The Birth of a Rebel

Krissy was what adults tended to refer to as a “problem child”, when what they really meant was a “little piece of shit”. She had no manners to speak of and was already swearing like a sailor at age five. She couldn’t visit a neighbor’s house without profoundly fucking it up in some way and was known for her generally loud and rowdy behavior.

Also five, I was not a problem child. I was mild-mannered, shy, and eager to avoid inconveniencing anyone. I got along with most of the kids in the neighborhood and had never had a real argument or confrontation with any of them.

Krissy and I were polar opposites—I should have been put off by her wild ways.

Instead I found her fascinating. Krissy clearly did not give a fuck what people thought, and as a kid who already gave way too many fucks, I admired her.

Krissy moved before we turned six, but during our brief friendship we managed to go on several stupid (and in some cases legitimately dangerous) adventures together.

Probably the most dangerous adventure we went on was the maiden voyage of Krissy’s life-sized Barbie car. Krissy was gifted the Barbie car for her birthday by her foolish, foolish parents who, given everything their daughter had done in her five years of life up to that point, should have known better.

For those who don’t remember these frankly irresponsible toys, Krissy’s Barbie car was basically a tiny Jeep that was capable of going slightly slower than a fast-moving bike.

The car was meant for sidewalks, driveways. It most definitely was not meant for the actual road, where actual cars were.

Still, roughly an hour after the party where Krissy received the car, she appeared by my side where I was playing with some other neighborhood kids.

“Wanna check out my new car?” she asked.

I had desperately been eying the Barbie cars at the toy store for months, so fuck yes I wanted to check out Krissy’s new car.

I abandoned my safer, saner friends and found myself sitting in the passenger’s seat of the toy car with a girl I had seen try to climb our neighbor’s garage door in the driver’s seat.

“Where do you wanna go?” she inquired, gripping the steering wheel.

I thought for a moment. “I bet we could make it all the way to Jeannette’s house,” I said. Jeannette was a friend who lived one street over and traveling that distance in a car of our own seemed like the height of badass rebellion in my five-year-old mind.

Krissy gave me a condescending, “oh bless your heart” sort of smile. “I think we can do better than that.”

You guys probably know that childhood memories aren’t the most reliable. Your brain’s still developing and it can be hard to tell the difference between what you actually remember and the stories you’ve told yourself over the years.

So take what comes next with a grain of salt: But what I remember came straight out of an action movie—albeit one starring two small girls in an equally small Barbie Jeep made of plastic.

Krissy tore diagonally across the driveway, through the grass, and over the curb. For a moment we were airborne, flying, before the rubber hit the street.

With a screech of the brakes and a thick puff of exhaust we careened around our cul-de-sac, and continued speeding down the road.

I swore I could hear police sirens and see the flashing lights of their helicopters up above. We were gonna be in so much trouble.

We were also headed for one of the main streets in my town, which had a very steady stream of traffic.

Still I don’t remember feeling scared. I was five; kids don’t understand death, not really.

All I knew was that I was speeding down the street with my friend, going faster than I had ever thought the toy Jeep could possibly go.

The wind filled our ears and I felt really, truly free.

…For, like, two minutes maybe.

Right before we reached the main road and it truly would have become a life or death situation, our parents caught up with us and brought us back home.

That wild ride had been the most exhilarating thing to happen to me since going on the highway in a golf cart a year earlier (we’ll get into that in a future post, promise), and I thirsted for more of that sweet adrenaline.

A 5-year-old rebel had been born.