Michigan streets- My Story, Part 1

The warm May breeze scattered a few dry leaves as I walked around outside and stood under the awning of the Performing Arts Center. The building housed the Choir, Band, Orchestra and Theater classrooms. Leaning on my right crutch, I fished my phone from the left pocket of my Arizona blue jeans. It was a flip phone. It wasn't much, and it was pretty outdated compared to what my friends and peers had, but it did what I needed it to do: make and receive calls, take pictures and tell time.

I popped it open using the push-button latch, selected the number from the recent calls menu and put the phone to my ear. It rang twice, "Hello?", said a voice. "Where are you dude, it's almost quarter to."
"Hold on dude, I'm on my way alright?"
"What are you doing?"
"You'll see when I get there."
"Alright, bye."
"Bye."

I clapped the phone shut in disgust and annoyance, where was he? "He's not usually this late." I told myself. I noticed Mr. Schneider, the Theater director, an older man with glasses, walking to the door of his classroom, key poised to unlock the door. "Might as well go get my walker." I said to myself.

My name is Alexander Lubbers. I'm an 18 year old Junior at Holland High school in Michigan. I'm not like everyone else my age around here. I don't wear skinny jeans and skater shoes like Converse. Give me a pair of beat up black Nikes, my relaxed-fit Arizonas, and a plain black cotton t-shirt or a nice graphic shirt and I'm cool.

My forte isn't a longboard or the like. Even though I live in a decent-sized town, I'm a Country boy at heart. I love big trucks on 44 inch mud tires slingin through a pit of thick mud.
I also have a big soft spot for pretty much any classic American car built from 1955 until now.

The first you'll notice about me, is my legs. I have Cerebral Palsy which makes it hard to walk, so I use crutches and sometimes a walker. The next thing you might catch is the fact that I'm very talkative and opinionated. My dark brown eyes match the color of my hair. Though, when my hair catches the sun just right, you can see the red and golden tints that I get from my mother.

I walked back outside roughly 2 minutes after I had gotten my walker from Mr Schneider's, "Is he coming or not!", I was really agitated now. I was about to call him again, but I didn't have to wait very long for the answer to my question.

A very ordinary but sinister black 2013 Ford Mustang pulled up and around the oval drive in front of the school building, before it stopped dead in front of me. The wide black passenger door opened out toward me. Rj leaned out over the shifter and the center console. What he said was straight and to the point, "Get in" I hesitated for a second, unsure of what to do. Should I go to my daily classes as usual, or skip for the day, make it up later, and see what my friend was up to?

As we drove to the outskirts of town, and out into the next county, I held my crutches in my lap making sure not to scratch the showroom-fresh black leather interior. Rj hadn't said much since we left the campus about twenty minutes prior. All I could see was farmland for the most part. The pavement was old and the asphalt had turned from a sleek black finish when new, perfect for cruising at high speeds in a performance car such as this Mustang, to a dull gray, full of cracks and fissures. Some of theses breaks were filled with new material, while others were left to decay. Such are most roads around here. This scene does apply more and more to the backroads as you get farther from densely populated cities.

I turned on the radio and cranked up the Rock station. The music ranged from 3 Doors Down and Nickelback, Evanescence and Daughtry, to Skillet, Disciple, TFK and the like.
I was banging my head in rhythm to the music as I drew my attention to the somewhat barren scenery, and finally to the rear view mirror. It was a short while before something caught my eye. It started out as a small dot, but quickly became recognizable. At first, I thought nothing of it. But after about ten minutes of being tailed by this mountain of steel, finally, I broke the silence, "What's the deal?"
"What do you mean?", Rj replied.
"That semi has been trailing us for more than 5 miles."
"Oh him, he's with me."
"What do you mean?", I asked in disbelief. My face told him that I was absolutely clueless.
"I'll show you in a couple minutes."

Rj. My best friend since my Freshman year at the high school. He's a pretty spontaneous and goofy guy to be around. His deep red, almost rusty hair color tells of the Irish blood flowing through his veins. Irish may run through him, but his facial features evidence his Laotian heritage as well. At about 5' 9", he's two inches taller than me, though my Cerebral Palsy prohibits me from standing any taller. He has a goofy smile and distinct laugh that can pretty easily brighten up a room. His eyes are darker than mine, an abyss of dark brown almost black, that can burn with an unearthly fire or radiate unique joy.
He's also a car guy. But rather than choose from a lineup of Toyotas, Hondas, Nissans and the like, he gravitates toward American iron.
Specifically, the Ford Mustang.

The minutes ticked by and the truck slowly began to get smaller in my rear view as it backed off more and more.
"What is the driver doing that for?" I wondered to myself as the truck continued to widen the gap between it and the Mustang.