-- Tintown here... with many of my stories, look for links to my iAimoo Album for pictures of main (female adult) story character(s), external links to similar pictures of the vehicle(s) involved, and links for a location if needbe. And here's my list of other stories if you like what you read.

(about 2300 words)

I’m looking back AGAIN to stories I wrote here YEARS AGO about a fictional black Chevette owner "Phoebe." This story is nestled after Phoebe on the Farm,which takes place before this, and Phoebe in the Fast Lane and Phoebe on the Forklift, taking place after this story. (The link to those stories will be after this story, too.) Get it? Farm, then here, then Fast Lane, then Forklift...   97% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 2.5 Flash! 

               Phoebe on The Field Trip               

Dear Diary,

    My calves ache in a way they haven’t since I ran cross-country in junior high. But it’s a good ache, a triumphant ache, if that makes any sense. Today, I officially began my journey to conquer Grandma’s Chevette.

    It’s strange, isn’t it, how a car can feel like such a mixed blessing? When Mom presented me with the keys, it was… well, it was exactly what it was. Grandma, bless her feisty  soul, left me her pride and joy: her 1979 Chevy Chevette. Black as a raven, with an interior that practically screams "fire truck red" – all vinyl and surprisingly plush. It’s got a radio with buttons you push. It’s been parked outside my bedroom window like a silent, four-wheeled challenge, with that gorgeous, menacing, four-speed manual gear shift.

    Everyone else about my age, it seems, got a beat-up Ford Pinto or a hand-me-down Buick that practically drives itself. Automatic, of course. Easy peasy. Me, I got automotive history, a relic of mechanical purity, a testament to the idea that you, the driver, should be involved in the act of propulsion. Grandma wouldn’t have had it any other way. She always said, "Phoebe, if you don't feel the engine, you don't drive." And now, thanks to her, I’ll be feeling it alright. Feeling it stall, mostly.

    This morning, Mom, told me. "Let’s drive, Phoebe," she’d said over her second cup of coffee. She knows how much I want my independence, how much I crave the freedom that car represents. It’s not just about my  license or getting from point A to B; it’s about a ticket to the rest of my life, away from just being "Phoebe, daughter of Meredith." It’s about becoming "Phoebe, person who drives her own damn car." Legally.

    So, after a quick breakfast of burnt toast (my fault, not Mom’s – my mind was already racing), we walked out to the Chevette, its black paint polished to a mirror shine by me and Mom. It still smells of Grandma perfume and a hint of ancient cigarette smoke that clings to the red vinyl.

    Mom opened the driver’s side door, and I automatically started to reach for the passenger side, but she stopped me. "Nope. Today, I'm driving us to the battlefield. You'll be taking the reins there." My stomach did a little flip-flop. Battlefield was a good word for it. My heart was thumping a nervous rhythm against my ribs.

          2           

    The drive was short, about fifteen minutes. Mom navigated the familiar streets with her usual calm efficiency, her hands light on the wheel, her foot effortlessly working the clutch and accelerator. I watched her, trying to imprint every movement into my brain, every subtle shift of her wrist as she guided the gear stick from first to second, second to third. The engine purred, a soothing, confident hum. I tried to imagine myself doing what she was doing – the seamless coordination, the intuitive understanding of the machine. It felt like trying to master a secret language I didn't possess.

    "Remember it's all about the clutch, sweetie. The friction point. Listen to the engine. It'll tell you what it needs."

    We pulled into the expanse of the parking lot. It was nearly empty, just a few stray shopping carts in the distance and a lone seagull circling. Perfect. No witnesses to my humiliation. The vast, cracked asphalt seemed to stretch for miles, a blank canvas for my vehicular incompetence. Mom coasted to a stop in the furthest corner, the engine falling silent. She then yanked the hand brake upwards. It was now a silence that felt heavy with expectation.

    "Alright," she said, her voice bright with a forced cheerfulness that did nothing to calm my nerves. "Your turn."

    My heart hammered against my ribs as we swapped seats. The driver’s seat felt… different. Higher, somehow. More significant. The steering wheel, usually a familiar circle, now felt like a heavy, crucial prop. I buckled my seatbelt, then adjusted the mirrors, trying to mimic Mom’s casual confidence. The gear stick, a black knob with a pristine white shift pattern (1-2-3-4-R) on top, felt alien beneath my fingers. Its presence was a constant reminder of the challenge.

    "Okay," Mom said, now in the passenger seat, her gaze steady and encouraging. "First things first. Press the clutch all the way in."

    I did. My left foot, usually so cooperative, felt heavy and unsure, pressing the pedal to the floor with a soft thud. Then I grasped the Chevette’s key and sent it ahead.

    TWIIIIRRRRRRRA, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, RRRRUUUMM!

    "Good. Brakes off. Now, put it in first gear."

    Clunk. The gear stick slid into place with mechanical resistance.

    "Excellent. Now, slowly, slowly let off the clutch, while gently, gently pressing the gas . Listen to the car. Feel for that grab point, that little vibration where it wants to go."

    I took a deep breath. You can do this, Phoebe. Grandma drove this car. You can drive this car. This is your destiny.

    I began to release the clutch. Nothing. More clutch. My foot trembled. The engine started to hum, a tentative, hopeful sound. My right foot hovered over the gas, ready to coax it forward, a nervous bird about to take flight.

    Then, pure chaos erupted. The Chevette lurched forward like a startled horse, its engine letting out a strangled, sputtering cough before dying with an ignominious PSSSSHHH... Silence. My head snapped forward, then back, and I felt a creep up my neck, hot and embarrassing.

    "Oops," I whispered, my voice barely audible, hating myself a little. “Sorry, Mom.”

    Mom chuckled, a soft, warm sound. "Don’t worry. You’ll get it."

          3           

    I pressed the clutch back in, turned the key. TWIIIIRRRRRRRA, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, RRRRUUUMM! The engine rumbled back to life, seemingly unforgiving. I tried again, determined to prove that I was smarter than a two thousand pound  contraption.

    This time, I was too cautious with the gas, too timid with the clutch. The engine revved high, RRRRUUUMM!, but the car barely moved. Then, RRRUUM!!  PSSSSHHH... The car shuddered, vibrated violently, and then… RUGG-RUGG- PSSSSHHH...

    Another stall. And this time, a smell wafted into the car, a scent of protest from the  insides.

    "Did I… did I break it, Mom?" I asked, my voice laced with panic, imagining the expensive repair bills, the disappointment on her face.

    "Just a little clutch smell," Mom reassured me, fanning a hand in front of her nose, her smile unwavering. "You’re giving it some effort. Think of it as a badge of honor. Just try again. More smoothly this time. Imagine you’re pushing a feather with your left foot and painting a delicate line with your right."

    A feather and a delicate line. Right. My feet felt like bricks, and my brain felt like a tangled ball of yarn. It was supposed to be simple. Left foot in, right foot out. Why was it so  hard?

    We repeated this ritual for what felt like an hour, though it was probably only ten minutes. Each attempt was a variation on a theme of mechanical failure.

    TWIIIIRRRRRRRA, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, RRRRUUUMM! RRRRUUUMM! RRRRUUUMM! SPLAT-KA-THUNK! (Too fast on the clutch, too little gas) TWIIIIRRRRRRRA, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, RRRRUUUMM! RRRRUUUMM! RRRRUUUMM!-UGH-die! (Too much gas, clutch still in, then suddenly out) TWIIIIRRRRRRRA, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, RRRRUUUMM! RRRRUUUMM!-CLACK-silence. (Just plain giving up mid-movement)

    Each stall was accompanied by a wave of frustration, a tightening in my chest, a hot prickling behind my eyes. All my friends with automatics, laughing, while I was here, wrestling. Grandma’s ghost, I imagined, was shaking her head, perhaps even laughing. Phoebe! More feeling! You drive like a scared rabbit!

    "You’re getting closer," Mom insisted, her voice unwavering. "I can hear it. You’re finding that point. Don't give up, honey. It just clicks, and then you'll wonder why it was ever difficult."

          4           

    I tried to channel all my focus into my feet, into the subtle vibrations of the floor, into the  hum of the engine. The sun was warming the red vinyl seats, making the air inside the car thick and heavy. My sweaty palms were on the steering wheel. My lower back began to ache from the sheer tension.

    Okay, I muttered to myself, taking another deep breath, trying to block out the self-deprecating thoughts, as I grasped the Chevette’s key AGAIN and turned it. TWIIIIRRRRRRRA, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, RRRRUUUMM!

    Clutch in. First gear. Gas. Release clutch. Smooth and steady. Feather and paint, feather and paint.

    This time, I focused on the sound. As I agonizingly slowly released the clutch, the engine’s drone deepened. I heard it, a subtle change, a lower growl, a more resonant vibration. RRRRUUUM... And then, I felt it – a faint tremor, a slight pull. UUMMM... My right foot instinctively nudged the accelerator just a hair more, a whisper of encouragement.

    The Chevette lurched. Not a violent, dying lurch, but a wobbly, hesitant lurch forward. It moved! It actually moved! It was ugly, but it was movement.

    "YES!" Mom exclaimed, clapping her hands softly, a genuine note of triumph in her voice. "There! You found it! Keep going!"

    My heart soared. The car rolled a few feet, then, just as I was about to burst with pride, I got too eager, eased off the clutch too much, and the engine gave one last pathetic sputter-pop-quit. My heart deflated like a punctured tire.

    Damn it.

    But it was different this time. The frustration was still there, a lingering itch, but it was mixed with a surge of hope, a glimmer of understanding. I could do this. I’d felt it. I’d felt the friction point. I’d felt the car respond to me.

    Then, it happened. TWIIIIRRRRRRRA, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, WHINNA-WINNAH, RRRRUUUMM! Clutch in, first gear. Slow release, gentle gas. RRRRUUUM... The engine caught, hummed, and the car started to move, smoothly, steadily. I kept going, my eyes wide, my body tense, muscles locked. Ten feet. Twenty feet. Fifty feet. I was moving! The car was actually obeying my commands! The hum of the engine was a sweet melody.

    "Okay, now clutch in fully, and move to second gear," Mom instructed, her voice calm, a steady presence beside me.

    My left foot went down, my right hand grabbed the gear stick. A quick snick into second, a sound of mechanical harmony. RRRRUUUMM! Then, release clutch, gentle gas.

    The car shuddered slightly, a momentary hesitation, but kept going. I was in second gear! Oh my god, I was actually driving! My speed was probably no more than ten miles an hour, but it felt like I was flying. The engine, no longer stalling, sang a steady, if slightly strained, song. I glanced at Mom, and she was smiling, a genuine, proud, happy smile.

    Lap after lap, I practiced. Starting, stopping, shifting to second, then back to first for a low-speed turn. But the fear was melting away, replaced by a growing sense of exhilaration. I could feel the car now. Every successful start, every smooth shift, was a small victory, a tiny step closer to the future I imagined.

    Towards the end of the morning, after what felt like an endless series of loops and stops, my movements became almost fluid. The stalls were few and far between, mostly when my attention wavered or I tried to rush a shift. I even managed a fairly respectable reverse maneuver into an imaginary parking space, a triumphant backward shuffle that felt like navigating a spaceship. The smell of burning clutch had dissipated, replaced by the faint scent of warm engine oil and triumphant exhaust fumes.

          5           

    "Alright, superstar," Mom finally said, looking at her watch. "I think that’s enough for today. You’re doing amazing."

    I brought the Chevette to a smooth stop, clutch in, brakes applied gently. This time, when I turned the key, the engine died with a quiet sigh, not a horrified shriek. I slumped back against the red vinyl, utterly drained, but with a grin splitting my face, a pure, unadulterated sensation of success.

    "I… I did it," I breathed, still disbelieving, my voice hoarse.

    "You certainly did," Mom confirmed, patting my arm, her touch warm and reassuring. "Grandma would be so proud. She always said you had a good mechanical mind, just needed to unlock it."

    That thought, more than anything, made my chest swell. Grandma, with her fierce spirit and her love for driving, would indeed be proud. This car, which once felt like a burden, a complicated relic of the past, now feels like a legacy. It’s more than just a way to get from point A to point B; it’s a connection to her, a challenge I’m embracing, a symbol of the freedom I’m reaching for

    Driving us home, Mom let me navigate from the passenger seat, pointing out turns, still feeling the phantom vibration of the clutch in my left foot. I can’t wait for my next lesson. I know there’s still third and fourth gear to master, hills to conquer, and actual traffic to contend with, the real world waiting beyond this empty parking lot. But for today, just moving that black Chevette under my own power felt like flying.

    The freedom of the open road, the wind in my hair, the engine singing its song… it’s a promise, written in black paint and red vinyl, waiting for me to fully claim it. And tomorrow, or the day after, I’ll be back on a field trip in that parking lot, coaxing the Chevette into submission, one smooth shift at a time.

    My feet really ache now. But it’s a good ache. Definitely a good ache.

    Signing off, with dreams of cruising...

XXX  OOO

-- Ms. Phoebe Malinowska

Taking place some point after Phoebe on the Farm, and some point BEFORE Phoebe in the Fast Lane and Phoebe on the Forklift. A Phoebe quadrilogy!  Do note in Phoebe on the Farm timestamped from 2016 that Phoebe had this same Chevette here.  Thanks to www.perchance.org and www.ChatGPT.com for the pictures.