A Green Car and a Ferris Wheel

1.

I saw red and blue flashing lights on the pavement. Someone was shouting, “I didn’t do anything! I wouldn’t hurt her! I didn’t hurt her!” I was swooped up off the ground and held up high. An evergreen car was waiting on the curb. Gently I was buckled into soft cushions, but the shouting hadn’t disappeared. The door shut and I looked around in confusion. Everything was so blurry. The shouting was muffled, now.

*

I wasn’t exactly sure what I was supposed to be doing. Well, I did. I knew I was supposed to be writing my essay. But I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I looked around the classroom. Everyone else was absorbedly writing their essays.

Earlier in the class, I remember Mr. Roods had said, “Write about your childhood, maybe your favorite school year. Or you could write about learning how to ride your bike. This is an informal essay. I want to know every detail—I want vividness. Don’t hold back.” I closed my eyes. I tried to remember my past. It was blurry, I saw a green car—that’s all. That was my only memory from when I was little. Well, I knew that my father had been a hardcore drug addict, that’s what my Uncle Derrick told me when I was old enough to know. But I didn’t remember it. I didn’t really remember him either, but I never actually asked more about him. Uncle Derrick was kind of my dad now. But, I still wondered about my mother. No matter how much I persisted, he wouldn’t tell me about her. Every day I wondered about my mom. I wished I could write about her. I opened my eyes.  Mr. Roods was now in front of my desk. “Miss Richter, you’re supposed to be writing. I have a hard time believing that the brick walls of my classroom or sleeping is going to inspire your writing.”

“I know,” I replied, looking to the blotchy sea foam and dark green carpet. “It’s just… I don’t know…”

“What?” He asked, glaring at my blank sheet of loose-leaf.

“Would you believe me if I told you I don’t remember anything from my past?”

“Anything?” Mr. Roods wondered with incredulity.

“Well—a green… a green car,” I blurted out, my eyes quickly moving from wall to wall. “That’s all I remember.”

“Well that’s strange,” he stated plainly. I looked up at Mr. Roods without expression. “Write about that.” Then, he simply walked away.

How was I supposed to write about a green car? What, describe the deep evergreen coloring, shiny in the sunlight? The boring, gray seats? How it felt to sit in the soft, sinking cushion? How smoothly it glided across the black, gravel roads? Actually, I could write about that. But a green car? That’s hardly my past. I glanced over to my teacher who signaled his hands for me to write. I didn’t move. He raised his eyebrows and gave me a stern look. I stared back down at my paper and brought my sharpened-to-the-point pencil to the clean, white paper. Slowly, I entitled it “The Green Car”.

*

My essay was dreadful. Mr. Roods would be sure to fail me. All I had completed in class before the bell dismissed us was the title and the first sentence—“I don’t remember the day, I don’t remember how I ended up in it, but I once was in a green car.” And that was all. I had been staring at my paper for two hours. I could not write.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on my door. I cleared my throat, “Yes?”

The door creaked open and I saw Grandpa standing the doorway. I smiled at him—Grandpa never entered completely when I let him in, unless he asked specifically for permission. It was kind of funny. He glided his hand across the small patch of snow white hair he had left and he smiled—the creases on his face grew more apparent, “Dinner will be ready soon. We made lasagna.”