I was seventeen, trying to be a functioning boyfriend, son, and amateur mechanic.

I was seventeen, trying to be a functioning boyfriend, son, and amateur mechanic. That’s a lot of roles to cram into one Homecoming.

I changed the oil in the family Bonneville before the dance. Or I thought I did. The old O-ring didn’t come off with the filter, so the new one stacked on top of it. Double gasket. Oil leak. Catastrophe waiting to happen.

On the way to Homecoming, with Aaron in the car, the engine started complaining. Warning lights. Strange sounds. I ignored them. We were going to be late. I was going to see Bobbi Jo. The night needed to be “special.”

We burned the engine somewhere on East Mason. Pulled over. Called Steve. He loaned us his car so we could still make it to the dance.

Bobbi Jo was busy with her organizer duties. I spent most of the night wanting to be at the hospital with Mom.

She broke up with me a few days later.

This is one of those nights where every thread tangles: • trying to be responsible and failing • trying to be a boyfriend and failing • trying to be present with Mom and not knowing how • trying to be a man without any real instruction manual

Looking back, I don’t blame my younger self. He was in over his head, and the car wasn’t the only thing burning out.