James pulls the car around the corner.
My stomach lurches.
He switches to the passenger side—
Me, the driver.
James shares the secret to driving well:
not just having awareness of other people
but believing you, yourself,
are in control.
I nod.
He turns on the radio.
“Alex Chilton” by the Replacements starts playing.
I drive down West End,
windows down, we both hum along.
Twenty minutes later,
up and around the neighborhood,
he tells me I’m ready for the highway.
I say but there are so many people—
he says they want to live too.
I can’t help but laugh.
Turn left on 79th.
Back to the Henry Hudson, 9A.
When I merge onto the highway,
a red car honks at me loudly,
then swerves into another lane.
James tells me it’s okay,
that was my blind spot.
I make it four more exits,
staying in the right lane,
without another person honking at me.
A smile breaks from my lips.
For the first time in weeks, I feel something—possibility.
I tell him Dad always said you were a good teacher.
He says he heard I was a good student.
I ask if we can do it again,
if he thinks I could pass my test
before I leave for school.
He says
he knows I can
if we practice
every day.
We park and take the elevator up,
me with a smile.
James in my peripheral vision,
still humming “Alex Chilton,”
and I realize that blind spots
aren’t just
about driving.