Page 1 of Challenge Me

Chapter One

Ghost

I am a 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T, with a 7-liter V8 Hemi engine. A masterpiece of American steel. When the Ford Mustang asked the question, “Can anyone possibly do better than this?” I answered with a roar that made the auto industry tremble. Every line, every curve, every stripe of paint on my body was designed to radiate power and confidence.

I was not so sure the bumper sticker now clinging to my paint was helping my image. It was insultingly neon pink.

I stared at it.

*~*Hot girls hit curbs*~*

Surely, I thought, there had been some mistake. I stared at you as you admired your handiwork, your eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, while the shame of your vandalism clung to my body in cheerful pink bubble letters.

You reached for another sticker. I could not see what it said from that angle, but I assumed it was something equally humiliating. Something with sparkles, or a heart, or a phrase involving the word “slay,” which I understood only as something one did to enemies, not as a lifestyle.

“No.” The word left me before I could dress it up with manners, and my hands seized yours, holding them at arm’s length.

I didn’t care that this was out of line. You were my new owner after all, and I understood the imbalance of power. You had bought me. You had paid for me. You had every legal right to do with me what you wanted. But I knew my worth, and a man–car, spirit, machine, whatever damn thing I was–had to have standards.

“No?” You echoed, as if the concept of rejection was something new to you. Your brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering at the corners of your mouth, but I was not going to be charmed out of my position, not on this.

I shook my head. “No stickers. No wrap.”

Your eyes widened. You looked genuinely hurt, which almost made me feel bad. Almost.

Then I remembered there was a neon confession of curb-related incompetence stuck to my ass, and my sympathy dried up like rain on hot asphalt.

I relaxed my grip on your wrist, withdrawing my shadow back into my frame with all the dignity I could gather, and opened my door for you with a controlled click. “If you worry about curbs, we can go for another driving lesson.”

You froze, hands hovering mid-reach for the golden handle of your cane.

And, there it was. That hesitation, that tension in your body, the faint change in your expression, the way your gaze slipped away from mine. I was waiting for the rejection. I was used to it now, even if I hated it.

We hadn’t left the garage since that first day together. You always came to visit me, but that made the rejection worse, not better. You came, you talked, you touched my door, my hood, my wheel, but you never took me out.

Sometimes you arrived with papers tucked beneath your arm and leaned against my fender while you talked to Al, and we’d watch as he and Fox drove away into the night before you’d bid me a stiff farewell and vanish back upstairs, leaving me to my doubts and fears.

Had I upset you on our singular first drive together? I tried to remember every minute of it, replaying it over and over, looking for where I’d fumbled, but I couldn’t see it; I’d simply taken charge, taken control, and you had liked it, I was sure of it. I remembered that first drive too clearly to doubt myself.

So I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t take me up on the offer now, leaving my door hanging open and the driver’s seat empty.

“Not today.” You forced a smile, glancing away. “I have classes, but maybe the weekend?”

◆◆◆

The weekend. I nursed your answer for days, resentfully watching as each one ticked over like miles on the odometer.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.

You came to see me every night, updating me on idle gossip. Students. Lessons. Reports. Meetings. The approaching end of the world. All very important to you, I was sure, but none of it excused the fact that I was sitting in the garage with brand-new wheels and nowhere to take you. John–my owner before you–would never have left me waiting like you were. But John wasn’t here, and all I had left now was you.

I could wait. Patience was something I was good at. Old cars knew patience.

But patience is a noble thing only when envy is not there to sour it, and Fox– the little 1992 Fox Body Mustang with whom I’d become wary friends at the impound lot–was there every day, parked beside me. Chatting. Stretching out in his own strange way, all shadow and yellow eyes and smug little Fox Body confidence.

I listened as he told me about his adventures, about the places he visited with Al, about the meaningless errands they went on together. He talked about late-night drives and fast food, about stupid conversations at red lights, about Al’s bad singing, about corners taken too quickly.

Then I watched Al himself come down every night, keys in hand, and an eager smile on his lips as he climbed into Fox.