Brooke Werner

AP Language and Composition

Period 3

Don’t Take Your Top Off

There I was, crying at truck-stop diner parking lot at 12 am in the morning. Water

pooled both in my eyes and in my car. Mascara hugged my eyes, leaving a trail down

my cheeks. As I wiped at my eyes, I started to look more like a puffy raccoon than an

upset human being. In between sobs, I took bites of my waterlogged McFlurry.

The story starts as any sixteen-year-old’s summer night starts; driving around

with her friends. Because I was one of the oldest in my friend group, I drove most

nights. I also had my own car and was lucky enough that my parents didn’t make me

pay for my own gas. My parents had gotten me a silver Jeep for my sixteenth birthday,

a common teenage car in Lake Forest. My dad thought it would be cool to get a soft top

that I could take on and off for the summertime. After he put it onto my car, he

mentioned that the website implied the top should be able to be taken on and off by one

person. As I later found out, what it really meant was one middle-aged man that has a

hefty amount of arm strength and is around six feet tall could take it on or off. As a

result, I struggled dreadfully, even with several friends, to move the top in either

direction. This particular night was hot and humid which meant the top was down.

My friends and I drove all around the surrounding towns, hanging out at a few

different places, but ultimately going to McDonald’s for McFlurries in the end. At around

11, I made the usual route, dropping off each friend in the same order, a typical routine

of mine. As I left the last of my friends’ houses, I felt a raindrop. I looked toward the dark
sky, hoping it was just from a nearby tree. Another raindrop landed on my nose. Another

on my cheek. The clouds thickly blanketed the entire sky, engulfing the Earth from the

horizon. I immediately parked on the side of the road in her neighborhood and fidgeted

with the top. After fighting the top for a good ten minutes, the rain started to pour. I

thought to myself, ​I need to get home now. ​I climbed into my car. My hands gripped the

steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turned a whitish color. As I turned out of the

neighborhood, stress began to build up, equating itself as the roller coaster dropping

feeling in my stomach. My typical route was through downtown Lake Forest, however

taking U.S. Route 41 took about eight minutes shorter.

The only problem was my anxiety. I have extremely bad general anxiety, but it’s

worse with driving. Within all my permit practice and having my license for eight months,

I had only been on any highway four times, maybe five. I absolutely hated it. I would get

so worked up and panicked that I would have to pull over and calm myself down.

Excuse my language, but it was a total shitshow every time. For an unknown reason, I

pushed these memories to the back of my mind. I decided to get onto Route 41 which

connected to Sheridan Road near my house, instead of going through downtown Lake

Forest to save time. Not being entirely knowledgeable about highways, I turned right,

onto the ramp to the north entrance of Route 41, the opposite direction of my house.

The sky was a tar-black color, with clouds pelting droplets of water down to the

Earth. The temperature dropped to a harsh forty-five degrees, or that’s what it felt like.

As I drove, my already impaired vision was affected greatly. Rain was coming at me

from above and at the windshield, on which the wiper was already conveniently broken.
I looked down to see my phone getting soaked with water. I grabbed it and tucked it

under my shirt into my bra for “safekeeping” from the rain. I couldn’t see a thing in front

of me, let alone anything around me I recognized. My chest contracted, making it harder

and harder to breathe. The all too familiar feeling of a panic attack had already begun.

My heart started to beat at a million beats a minute. My face flushed and my thoughts

were flying around my head just as fast as my heart was beating. My head was racing.

The cars around me are going to think I’m so dumb. Who drives without a top on their

car in the pouring rain? They’re probably laughing at me. Why did I not put the stupid

top on? ​I was jolted out of my thoughts when a nearby car revved past me, making a

loud acceleration noise. I looked around again, searching for something, anything,

recognizable nearby. I saw the bright distasteful lights gleaming “Full Moon Diner” in the

distance, something I finally recognized.

There I sat, in the Full Moon parking lot. I had several missed calls from both my

parents and even one from one of my brothers. I told them in advance when I would be

home, as I do most nights. When I didn’t come home, they got worried. I immediately

called my dad. When he answered he barked, “Where are you? This isn’t funny. You’re

way past curfew,”. To which I replied with heavy sobs and a very shaky voice, “I’m at

Full Moon. I need you to come get me,”. “Is that a joke? Just come home,”, he replied in

a softer tone. I continued to cry, something out of character for me, until he sighed,

agreeing to come help me.

Full Moon is a family diner, but first and foremost, a 24-hour truck-stop. There

were motorcycle drivers and truck drivers in the parking lot staring at me curiously. Most
likely thinking, “​What is going on over there? Why is that teenage girl sitting in a car with

no top on it, sobbing, and eating a McFlurry?”,​ but did anyone offer to help? No, they did

not. It was another 20 minutes before my dad arrived to my rescue. He pulled into the

parking lot and I don’t think I had ever been so happy to see him. He parked his car next

to mine, giving me the closest distance for me to get out of my car and into his. My dad,

a middle-aged man with a good amount of arm strength, is about five foot nine inches.

He walked up to my car, somewhat easily pulling up the top.

Through this experience, I learned several things. The first of which would be to

familiarize myself with all the surrounding highways and major roadways. This would

have been helpful in terms of knowing the difference between North Route 41 and

South Route 41. Secondly, leather and water do not mix well together. Because of this

adventure, the back middle seat’s leather is all warped and strange. My dad is very

unhappy with it, but I have accepted it as a sign of my car’s character. Finally, I know

my dad will always there for me. He will always have my back, despite the crazy

situations I manage to get myself into. He will always come to my rescue.