Young Writers Society

It was a Saturday afternoon in the beginning of August. The following day would be the day all the students moved up a grade in Sunday School. Tenth graders would become eleventh graders, eleventh graders would become twelfth graders, and twelfth graders would be going off, joining the adults or going to a new church, wherever their college was located. And this particular Saturday was the party that welcomed the new seventh graders.

I had been sitting in my room for an hour, waiting for five o’clock to draw near. I had guessed on the time the party would start; everything else had started around five. Why wouldn’t the Seven-Up Party? Even so, I looked at the clock one more time, and then picked up the phone. I skimmed through my address book until I found my youth minister’s number: Mama Lisa.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mama Lisa. When does the Seven-Up Party start? And should I bring my swimsuit?”

“Sweetheart, the party started at four. But you can still come! And yes, bring that swimsuit! We have the ‘slip-n-slide’ set up in the back yard!”

I panicked. Four o’clock had passed almost an hour ago! What if I had already missed the initiation ceremony, where we covered the seventh graders’ heads with shaving cream and chips? What if I got there too late, and everyone else had gone home? I shot to my feet, picked up my purse, and almost literally ran out my bedroom door, through the house, to my garage, and into my Chevrolet Cobalt. I was pulling out and driving off within a minute.

I flew down the narrow, winding country road, passed pastures, bridges over creeks, and through the vast forest of southern Alabama. I didn’t realize how fast I was traveling, or where I was going, until I was suddenly at the end of that long road. In less than ten minutes, I had traveled seven miles. I had about seven more left to go.

I took off yet again, rocketing down the old state highway. I passed the lake, the trailer parks, the body shop, and found myself at a red light at the intersection. I had to take a left, but I was impatient. I wanted to get to the party, to not miss anything, to be a part of all the fun. I literally tapped my left foot, silently commanding the light to change to green.

Once it did, I was off again. I didn’t know this road as well, but I still maintained my constant sixty- and sixty-five-miles-an-hour momentum. Any car that dropped me below sixty, I passed and left behind.

And then it happened. In my haste, I forgot where to turn. I didn’t remember that Mama Lisa’s was closer than I assumed it would be. I came upon her driveway at sixty-five miles an hour, a speed too fast to make the turn. I panicked, and everything went wrong.

I slammed on the brakes, hoping to slow down enough to not pass her house. I turned the wheel sharply, aiming for the narrow driveway. Nothing went according to plan. The car’s brakes locked up, squealing loudly as I lost control. I began to slide, the nose of the Cobalt heading directly for the mailbox and ditch at the end of her driveway. I released the pedals, and there it went. The Cobalt collided forcefully with the box, warping the metal as it buckled and collapsed, disappearing beneath the front of the car. I screamed and swore colorfully when the wheels suddenly left the ground, my vehicle sailing over the culvert and ditch that it corresponded to.

Time stopped. I can vividly recall the force of the impact, the sensations that swept through me once the Cobalt finally stopped. It felt as if I had just run headlong into a wall of bricks. My heart was pounding in my chest. My breath came in pants of fear.

I just sat there, staring at the hood of my car, at the cedar tree only a few feet in front of me, at the hilltop of Mama Lisa’s front yard. I glanced in the rear view mirror; the ditch was in my view, completely behind me. I had cleared the ditch and avoided certain harm! Just by looking at the slope of the ground, I knew that if I had jumped the ditch at any other angle, I would have rolled.

I staggered out, finally, and began to look around. There were black marks on the asphalt. The mailbox was nowhere to be seen. I could smell chemicals from my car. One of the grills was laying several feet to the side. The last car I passed had stopped, and its passengers were running back up the road, toward me. The three people were college students, two males and one female. The girl helped me calm down and call everyone I needed to – my parents and the towing agency – while the boys checked the Cobalt completely.

I ended up having a split radiator, a disabled air conditioner, and mild body damage to the front bumper. The car was not to be driven at all. I knew what I had done, as well. I had been speeding, and I knew never to do so again.

Despite all the damage I had done, everyone walked away with a smile on their faces. Mama Lisa thanked me for taking out her mailbox; she had hated it to begin with. My parents laughed at how I learned my lesson the hard way, even though it would cost over a thousand dollars to fix my car. A few of my friends, who were present at the party, cheered me up and helped me to have fun afterward.

The next morning, I was in pain. I woke up rigid, stiff, and pained throughout my shoulders, back, and arms. It hurt to move at all. But somehow, I ended up at Sunday School that morning, where I was greeted with a surprise. Mama Lisa had come to church with the ruined mailbox in her backseat. The warped metal looked nothing like a mailbox anymore. The once shiny, brand new black box was crumpled, dented, scraped, and out of proportion; the metal pipe that had been its stand was twisted, bent, and broken off evenly. The red flag was even bent into a perfect “u” shape.

My trophy, as Mama Lisa and the others had called it, reminds me to this day to slow down, pay attention, and that I can always turn around and come back. Why slam on the brakes if it means you end up on the other side of an eight-feet-wide, six-feet-deep ditch?