A breath. In, out. The wind howls as it rips through the open windows, your wild hair dancing as it crowns your head. The wheels roar against the blackened asphalt as you gun the gas pedal. Your face breaks into a smile that would shame the sun, and you are free, flying across the swirling city lights with a song in your heart. The lights are quite a bit brighter today, you realize. The reds seem to lash out at you, digging into your eyes. A brief honk shakes you and suddenly your daydream screeches to a halt. You glance to the driver’s side and stifle a growl – yep, that’s a boy. And you’re going on a date with him. He laughs, realizing he startled you from your thoughts. You grimace subtly, knowing exactly what to expect from your valiant knight in shining board shorts.

Perhaps he will prove himself to be a city -boy driver. This young, relatively smart teenage boy often proves himself to be slightly less of a complete disaster than the other males his age. He’s grown up in your neighborhood, navigates relatively well, and often reacts to potential threats with shaky confidence. The potential silence of the car is often filled with his remarks on the weather, or the football game last week. Akin almost to a cat, this boy requires little to no effort to appease him, and is often comfortable with keeping his eyes on the road. This boy is perhaps the most tolerable of the bunch, and often times proves himself perfectly capable of forgetting all about you being his date when the big game turns on the restaurant television.

Your eyes move toward the window as you contemplate the next alternative. He could always be a Mr. Knowitall, constantly assuring you that he is capable your destination all on his own whilst frantically Google-mapping the route behind his shoulder. He could be the touchy driver, whose skills on the road are barely adequate, but whose conversation methods were seemingly picked up from a day-long “Barney and Friends” marathon. You shudder at the recollection of his alternative form of communication: physical touch. From “accidentally” brushing against your hand seated at quite a distance away, or dramatically flinging his arm in front of your stomach as he comes to a stop, the touchy driver has burned his way into the lowest levels of your respect. He, along with the other males included in his category such as the spitter, the whistler, and the off-tune Beyoncé, all mark the distinct male characteristics of total incompetence in both social and motor skills.

And hence, from the ashes of shame and incompetence left by his predecessors, emerges a new monster so vulgar, so reviling, he deserves his very own category: the country boy driver. Let’s be real here. You don’t milk cows or ride horses, and would rather cut off your own foot than listen to country music. So, when home boy comes swinging around the corner in an obscenely large cloud of red dust and his leg half-hanging out of his window, you must ready yourself, for the day of reckoning has arrived. Prepare yourself to be sucked into a whirlwind of endless chatter, yes ma’ams and no ma’ams circling your head like fleas, accented by jarring stops as your lovely southern gentleman occasionally forgets how to put his foot on the brake pedal. And do not even attempt to fix his grip on the wheel. Or rather, the total and utter lack thereof. Because despite your loud warnings, your white knuckles gripping the armrest, this large, sweaty specimen decidedly drives one-handed, regardless of his complete and utter failure of mastering such an art, as you have yourself. You can only sit and close your eyes as the nightmare passes over, pitying his poor car for being mistreated so.

Your thoughts are shattered apart once more as a warm weight presses against your shoulder. You blink, and slowly the face of Mystery Date and his hand on your shoulder comes into focus. His brows are furrowed, and you realize that he hasn’t even left the driveway yet. He looks over at you, really looks at you, and you find yourself slowly looking back. You can feel a potential chill coning from the late August air, but before you can even shake it off, you feel warm fabric being pressed into your hands. His jacket. You look up in surprise, only half-noticing his mumbling and his hand running through his hair. The silence awkwardly pervades the air and you shift in your seat. His next words however, completely snap your head to the left.

“So, where are we driving tonight?” he jokingly asks. Disbelief and caution threaten to paralyze you, but your mouth opens before you even tell it to. “Actually, is it alright if I drive?” A flicker of surprise crosses his features, only to be replaced by a feral grin. With a laugh, you whip out your truck keys from your back pocket and burst from his tiny car. He follows your wild dance gracefully, and in no time he’s seated in the passenger seat, watching interestedly as you start the ignition. With the hum of the engine igniting that fire in your veins, you turn to face him, this, this new thing, a boy who wants to see you drive.

Any lingering dread skids to a halt, replaced by a soft, warm flicker of relief and something else you can’t identify. A wild grin erupts from your face as you turn to the road, foot on the gas, hand on the wheel. A startled noise sounds from the back of Jacket Boy’s throat and he laughs as you peal into the night and … Just. Start. Driving.