I inched forward, hands grasping the steering wheel. The time read 7:15 a.m., and as the sweat began to bead on my upper lip, I yearned to turn around.

“Go back,” I gulped, clearing my throat but not my head. “I’m telling you, go back!” My mind clouded at the thought of not getting a senior spot. These parking spots – desired by all – are exclusive to those who plan ahead. Arriving at school before 7 o’clock nearly guarantees any soldier in combat entitlement to a coveted spot, but not always. Anyone who shows up later than 7:05 is risking their physical health. What senior wants to walk the dreaded hundred meters between the idolized lot and the Lot of Shame? I’ve given three years to this school, battling it out in the crude underclassmen parking lot for two of those years. That battle has prepped me for this moment; do I continue on my odyssey that may lead to a dead end?

I checked my rear-view mirror for possible opponents. What I saw didn’t look appealing: a red truck, corpulent enough to cause alarm to passing cars but small enough to fit in a senior parking spot, approached from behind. Idling in the center of the stretch, I panicked.

“Hurry up, Ivy!” This became a race against time. “You can’t sit in the middle of the lot forever. Look, he’s growing impatient!” Twisting my head around, I was mortified by what I saw. His hands gesticulated with growing fury. “Ivy!” My inner voice shouted, “Don’t you see that time is ticking away?” I put my car into drive. To my left I glanced at a mediocre spot, something a sophomore would rave about getting. I considered parking but kept on going with a goal in mind.

As I neared the middle-front of the Lot of Shame, a wall spot appeared. Far nicer than the first spot I had seen, I hesitated to a stop. The red truck, flanking me, let out a warning honk.

“Go ahead and pass me!” I shouted to my competition. Defeat started to consume my being.

“What’s the point in a stupid senior spot, anyway?” Nothing came of getting the spot except frustration and lost minutes of sleep. Then it dawned on me – I wanted the pride. I wanted to step out of my car at 7:23 with a strut. I wanted the accomplishment, the “I did it” feeling of winning. I pulled my car back into the middle of the road, eyes forward and not looking at the angry truck I had just cut off. I knew what I wanted, and I knew how to get it.

Accelerating down the rows, I glanced at the time – 7:20 – but felt as if those five minutes had been five hours. I turned the corner to enter the senior lot, my pulse beating so loud I could hear it. I glanced down the extended path of prestige. Tears blurred my eyes as I tried to make out the words.

“No spots left.”