between cars with the added insult of being flipped-off by a teenager.
“Good thing there isn’t a cop around,” mused Sam.
Joey reached almost thirty-five miles an hour before everyone slowed, but the car in front of her went through on the red light before the cars on the side street could move. Joey pulled to an easy stop. A spiffy green Chevy pickup of some vintage decked out with reverse shackles and highly polished chrome wheels pulled up next to her in the left of the two straight ahead lanes at the light. Two other cars pulled even with them into the left and right lanes to turn into the crossing street. Cars stopped behind them.
A tattooed brown muscular arm rested on the open window of the passenger side of the Chevy beside her. A brown face under a turned-around-backwards cap stuck out the window.
“Hey mamas, ain’t you got no better tunes than that teeny-bopper stuff?”
Joey stared straight ahead. That was the problem with an open convertible. It seemed to invite unwanted attention, especially from males.
The pickup’s music bumped up to an over powering pounding base. Over the noise of the base and the monotonous drone of the artist, he shouted, “Now that’s music!”
The Chevy was higher than the Ford. She glanced up with a curl to her lips. Will this light ever change?
Her slight attention encouraged the guy. “It’s a nice antique you have to go along with that antique stereo. Needs a paint job, though.” He turned to his driver and said something. The driver gunned his engine. It was another male brag.
Joey did smile. She gunned her car. The Ford’s big V8 let out a powerful purr. Her stereo may not be much, but her car had muscle.
The music in the truck lowered and the boy with his head out the window, eyes widened.
“Oh Mama, that’s not a stock engine!”
Joey grinned and gave the boy a sideways glance.
The light changed to green. The driver behind her didn’t have to wait. He was still sitting there as she kept pace with the Chevy. Neck and neck the two cars paced each other without exceeding the speed limit but still exhibiting their prowess. Joey knew she wasn’t a bad driver. She learned how to handle a car from her dad, who was an amateur race car driver. They paced through two lights before being caught at the third.
“I’m in love, Mama,” shouted the boy from the Chevy.
This time Joey turned to face him and smiled devilishly.
“How about coffee?” he offered.
Thankfully, the light turned green. Her lane went straight ahead or turned into the freeway on ramp. Joey didn’t signal, afraid they would follow her onto the freeway. She just veered up the on ramp and turned the engine loose. It was after rush hour so the traffic timing lights were just blinking yellow. The dull red and primer spotted Mustang convertible easily matched the speed with the merging freeway traffic and blended with the other cars.