My car Skip

I clambered awkwardly out of the car, my bulky purse getting caught on the steering wheel. With a sigh, I disentangled myself, twisting and turning until I was finally free. I pushed down the old school lock with my fingers, and shut the door. I smiled slightly, remembering the day I'd gotten my car. He was my April Fool's baby. My 1968 Volkswagen beetle, completely restored, turbo-charged and painted a spectacular sunburst yellow. I'd gotten him on April 1st, 2006. Back then he was badly abused. His interior was ripped and torn, the pale yellow stuffing of the seats hanging out. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, joints and the occassional beer can. The front end was smashed, making my baby's smile look disjointed and his eyes all squinty. He came completely factory, with only one tiny mirror, a thin steering wheel and a sticky clutch. He was in terrible shape. . . he was perfect. It took months upon months of blood, sweat and tears from both me and my family to make him what he was now. . . a Bug-o-rama worthy baby. . . my Skip. Even now as I shut the door and walk away, I realize just how cute Skip is, how his personality and mine match so well, how I can never get rid of him, and how my first car ever at age 16 is my dream car. I smile at the thought and begin to haul my things across the parking lot to my dorm room. It takes me a good five minutes, but soon I'm approaching Manzanita, the smoker's circle inhabitated by a bunch of guys. One in particular that I noticed was typical looking. He wore a white brand-name shirt with "Aeropostale" written in strange black letters across his chest. His jeans were baggy, hanging off of him, sagging disgustingly just like everyone elses. His blue, childish boxers did not help the situation and I wondered if he realized he was a walking billboard. The cigarette dangling between his fingers didn't help his appeal, either. His eyes connected with mine and I quickly dropped mine to the ground, walking swiftly up the ramp towards the door.
"Look at her, trying to be all badass in her QuikTrip uniform."
His statement was met with the laughter of four of his smoking buddies. I stopped for a moment, contemplating whether or not to turn around. Yes, I was in uniform. My khaki shorts, my red QT shirt with my circular little nametag centered on the left side of my chest. A studded, black belt held up my pants, my shirt was tucked in and my shoes were beaten with years of wear and tear. My clothes were dirty, my hair was a mess, and I was dog tired. His laughter was still echoing in my ears and for a moment I contemplated turning around and beating his ass. But the moment passed and I walked towards the door.
That's just giving him what he wants, Jess. I reminded myself. A smile formed on my lips. Besides, my turbo-charged Skip would give him a run for his money any day. . .