I’m trapped in a vehicle with this man, ladies and gentlemen.
“Parallel park,” he says as I draw near an old Volvo that has two wheels up on the sidewalk. Where would the rest of the Volvo be, had its driver parked it successfully? In fact, where was the DMV when its driver took his road test? I halt a healthy two feet away.
If you do this, you’re home free.
My heartbeat kicks up.
Get this man back to the DMV, and you pass.
I cut the wheel three quarters of the way. Rolling past the Volvo’s windows…the tremendous dent on the back door…bumper-to-bumper and I’m only one foot away…
This is your moment, Gregory.
Oh, holy crooked parking job. I’m a mile from the curb. Toast. Dunzo. Outta here. What were Dad’s wise words about idiot drivers? Will I never have the chance to join their ranks? Will my parents have to escort me back and forth from college? Please, no.
“Hmm,” the man says.
I will the curb to move closer.
He opens the door and examines the distance. “Interesting.” Yep. I’ll never be able to look at Dad again without him laughing.
“All right, our work here is done,” the man says.
I don’t cry the whole drive back. I want to. I very nearly do. I manage to stay composed. Later, I keep telling myself.
I pull up across the street from where the hopefuls line up for their tests. As a young buck in a cowboy hat hugs his mother goodbye, I realize: Screw it. So what if Dad has to drive me to school for the rest of senior year and back and forth from college? So what if I’ll be able to hear Richard laughing when Mom tells him on the phone? So what if Dad, Richard, my mom, or some combination of the three will bring up the goddamn squirrel on my wedding day? At least I’ve tried. I’ve admitted all of my failures. I’ve done my best to improve. That’s all they can ask of me.
“Thank you for your time,” I say with all the dignity I can muster.
“Congratulations,” he replies.
Wait. What?
“Took one point off. That parallel park was a little brutal. But you’ll never need to parallel park again unless you’re in the city, and who wants anything to do with New York these days, anyway? Have a good one,” he says as he opens the passenger seat door. “And remember what we talked about.”
So this is how you pass a road test. It has nothing to do with your skills or how much you’ve practiced or how many times you’ve failed. It’s all about the kind of person you get on that particular day.
Dad appears at the door. “Any furry friends along the way?” he asks. Waiting for me to surrender the keys so he can drive and I can sulk the whole ride back. It’s the system. Or, rather, it was the system.
I crank up AC/DC and say, “Oh, did you want a ride?”
I HONK OUTSIDE of Emery’s apartment. “I don’t freaking believe it!” she yells, gym bag bouncing against her back as she runs to the car. “Should I wear a helmet?”
“Earplugs.” I turn up “Live and Let Die.” And then I almost roll into a garbage can.
Cruising at a blistering thirty-five miles per hour, we arrive at practice fifteen minutes late. By now, all of the recreational class parents have cleared out, so I drift into a spot without fear of sideswiping anyone. There’s Matt’s SUV, Vanessa’s sporty little thing, me, and a blue minivan with tinted windows.
When we walk in, the first thing I notice is how quiet the gym is. Second, there are Nicola and Erica’s super wide you won’t believe what’s happening eyes as they turn at the sound of the door. Third, there’s the bona-freakin’-fide Olympian standing next to the floor.
She’s shorter than I am. I’ve never met anyone simultaneously older yet shorter than me. I blame this for why I can’t say anything.
“Great to see you again!” says Coach Barry with a clap on my back. Oops. Didn’t notice he was here. “We were in the area to watch the Manhattan Invitational, and we thought we’d swing by and see how your comeback is going.”
Nobody “swings by” here from Manhattan. My palms are sweating profusely. The two coaches are here for me, Savannah Gregory and her Beast.
“Admissions let me know that you were accepted,” he continues, reaching out to shake my hand in congratulations, except I’m blatantly staring at the girl next to him. “This is our new assistant coach, Angela Cardena.”
“Well, duh,” I say. “I only account for half of the thousands of YouTube hits on your gold medal routine from the Olympics. You’re the reason that I ate Champion’s Choice turkey for an entire year.”
Great. They’re going to slap me with a restraining order before I set a foot on campus.
Bless her soul, former Olympic champion Angela Cardena laughs like she’s genuinely amused and maybe a little flattered. “And you are–”
“Kaitlyn Savannah Gregory,” I say, shaking her hand. Too much information. Might as well offer up my firstborn while I’m at it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“DAD, I’M GOING to Owego,” I yell into the phone at our first water break. Due to the Olympian walking among us, Vanessa actually looks at me and smiles when she sees me on the phone.
Does my father break down in relieved tears? Chide me for making this decision without telling him? Tell me how proud he is?
“About damn time,” he says. “Now, what were you calling me about?”
TODAY, I’M COMMITTING.