by Stacia Laroche
Back when I was a 12-year old living in the warm rays of my youthful golden days, I used to sit on my rickety front porch steps with a disposable camera in hand taking pictures of every classic car that drove down our suburban street. The first car I ever captured was a 1957 Buick Roadmaster.
I was captivated by that car because driving it in a time period that it didn’t belong in meant you were taking a risk. It was a deep green, the same shade that belonged to leaves in the forest after returning from the winter. The kind you don’t remember seeing blossom. All of a sudden they’re just there again.
The Roadmasters long wheelbase and unique shaped headlights challenged modern day cars on the road to an arm wrestling match, but what stood out the most about the car were its tail fins. They were bold, prominent, and beautifully defined like the tense jawline of a woman who was refusing to back down from a fight. The kind of woman that challenges the world, rather than allowing the world to challenge her. That car took risks that I couldn’t draw myself to take back when I first began my hobby. I didn’t know I was queer and I didn’t know how to exist here.
The drivers of the classic cars were predominantly older men who’d just saluted farewell to fatherhood. You might catch them in a nursing home in about twenty five years living happily alongside their lovely wife. Little old me used to flag em’ down to get a quick photo of their car. They couldn’t resist the awkward charm of a preteen with hopeful blue eyes and a brace-face smile who proudly wore her father’s baseball cap backwards. The embodiment of a lesbian in the making.
The old men were pleasant to me, often calling me “sport” or “kiddo.” These fellas were overjoyed to step out of their car and allow a kid who shared the same passion as them to snap a picture of what they’d been dreaming of owning since their boyhood. I was uncertain back then as to why I was capturing all of these cars. Sometimes, fascinations have no true explanation. However, one day I found my explanation. She drove right by my house, going about ten miles over the speed limit with nothing, but pure confidence and an irresistible jaw dropping swagger that I dreamt of having when I stared into the mirror every morning at a body I had yet to grow into.
It all happened in seventh grade. By that time, I had collected over one hundred photos of cars only a kid could dream of owning because deep down, despite our innocence, there are some things we know that just aren’t feasible. On a Saturday in April, I saw one of those daydream cars that had the power to race into dreams at night and you’d wake up in the morning hoping that was a premonition of the future. Not even caring if it’s twenty years down the line.
Where I lived, April was the beginning of the classic car season. The semi-warm weather comes rushing up behind you, embracing you in a loving bear hug like your best pal you haven’t seen in awhile. You don’t expect it, but when you get it, you love it. One thing was different about this dream car. It wasn’t being driven by one of the old fellas who acted like a pseudo grandfather to me, even though mine was in perfect health. You can never have enough grandfathers because eventually you’re going to lose the first one. This car was being driven by a woman about ten years older than me and she was the greatest thing my young eyes had ever seen.
She had a pixie cut. She was taking a risk on the road just like the Roadmaster. She was a Roadmaster. Her short hair whipped around in the wind as she sped by in her valentine red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette with the top down all while blasting “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett. I felt like I was watching a private screening of a movie that had yet to be released. Most of the guys that drove on by were balding or had thinning hair. Sometimes, their baseball caps would blow off while they were driving with their tops down. Making them look like a man turned cartoon. I could see them on the screen in black and white, but this woman. She was graceful. She was captivating. Breathtaking. She was the woman with the perfect jaw that challenged the world. The golden sun shined down on her in an angelic way that made her appear as though she were fresh out of heaven because I couldn’t believe that a woman like her existed on this planet. She was everything I wanted to be when I was older after I said good riddance to my braces.
The woman wore tinted sunkist orange round framed glasses and had on a brown bad boy leather jacket that definitely came from the men’s department. I always wanted a leather jacket, but my parents refused to buy me one. I was told if I wanted it that bad, I had to save up on birthday and holiday money to buy it myself.
One thing I knew after seeing her was that I wanted to know where a human like her was going. The older guys were always going home to eat or watch a baseball game that they’d end up falling asleep to, but I knew there was more depth and dimension to her. She was young enough to still be sitting behind a computer, writing her story. Her plot was still thickening and I needed to know all about it. I knew I needed a damn picture of that car, but not because I needed it. I already had five pictures of the same model, but for some reason I had to have this one because it was hers.
Every time I attempted to wave her down, I was held back by the feeling of butterflies flying around in my stomach rent free, or I found myself at the top of a roller coaster, feeling that sensation you feel in your gut as you plummet down the tracks. Approaching her was like approaching a celebrity on the street and asking them for a photo.What if she said “Sorry, no pictures?.”
To avoid the heartbreak from rejection, I had to tend to my own devices. I would hide behind the bushes in my front yard which only left me with pictures of leaves or bugs. I had an assortment of blurry photos like early childhood memories. The kind that everyone who’s older and a bit wiser talks about and insists you were there for it, but the vision in your head is repressed. I took twenty failed shots before I decided that the only decision I had was to be brave and wave her down like the paparazzi on the red carpet. She was red carpet material, no question.
It was September when I made the executive decision to get an actual picture of the car that belonged to the woman I was infatuated with who had absolutely no knowledge of my existence or that she was lingering in my thoughts. Sometimes, I would tell myself that I shouldn’t be thinking of someone I don’t know because what would they think of that if they miraculously found out even though they never would.
I caught her on a Saturday evening. The sun was beginning to set. I’d been waiting all day because Saturday was always the day I could count on to see her. My mother kept calling me into the house for supper saying that my dinner was getting cold. I kept going back and forth from flat out ignoring her to reassuring her that I’d come inside in five minutes. I didn’t care if my hotdog was cold. Women are more important than cold hotdogs.
I was about to cave for the cold hotdog, but then I heard the engine of the corvette down the street. She was coming. Screw cold hotdogs. My mom was yelling at me. I didn’t care. It was time to be a Roadmaster. The rumble of the engine came closer and I launched myself off the porch steps to catch her. I ran as fast as my older brother’s Nikes would take me to get to her. She saw me running like a maniac in her rear-view mirror and witnessed me gracefully trip over my own two shoe laces and plummet to the ground. Her car screeched in its tracks and I watched her pull over to the side of the road.
She hopped right over the side of the car flawlessly. Abandoning opening doors made me idolize her even more. I remember seeing her black boots in front of me. She crouched down next to me. Her facial expression was soft and gentle to my surprise. She asked me if I was alright, peering over her sunglasses. Her eyes were warm even though they were the same shade of blue as icicles in January hanging from the roof. Those eyes just might’ve killed me like one of those ice knives falling from the gutter. She put her hand on my shoulder. I guarantee I was staring up at her all doe eyed. I wasn’t in love with her, but I was something. She helped me up and I did it. With my heart pounding in my ears I managed to utter out the question, “Can I take a picture of your car? You can even be in it if you’d like.”
Alarms went off in my head. What the hell was I thinking? She was going to think I’d frame it and hang it up on my wall. Look at it everyday or draw a big heart around her face. Maybe she’d think I was going to stop and blow a kiss at it every time I walked by. I wasn’t just mentally kicking myself, I was mentally going to twist my own ankle.
“Of course you can. I model in my spare time anyway.” She says it with her dollar sign smile. Of course she models in her spare time. If staring at her all day was a job, people would be lining up with their resumes clutched in their hands saying, “Please pick me.”
“You do?” I ask even though I know she’s telling the truth. She smiles at me and lets out a light hearted laugh. “No, but in life everyone’s a model if you think about it. Everyone is beautiful in their own special way. Even when someone doesn’t feel it or if they’re not treated like it.” I realized that I needed a notebook. I never thought she’d say important things that could shape me into a person who’s far better than the one that was staring up at her in awe, probably slightly drooling.
After our photoshoot, we ended up talking for a few minutes. She tells me that her name is Brandy, but not the booze kind of Brandy. Brandy was her father’s beloved pet dog that passed away before she was born. Her father always told her that she’s carrying on a very important legacy. I laughed because it seemed like the right thing to do since I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do. I wanted her to like me.
Brandy continued to talk and I hung on to every word she said because the second I opened the front door to my house, I would be putting ink to paper. This was top tier diary material. Brandy told me that she’d moved into an old house down the street with her partner and that they both thought it was haunted, but they didn’t mind it. “We’ve endured far worse than a couple of ghosts.” I didn’t know what a partner meant, but I pretended that I did because I wanted to be cool. Brandy was about to continue on until the front door opened and my dad said the most tragic sentence I’ve ever heard in my entire life.
“Kit. If you don’t come inside I’m eating your hot diggity dog!” He sang, acting like something out of the Goofy Movie. He might as well have walked out in a chicken suit too because my life was completely ruined. Catastrophic destruction had occurred and one life was lost. Mine. I wanted to crawl under the porch, curl up in a ball, and die. At least I’d have my dog’s company. Or Brandy could just hit me with her car. I shouted at my dad that I’d come in in a minute. Brandy turned to me. I expected her to laugh in my face. If she was drinking a glass of water during my near death experience with my father, she probably would’ve spit it out all over me. Instead, she left me stunned. Again. “Kit. Cool name. I like that a lot and now I want hotdogs for dinner.”
Before Brandy left, I asked if she would stop by again. She smiled at me. “Course I will. You’re the coolest Kit on the block.” The following day after my first encounter with Brandy I went to get my photos developed. When I got them back, I was instantly defeated by the sight of my thumb covering part of the lens of the camera. All I got was the damn car. No Brandy. I thought to myself, “I guess in life sometimes our thumbs are blocking us from seeing the best thing to ever happen to us for some annoying reason.”
The next time Brandy stopped by, my world changed even more. October had just begun and the pumpkin that I had carved that was residing on the porch had already rotted. My parents told me that it wouldn’t make it to Halloween, but I told them, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” They were right, he was graveyard material.
I’ll never forget hearing the engine of Brandy’s corvette roaring down the road. The noise grew closer and the butterflies came back. My heart dropped at the sight that followed when Brandy pulled up into my driveway with the corvette’s top down.
I was on a roller coaster again. Brandy was holding the steering wheel with one hand while she had her other arm wrapped around a woman who was wearing the brown bad boy leather jacket. It wasn’t one of those awkward arm-wrap around’s that happen at the movies where the boy yawns so he can make his move on the girl that he’s not brave enough to do without an excuse. They were singing in perfect harmony to “Take It Easy” by the Eagles that was playing from the radio. It was crystal clear that these two had shared many chapters of their lives together, bookmarking several that they’d revisit over a glass of wine for nostalgia. This was Brandy’s partner. It wasn’t even a question mark. It was a giant exclamation.
Brandy’s partner had perfect red lipstick, the kind that leaves a mark if you’re lucky enough to be kissed by her. Brandy certainly was because I noticed one of those marks behind her ear. Briefly, I envied her and wondered if her partner had told Brandy something before she did it. This made me have slight faith that cinematic romances might exist because I was certain I was watching one before my very eyes.
I studied Brandy’s partner as if she were art. Her curls were majestic. They had a life of their own, working in her favor. The dress she was wearing couldn’t have been worn better by anyone else. If Brandy’s from heaven, that’d make her partner an angel.
Brandy retracted her arm from around her partner and stepped out of her car. “Hey, Kit!” She called out excitedly while she opened the passenger door for her partner. “Would you look at that, chivalry lives to see another day.” She said to Brandy with a playful look on her face. I made a mental note to look up what chivalry meant later in the dictionary.
When she got out of the passenger seat, she smiled widely at me, placing her hands on her hips. “So, you’re the car enthusiast Brand was telling me about. It is so nice to meet you! You know, you look just like her when she was your age. She had braces too. Come to think of it, she looked better with them.” She teases Brandy even though her eyes hold nothing, but pure adoration.
I nodded at her shyly and tried to give her a confident “Hey,” in the same manner that Brandy probably would. I could see Brandy coming home saying that while she leaned up against the door frame, staring at her girlfriend. This made me realize that I wanted what Brandy had and that it was indeed possible. I was staring right at proof that had a loud beating heart. For the longest time, I thought there was something wrong with me because I fell for a new girl each school year despite the fact that kids in the cafeteria gossiped over undercooked lunches about how wrong it was to be gay.
I instantly warmed up to Brandy’s partner. It was easy for shyness to melt around her. The conversation flowed like a river without a current that I had expected to fight. I found out that Brandy’s partner’s name was Amber. I asked her if she was named after a dead dog too and she found that highly amusing. Amber told me that only her poor Brandy was cursed.
Right before Brandy and Amber left, I’m pretty sure Amber turned me into a woman within the span of two seconds. She kissed me right on the cheek. A dream came true that I didn’t even know I had. I thought achieving womanhood took years. Brandy let out a loud laugh that would have woken up the whole town if it was asleep as I sat on the steps in a daze holding my cheek, wearing a goofy smile that I tried my best to hide. When I looked at my hand, my fingers were coated with her lipstick. “You’re just a giver, aren’t you?” Brandy said to Amber, placing a loving hand on her back as they walked down the steps. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I charge you a fee.” Amber replied flirtatiously, slightly brushing up against Brandy’s side. I didn’t know what either of them were talking about.
Even though Brandy promised she’d stop by next weekend, I felt sad watching them from the steps waving wildly at me while “Hey Lover” by Daughters of Eve played on the radio, a perfect soundtrack to their love story. I stared at the car driving down the street off into the sunset, wondering what they were talking about or if they were singing. The two were off to go meet their reservation at a restaurant in town. At that moment, I wish that place didn’t exist even though they had the best spaghetti and meatballs you’d ever taste, but feel guilty about eating later. I looked back down at my hand with the lipstick on it. I couldn’t help, but smile. I never wanted to wash my hands again.
When Brandy came around that weekend, I confessed to her that I liked girls while we sat on the porch steps. I told her that I was terrified of admitting the truth out loud because that meant it existed in the world. I coughed up that I had a thing for my best friend Felicity and that I held her hand while we were stargazing. She didn’t pull away or swat my hand. She held on. I didn’t understand what it meant when a girl held on.
Brandy sat there like a studious student. She listened to every insecurity that I unveiled. When I got to the part about how I feared not being accepted, she stopped me. “When I get to the edge of the cliff like you are, you want to know what I tell myself?” Jokingly I said, “Jump off.” That got a boisterous laugh out of her.
She went on to say, “I tell myself that ‘everyone gets to love, so why shouldn’t I? I deserve to love like everyone else. If the world doesn’t like it, too bad. I’m not going to stop loving Amber for anyone. There’s no way I can stop loving her. I’ve tried. She’s tried to stop loving me. It’s impossible. So, we let loving each other be possible. Despite the glances and head turns we get. Don’t let anyone stop you from liking who you like.” I stare up at Brandy. Slowly processing everything she says. “Brandy, how’d you get Amber?” She smiles at me. Reliving that moment. “That’s an easy one, even though it felt hard at the time. You’ve got to be brave to get the things you dream about. That’s how I got Amber.”
After a friendly pat on the back, Brandy said, “I’m taking off, Kit. How about you take that friend of yours’ car catching with ya?” I considered it. It’d never been a shared hobby. It was my thing that I never thought anyone would find interesting. I never thought of taking the risk and letting someone into a world that was just my own, but if the Roadmaster and Brandy could take risks, so could I.
Just as Brandy was heading down the steps, she removed her leather jacket and handed it to me. “Here,” she said, “this will bring you good luck. I was wearing it the night Amber and I finally got together. I’ve been pretty lucky ever since.” I looked up at Brandy in awe and she winked at me like she’d just given me the Holy Grail that wasn’t supposed to be mine. When I put it on, I got a huge whiff of her cologne and I felt as if a superhero had just given me her cape, encouraging me to fly.
The next weekend, Brandy slowly cruised by my house and came to a stop. She was wearing a jean jacket this time. It appeared to be well loved and I’m sure it held a lot of memories like Brandy had given me. I can still see Brandy peaking over her sunglasses with that smile while she watches me with my arm around Felicity sitting on the porch. Felicity was holding my disposable camera and wearing my leather jacket. She was attempting to take a picture of Brandy. Brandy grinned and made the “rock on” sign with her hand. Felicity got the picture and Brandy drove off into the sunset. The sky was pink and romantic that evening. Perfect for young love that eventually blossomed into what Brandy and Amber had. We just didn’t know we were on our way there, we were too busy catching cars.
© Stacia Laroche
Stacia Laroche is a writer trying to make her mark in supporting the LGBTQ community through storytelling. She aims to capture the beauty of lesbian relationships through her words in hopes of teaching acceptance to the world, but most importantly her goal is to provide comfort to those in her community. She desires for her stories to be the queer friend that everyone’s missing.
Find out more on Bluesky @classicsapphic.bsky.social.
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