So this is a piece I wrote for a memoir class I had which got mixed responses. If anyone is interested in taking the time to read it (it's a bit long, as you can see), I'd appreciate some feedback before I try sending it out.

I returned to my dorm one night during my sophomore year of college to find a missed call waiting for me on my cell phone. I hit the button to see who it was and groaned when I read “Maura.”
Once close in high school, as sophomores in colleges 100 miles apart, Maura and I talked now only when something major happened among our fellow Gloucester Catholic alumni. She had called earlier in the semester when two mutual friends had broken up and another time when a casual acquaintance’s mother passed away. I hoped that this call was about another relationship gone bad.
I punched in her number and let it ring. I felt more annoyed than worried, even though it was possible she could have something terrible to tell me.
“Hey, Chris,” she said. I heard the bad news in her voice.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“It’s about Dom …” she said.
“Holy shit.”

* * *

“Those are 16” pony wheels,” Dom said.
“Um, are those good?” I asked.
“I have no clue,” Dom answered, “but the guy who sold it to me made it a point to mention that.”
In truth, neither of us knew anything about cars, but we were both awed by this magnificent beast in front of us. Two weeks from his 17th birthday he’d found a deal on a used fuchsia 1984 Ford Mustang GT Convertible. I wouldn’t be 17 for another two months, so I knew he’d be carting me around until then. His mustang was to be our chariot.
“Isn’t she’s beautiful?” Dom asked.
“She sure is,” I said, uncomfortable giving an inanimate object a gender.
If his car really was “she,” he certainly was rubbing her roughly with his shammy. Soap suds drained down Dom’s driveway and into the streets, collecting little rainbows as the fading afternoon sun caught the water.
I dropped to one knee on the pavement and inspected the wheels as if I had any idea what I was looking for.
“I feel like I should kick them. Isn’t that what people always do?” I asked.
“No,” Dom answered, suddenly protective. “If you kick them, I kick you.”
“Fair enough,” I answered.
We both stood for a moment, lost in our own thoughts.
“Should we sit in it?” he asked.
“Hell yes,” I answered.
Before we could open the car doors, however, his mother thumped open a window and told us to come in for dinner.
The second of three very Sicilian boys, Dom Sidoti was thinner than his two brothers, who both had to weigh at least 250 lbs. He was the first friend I’d ever had who could, like me, say he was the son of an Italian immigrant. My mother had come to America at eight years old and had largely dropped any surface evidence of her Italian heritage. Dom’s father, on the other hand, came to America at 18 and still had a thick Sicilian accent and the dark skin and hair that are typically expected of an Italian. Dom also had me in another respect: his mother was also 100% Italian, although she was born in the United States. That meant Dom was a full-blooded Italian unlike me—my dad was just a boring WASP.
We sat down to a typical Sidoti dinner. Mrs. Sidoti, a second grade teacher with short, curly hair, big glasses and a constant smile, set a huge bowl of spaghetti on the kitchen table next to a pitcher of iced tea, a basket of store-bought but lightly toasted bread, and a smaller bowl of meatballs and sausage.
“I hope you’re hungry, boys,” Mrs. Sidoti said. She always hoped we were hungry whenever I ate over, which was becoming more often as Dom and I became better friends.
“Nick! Tony! Dinner!” she yelled at the stairs. A loud rumbling signaled that her message had been received.
“What’s up, dude?” Nick, the youngest, asked as he thumped into the chair next to me. “What do you think of Dom’s new car?”
“It’s awesome,” I said as I took the bowl of meat from Mr. Sidoti, a kindly, balding man with a thick moustache; he had the look of the butcher in an Italian mob flick. I stabbed two meatballs with my fork and passed it along.
Food was always plentiful at the Sidoti’s; Mrs. Sidoti, it seemed, would be disappointed if guests didn’t reach for second or third helpings.
We paused and prayed quickly before digging in. The conversation meandered from the new car to school and points beyond. After I had two helpings of spaghetti, three slices of bread, two meatballs, a piece of sausage, and three glasses of iced tea, Mrs. Sidoti declared me fit to leave the table. Dom and I scurried—as quickly as two stuffed teenage boys could manage— back out to the driveway.
The February sun had set and left Dom’s front yard chilly. We stood for a moment, silently taking in the symbol of freedom and joy that rested under the glare of a lone driveway light in front of us. The white top was up, but it was easy to imagine it down and the two of us cruising through the back streets of Glassboro, New Jersey or maybe by Rowan University, which was two blocks away. At night, the fuchsia really did look pink, although Dom was sensitive about anyone suggesting his new purchase might be a girly color. He always corrected people by saying the car was cranberry.
“Can you believe that in two weeks I’ll be driving?” Dom asked.
“Seriously.”
“Want to get in now?”
“God, yes.”
He got into the driver’s side and I made my way around to the passenger seat. I opened the door and breathed deeply. Despite being nearly 20 years old, the interior still smelled great: a mixture of leather from the seats and pine from the small tree hanging from the rearview mirror. Although it supposedly could fit four passengers, the back seat was little more than a small bench, white to match the leather interior.
Dom slid his key into the ignition and turned it far enough to juice up the car. The stereo and dash lit up.
“Should I start it?” he asked.
“Will your parents care?”
“Nah.”
He turned the key all the way and the engine sounded, an orchestra mid-crescendo. It came back down and steadied at a throbbing, powerful pulse.
“She sounds good, doesn’t she?” Dom asked.
“Do we have to call her ‘she?’”
“No…I just figured that’s what people do.”
There was a moment of contemplation. “I have no idea if it sounds good,” I said, answering his earlier question.
“Me either,” Dom admitted and we both laughed. “What should we listen to?” he asked as he reached for a small CD booklet on the back bench.
“I don’t know,” I said, “something about driving?”
“No way,” Dom responded, “I want to save that for when I’m on the road.”
He killed the engine and inserted a CD from Led Zeppelin’s annotated box set. “Kashmir” started, driving drums and rising guitars mixed with melodic strings. Robert Plant alternately crooned and wailed. We sat in silence for the first two minutes of the song, each lost in our own thoughts.
“How…fucking…perfect is this?” he said with his eyes half-closed.
“I know,” I said, “And imagine when you can actually drive it.”
He hit a button and the top slowly retracted. It was freezing but the night was clear. We made plans and promises under the February stars.
* * *
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. Why do you find it so hard to believe?” Dom asked.
We were standing by our lockers between classes. A rush of uniformed boys and girls in maroon, khaki, and plaid swirled around us in the halls of Gloucester Catholic High School.
“I don’t know. I just want to make sure you want me to be the first,” I said.
It was March, about a week after Dom had passed his driving test. He drove every day to school, but today was one of the first nice spring days. It was time to put the top down on his Mustang, and I was the first person he invited to ride with him.
“Calm down. It’s not like I’m asking you to prom,” he said, but it actually did kind of feel like that; there was something special about it.
“Yeah, sure. No big deal, right?” I said.
“So we’ll meet after class. Cool?”
“Cool,” I said.
We parted.
* * *
Despite warmer weather, the air at 65 mph was still cold.
“God, this is such a fucking cliché,” I yelled as the wind ripped over and around my head. We sped down Rt. 55 on our way back from school. I imagined that every man on the road envied us.
“I know. Two guys, open road, convertible. All we need is to die in a tragic crash and we’ll be immortalized.”
Dom stepped on the gas and the engine flared. We passed an 18-wheeler like it was parked. As we drove we shed the exterior layers of our school uniform: the ties, the sweaters, the concern.
“You’ll like this one,” Dom shouted as he turned the volume up on his stereo. We were listening to Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits. For the most part, our musical tastes coincided, but there were a few singers or bands like Springsteen who I wasn’t into. Dom thought it blasphemous that I didn’t like our state’s patron saint of rock and roll. The Boss mumbled about glory days over the screaming, chilled wind.
Dom alternately sped up and slowed down, testing the limits of his car. We waved to passersby. We were invincible. Dom hit the turn signal five exits too early.
“What you doing?” I asked.
“It’s cold man; let’s drive a little slower.”
We got off the highway and pulled onto Delsea Drive, a two lane highway filled with stop lights, traffic, and consumerism. It was the slowest way to get me home. I didn’t mind.
The spring air felt better at a slower speed. Trees blossomed and draped the countryside with their perfume; I may have missed their aroma in a standard car. The sky seemed bigger and bluer without a roof above my head.
“Okay,” Dom said, “If you don’t like this song, you officially don’t like Bruce.”
A song started with a slow piano and a sad, drowsy harmonica.
“I know this already.” I said. “‘Thunder Road,' right?”
“Just listen.”
So I did. Although I’d heard the song probably 10 or 15 times on the local classic radio station, I listened for the first time. Drums, guitar, and Bruce’s garbled bravado combined to provide the soundtrack to our day, to our lives. Here we were, good friends in the prime of our lives, driving along a sweet smelling avenue in the perfect car. Dom looked over at me and saw me bobbing my head to the music. Rather than rubbing it in, he just smiled.
“Maybe he’s not that bad,” I replied.
“Listen,” Dom said, “I just wanted to tell you something…”
“Okay,” I said.
“It’s not really a big deal. Well, I don’t know, maybe it is…”
“You’re not actually asking me to prom, are you?” I asked and he laughed.
“ You would look pretty good in a dress,” he said. Then he turned serious. “You’re my best friend, man.”
Time will freeze. Dom will sit in silence as somehow “Thunder Road” still plays from his stereo. In fact, although he’ll still be driving at the same speed, we will be no closer to my home.
I won’t know how to respond. I’ll shift in my seat. I’ll wipe my suddenly sweaty palms against my school-issued khaki dress paints. I’ll turn and look at him, but he’ll be playing the careful driver, eyes on the road.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” I’ll say and leave the end of the sentence hanging.
“But?” he’ll ask.
“I don’t know, I just feel guilty,” I’ll say.
“Guilty? For what?”
“I probably shouldn’t even tell you…”
“Come on man, you’re making me nervous.”
“Well, Dom, the thing is: this moment, right now? Driving down this street, listening to this song, feeling this weather…”
“Yeah?”
“This is the best it’ll ever be,” I’ll say.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in a month I’m going to start dating a girl. I’ll slowly faze you out; over the summer you and I will hang out less and less, and next year you’ll become more popular and get some new friends. We’ll drift farther and farther apart. When she breaks up with me, I’ll try to patch things up with you. I’ll pull into your driveway because I won’t know where else to go. I’ll ring the doorbell, your mom will answer, and I’ll burst into tears. You’ll come with me to a face food joint and I’ll tell you what happened and beg for your forgiveness over tear-soaked roast beef sandwiches. You’ll even humor me and offer me your friendship, but we’ll never be the same again.”
“So you’ll pretty much fuck things up then, huh?” he’ll ask.
“Yeah, I will,” I’ll say quietly. Then I’ll add, “But it gets worse.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll go to Elizabethtown and you’ll go to Penn State. We’ll pretty much stop talking entirely and I won’t even call you over breaks. I’ll get back together with that girl and slowly forget how much our friendship meant. By my sophomore year I’ll think about you less and less until one night Maura will call me—”
“Shit,” he’ll interrupt, “what happens to me? It must be bad if she calls; she’s such a drama queen.”
“She’ll tell me that you were in an accident on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. That you were driving in this very car and you fell asleep at the wheel on your way to visit Ally.”
“Wait,” Dom will interrupt again, “Ally Newcomb?”
“Yeah man,” I’ll say and smile. “You guys will be dating.”
“That’s awesome,” he’ll say, “I really like her.”
“I know, buddy.”
“So an accident?” he’ll ask.
“When she calls me, no one is sure what’s going to happen. You won’t be wearing your seat belt and somehow you’ll be ejected from the car. You’ll roll across the pavement and fuck yourself up pretty bad. Your car, this car, will be completely destroyed.”
“Wait, my Mustang gets totaled?”
“Yeah,” I’ll say.
"Shit. So this perfect symbol of our youth and freedom—“
“Will be smashed and gone for ever,” I’ll finish.
“Cheap metaphor,” he’ll say. “ So what does Maura say?”
“When she calls, you’re in a coma,” I’ll answer say.
“Do I die?”
“No, but our friendship will.”
He won’t know how to respond. He’ll keep driving without getting us anywhere and the song will play.
“So what will you do?” he’ll ask.
“I won’t know what to do,” I’ll say. “I won’t know whether to call your house because I haven’t talked to anyone in your family for about two years. I’ll feel like a phony calling just because something awful happens. I’ll send a message to a friend and she’ll give me your number at Penn State. I’ll call, get your machine, and leave a tearful, confused message. The rest I don’t know yet.”
“Okay,” he’ll say and the silence will be tempered by Springsteen. “Isn’t this a good driving song?” he’ll ask, trying to cut the line that anchors my words.
“It is,” I’ll say.
“Can you tell me anything else? Will I beat out Nicole Leapardi for valedictorian? Do we make the playoffs in soccer? Will the Eagles win the Super Bowl?”
“I don’t know, man,” I’ll say. “I don’t even know how I know this.”
Silence again. And then, “Will you be broken up about it?”
I’ll answer, “Yeah.”
And with that, my clairvoyance passed. The song ended and Dom reached for another CD to replace Bruce. We entered Clayton, my home town, and he eventually dropped me off at the end of my driveway. He roared the engine, put the car in drive, and took off with a quick double toot of his horn.
I watched as his car grew smaller and I waved goodbye. I waved goodbye both to Dom in the driver’s seat and his best friend sitting beside him. In a way, I said goodbye to this youthful, innocent version of myself forever. But he’s still out there somewhere, riding with the top down and enjoying a perfect car, a perfect song, a perfect moment.

Just wanted to say that I enjoyed this...I love that the shift in tenses happens so abruptly. I think that it's difficult to write memoir pieces without sounding cheesy (well, it's difficult for me), but you did a great job with this.