Redirected

Anne Hathaway broke down on the highway two weeks after I spent every well-earned paycheck from the past year on that pathetic blue excuse for a car, bought from the shadiest used car lot in the entire state of Nebraska,

Anne’s tank guzzled gas like a seasoned drinker, then chose the most inopportune times to stop doing her job of transporting me and most of my carless friends around our little cornfield-flanked town. Her previous owner had seen fit to rig the lame old dame with a state of the art stereo system, but had neglected to take her for regular tuneups, so I never knew when she’d decide she needed a break.

In hopes of covering up the evidence of a run-in with the neighbor’s mailbox, I’d plastered the rear end of that pitiful Buick with motivational bumper stickers. Maybe, by some miracle, the go-get-’em phrases on her back hood would inspire Miss Hathaway to run with the reliable ease of a normal vehicle.

And this temperamental piece of junk is what my friends insisted would take us to the ocean and back. As our last hurrah before college we’d planned a trip to the California coast. Against my protestations, they’d insisted that we would split Anne Hathaway’s gas costs and driving time.

This is how I ended up sandwiched between Branden and Eric on a scratched-up bench seat, turning one of the large road maps Olivia’s dad had insisted we bring along. Eric complained about the heat and the choppiness of Branden’s driving, gaining only the response of Branden glaring sharply at the road in front of us and giving curt instructions to roll down the windows and turn up the music.

We trekked along, halting at the occasional dusty rest stop to swap seats and grab snacks, most of which Kylie bought and Eric ate. Sometime after my turn at the wheel, I dozed off, wondering how on earth the fragile Anne Hathaway hadn’t fallen to pieces yet.

We didn’t make it to California. Anne Hathaway ground to a halt somewhere in Colorado, and the car repair service would take more than six hours to arrive. So after I kicked the traitorous monster a few times on her already-dented bumper, I cried frustrated tears over not only this failed endeavor, but also over the lack of certainty I felt about the rapidly approaching future. My Type A personality had gotten me through senior year, but now the unexpected was keeping me from being excited about this final road trip with my friends and the separate paths we would soon be taking.

Then I got out of the car. From our mountain perch high above the tree line, the sunrise looked like something out of National Geographic. I never could have planned the sequence of events leading up to that moment, but given the chance, I wouldn’t trade the result for all of the well-plotted schedules in the world. I climbed onto the roof of my car, pulled my Northwestern jacket tightly around me, and thought about how sometimes the plans we never plan are the best plans of all.