I admit I have a bit of a volume problem. A sonic issue. 

It’s not like I can really blame myself since Taylor Swift is quite literally addictive. How could I not blast her in my car, because Lord knows I’m not a good enough singer to want to hear my own voice over hers. 

I’ve had my car since 2012 (it’s technically my dad’s), but at this point, I’ve adopted her as my own. She’s very reliable and hard-working and is responsible for the shuttling of my friends between houses and school. 

We call her the Mom Mobile, and the idea of leaving her behind for college already makes me nervous. She’s been there through it all. She was there for me when I was still playing soccer and getting me warm after brutal winter rain and the cold. She’s the one who takes us on road trips down to Spokane for grueling volleyball tournaments, and the occasional trip to California for Rush Cup.

She’s also my safe space. She doesn’t judge; she appreciates (or at least tolerates) pitchy teenage singing and my daily Starbucks runs. She’s seen everything from Channel Orange to Backstreet Boys and violent fights for the aux.

She’s seen me cry; she’s seen my friends cry. She’s stayed shiny and in top condition after 132,000 miles. She’s seen my brother move out. She’s seen him move back in. She’s seen unspeakable things. 

She’s had three new windshields and one too many visits to the body shop. 

Her second home is in the Liberty parking lot, surrounded by my friends’ cars that serve as fellow places of security and a substitute lunchroom.