“You should e-mail the Ocean State coach,” Dad continues.
The words make my palms sweat and my heartbeat accelerate. I don’t want to talk about gymnastics, I don’t want to think about it, and right now, that dour-looking DMV employee looks like a hell of a lot better company than Dad.
I press the brakes too abruptly, causing the car to jerk forward.
“Bye, Dad. Good talk.”
My father sighs and drops a quick kiss on my forehead before opening the door. “Good luck, Katie.” I’d roll my eyes at the old nickname, except now I’m too nervous to do anything.
When the road test administrator slides in next to me, it feels like all of the air is sucked out of the car. His legs must be twice the length of my body, knees crammed against the glove compartment. I imagine him already docking me a point: insufficient leg room. “‘K.S. Gregory,’” he reads flatly. “What does ‘K.S.’ stand for?”
“Kaitlyn Savannah.” Perhaps he agrees that “Savannah” is the far more interesting name.
“Pull away from the curb,” he says instead.
I signal and take an exaggerated look over my shoulder before pulling away from the curb. If I had dared glance to the side, maybe I would have seen Dad by the playground, watching his daughter and the fifteen-year-old Civic move away from the curb.
Ten minutes. That’s all the time it will take to pass this thing, get the hell out of coming back here for the eighth time, and achieve something for the first time in months. I cannot, under any circumstances, fail again.
I will my hands to stop shaking. They ignore me. Typical.
The speedometer needle hovers safely at 30 mph, though the pick-up truck riding my bumper looks ready to plow over me. I’ve lived in Ponquogue my whole life and have passed by these landmarks countless times: the lighthouse statue, the OCEAN BEACHES sign that was bent in the last hurricane and still hasn’t been fixed, the WELCOME TO PONQUOGUE sign painted on driftwood and propped against the flag pole.
I’ve never had those Get-Me-Out-of-Ponquogue urges; rather, it was inevitable that I would leave for the Ocean State University Buccaneers. The green-and-white sweatshirt that my parents gave me last Christmas became my unofficial uniform for months. Now it’s stuffed with my old leotards in the darkest corner of my dresser.
“Left,” the man says as I approach the fork in the road. At the heart of the fork is 7-Eleven, the place of 2 a.m. Slurpee runs when Cassie calls me, unable to sleep. She could text, but since it’s Cass and she’s impatient, she always insists on calling to make sure I wake up. “I’ll buy you one,” she’ll say in greeting. “Also, I’m outside.”
Today, migrant workers linger on the curbside in baseball caps and jeans flecked with paint. Just across the street, a man sets up shop on a beach chair adorned with American flags. Propped up beside him is a sign that reads, “Secure Our Borders–Give Jobs to Americans.”
“Left!” the man grunts.
Oops.
I hit the signal and pull a wide left-hand turn. Plenty of space before oncoming traffic.
The man mutters under his breath.
Slowly, gently, my death grip eases despite the sweat on the steering wheel. Lots of sweat. Sure, my parallel park is a hair too close to the car behind me. However, our bumpers never collide; I’d learned the hard way from tests four and five.
It’s like a balance beam routine during competition with only a few skills left before the dismount: feet pound down the beam, punch off the end, flip, and stick the landing.
For the first time since that fateful April afternoon at Regionals, a wave of confidence courses through me. I’ve got this.
We return to the opposite side of the street from where I began. I’m almost bouncing in my seat. I’m done, out of here, conquered glorious attempt number seven. Through the window, Dad steps away from the playground, makes his way over with that infamous smirk brewing on his face. I give him a thumbs-up and he raises an eyebrow, surprised.
That’s right, Dad, you’re looking at a licensed driver. Consider yourself relegated to shotgun.
“Work on controlling your steering,” the man says, handing me the paper with my score. “As well as paying more attention.”
Sure, sure. I nod vigorously. Hell, I’ll agree to anything right now. The paper trembles as I scan the litany of deductions. It’s a little longer than I’d expected, but so what? You can still get points off and pass–
Two. Freakin’. Points.
Between me and my license. Between the me who always fails and the one who thought she’d broken through today.
“Sorry.” The man’s already halfway out the door.
The paper crumples in my hand. That brief flash of confidence, of belief in myself? Clearly I’m delusional. When the feeling had reminded me of completing a beam routine, apparently my subconscious forgot to add, Warning! This experience is eerily similar to others that you’ve failed at. Do not trust.
Dad doesn’t say anything when he returns to the driver’s seat. He might want to, but I’m too damned focused on watching the cars in front of us. Did any of those drivers pass today? Are they driving right now?
“How much?” he finally asks.
“Two.”
“We’ll go driving this weekend,” he says with a little laugh, and I don’t say anything.
Besides that too-wide left-hand turn, there are no major violations on the piece of paper. Just the same phrase again and again: “Failed to use proper judgment.”
I press my forehead to the cool window and imagine myself in the thicket of trees that we hurtle past, running far and deep into the shadows.
When my phone rings, I debate not looking. Whatever Cassie has to say is sure to make me feel worse, although she won’t mean to. Kicking serious DMV ass?