Practice

I floored the gas thinking that it was the brake. I pulled the brake toward the left, hoping to avoid the wall in front of us. My mother screamed. My father yelped. I rushed my foot to the brake. I had hoped that the damage was minimal, which it was. Only a scuff on the car’s right headlight and a bruised-up wall in front of us. But the trust was gone. My dad began berating me from the passenger seat. What he said probably was a lot about how nervous I shouldn’t have been, otherwise I would have figured it out. My mother yapping in support of him. Being a teenager, it had felt like I had lost all prospect of ever being a good driver, let alone, two steps back in the process of obtaining a license. At that point, I did what any reactionary kid would have done. I put the car in park, and I stormed out of the driver’s seat. I walked across the bridge that led to the condominium building, and I walked down the stairs to our ground floor apartment. I reached into my pocket, grabbed my keys, and I jammed it into the keyhole. I frantically made my way to my room, and I shut it behind me. My heart began racing. My eyes were welling up. As I lay in bed, I wondered about a future where I wouldn’t suck at anything. I was unlike anyone my age at the time. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have any prospects of a future. I didn’t know how to drive. I closed my eyes, and I had hoped that the pain would go away. I imagined a future where I could drive like I was Mario Andretti, swerving in some fantasy land where the roads were clear. For now, I had the crusty streets of Ketchikan. I cringed at the thought of having to walk past the site. Still, I had to pass my test, even if it meant crashing here and there.