Taurus
by Cassie Tucker
The scent of my mother's Taurus circa 1991 remains imprinted into the back of my memory. My mom was very particular about the overall cleanliness of everything she owned; therefore the 'new car' smell lingered inside the vehicle for years following its purchase. I can still feel the indent of the small, circular rip in the backseat, as well as the rugged feel of the freshly vacuumed floor mats. Not a speck of dust or grime remained on the child-proof windows of the backseat, as I peered out onto the bustling streets of the city. The summer was hot and sticky, and the warm air caused my long, dirty blonde hair to stick to the nape of my neck, even though my mom always made sure my hair was securely placed on the top of my head in an uncomfortably tight ponytail. I never protested, even if she pulled my hair so tightly that my head throbbed slightly afterwards.
Once a week, my mom and I would wait in a practically abandoned parking lot for my sister to be done with her dance class. Cars beeped and screeched past that busy road in the middle of town, yet I was too busy to ever pay them any mind at all. That main road was merely the backdrop to the world I immersed myself into, the world of books. Every week I could be seen sitting with a Dr. Seuss book, which took over the entirety of my tiny lap; the vibrant cover almost perfectly duplicated the multi-colored pattern of my matching 90's shirt and shorts outfit. Whether it was Green Eggs and Ham or One Fish Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish was not relevant; the entire collection became the basis of how I spent my time. I loved picturing the stories in my head over and over again, time after time, like a roll of film on a massive screen. At the tender age of four, I sat as tall as my miniscule stature allowed in the back seat of my mother's Taurus, and I read.
The funny thing is, I don't ever recall my mother making it obvious that my literacy was rare at such a young age. She never told me I was special, or bragged to our friends or family about how intelligent I was for my age. Maybe I can thank my mom for my modesty today, because her silent approval affected me even as a young child. I never corrected my peers, not even the boy named Troy Thomas was proudly told the entire class that the popular movie 'Toy Story' was spelled T-O-Y. I didn't have the social skills to politely correct Troy, I simply allowed the class to continue to believe that the spelling of the word 'toy' is a good enough substitute for the spelling of 'Toy Story'. While my entire class would sit in a circle and learn how to spell and pronounce words such as 'banana' and 'kitten', I would make my way to the bathroom. I would just stand in the bathroom, not even having to use it, just so I could avoid listening to our teacher explain the alphabet. I must have used this escape tactic much too often, for after few weeks I was sent to the school nurse because my teacher was convinced I had some sort of bladder infection. Little did anyone know, sitting in the bathroom for a few meaningless minutes was my only escape from boredom at the time.
It was only when my teacher announced that each of us would be writing our own stories that my interest was caught for the very first time. Though my plot line was simple and my character less than deep, I worked long and hard on my story. It included numerous pages binded together, as well as an illustrated front cover. The cover read 'Icy the Ice cube', and inside was the story of an ice cube that could walk, speak, and interact with other kitchen foods. I don't know why I had some sort of fascination with foods that "came alive", yet I wrote an entire story centered around this ice cube. He went on adventures along the kitchen plains and climbed up through the cold refrigerator tundra; that ice cube could have conquered the world if it was to his liking.
I was no artist, and to this day I still leave that field to my older sister, yet I attempted to draw a block of ice with stick arms and legs, simply wearing a smile. Even though I was merely done with my year of kindergarten, my book was shown to the second grade teacher of my school, Mrs. Tapper. She had a head of brown, curly hair that sat on top of her head. She was tall, and wore the same colorful, floral shirts everyday. Mrs. Tapper wore way too much blush across her cheek bones, and always had an expression on her face that made students assume she was strict and rather mean. I remember her holding my book, as she examined it with a curious expression plastered to her face. As she pulled the pages apart, she attempted to get an idea of what my plot and my main character were all about. She tried to get a look into my mind, to get a look inside of me. All I knew is that I wanted to write.
Cassie Tucker, and I am a junior english major at the
University of Bridgeport. I plan on working in the magazine publishing
industry after I graduate, and I have interned at Ladies' Home Journal in
