Hold your hands at ten and two o’clock,” Dad says.
I bring my hands up to where I think they should be. Someone should really come up with a more modern reference—who even uses clocks with hands anymore?
“A little higher.” He guides my right hand up a bit and I bring my left one up so they’re even. Now if I could just figure out what to do with my feet.
We went over the different pedals and what they are for earlier, but now that I’m actually sitting in the car, I’m a little scared to touch them. The car’s not on yet, but still.
“Put your foot on the brake pedal,” Dad says.
The brake, I remember, is the one on the left, so I bring my left foot up and hold the pedal down.
“Your other foot,” Dad says. “Always your right foot.”
“Always,” Mom says from the backseat.
I shoot her a dirty look in the mirror. This was supposed to be one of the things on Dad’s list for us to do together, just the two of us. Except he can’t really drive anymore, and I obviously can’t drive yet, so Mom had to drive us over to the Belk parking lot behind the Commons.
“Okay, now focus,” Dad says. “Remember, slow and subtle movements. You don’t have to turn the wheel a lot to make it move.”
“Got it.” I open up my hands to stretch my fingers out before wrapping them around the wheel, holding on tight.
“Foot on the brake?”
I nod.
“Now slowly bring your foot over to the gas and apply a little pressure. Not a lot, just a little.”
I move my foot to the right and rest it on the gas pedal.
“A little more than that, but slowly. Remember, everything slowly.” I put a little more pressure on the gas. “Now back to the brake,” he says.
I move my foot back to the brake and press down.
“Good, you’ve got it. Ready?”
“I think so,” I say, even though this is all happening two years before it’s supposed to.
“Keep your foot on the brake,” Dad says, and I push down even harder. “Now push the start button.”
I reach for the button to the right of the steering wheel, letting my finger hover over it for a second. I’m about to drive a car! I push the button and the engine roars to life, the wheel shaking beneath my hands.
From the backseat, I hear Mom gasp. I shoot her a look in the rearview mirror and she shrugs an apology.
“Now push the button on top of the gear shift and move it into D for drive.”
I push the button and move the lever to the right, then down two notches. It feels like the controller to one of Beau’s games. “It’s like a video game.”
“It is not a game.” Dad sounds mad.
“I know, I was just saying.”
“Driving is a privilege and a responsibility. Do you understand that?”
“I understand.” I keep my eyes straight ahead, hoping I didn’t ruin this moment that I’m supposed to remember fondly for the rest of my life.
“Okay, now ease your foot off the brake. Slowly,” he says, back in his normal voice.
Slowly, like Dad said, I lift my foot up. It’s not even all the way off the brake when the car starts to move. It freaks me out, so I push back down, a little too hard, apparently, because we all jerk forward along with the car.
“And that’s why we always wear our seatbelts.” Mom can’t pass up the opportunity for one of her stupid teaching moments.
“Lex,” Dad says. “Don’t make me make you wait outside.”
Another reason he’s my favorite. I turn around and watch as Mom brings her hand up to her mouth, pretending she’s zipping her lips shut.
“Eyes on the road,” Dad says, back in his mean voice.
“Sorry,” I mumble, turning back around.
“Okay, now let’s try that again,” Dad says. “Gently off the brake, the car is going to move, but that’s okay.” This time, I take my foot all the way off the brake. It’s not as scary now that I know what’s going to happen. “Now, gently on the gas. Just a little tap.”
I tap my foot on the gas, but nothing happens.
“Good, a little more pressure.”
“Oof!” The car lurches forward as I hit the gas.
“Now ease up,” he says.
I lift my foot a little and we slow down. “I’m driving!” I look over at Dad, and even though he’s smiling, his eyes look sad.
And then it hits me, harder than the jerk when I hit the brake too hard, why we’re doing this in the first place.
“You okay?” Dad asks.
“What? Oh yeah.” I shake it off, because the last thing I want is to make him even sadder than he already is.
“Put your blinker on,” he says as we approach the end of the parking lot.
“No one else is around,” I say.
“Put your blinker on,” Dad repeats and I do what he says.
“Now turn the wheel to the left, harder, harder, good.” The blinker shuts itself off on its own as I straighten the wheel out. I had no idea it did that.
“Hit the gas a little more,” Dad says. “You can see how fast you’re going right there.” He points to one of the little circles on the dashboard.
“Five?” It didn’t feel like I was going that slow.
“You can go a little faster,” he says.
I put more pressure on the pedal and watch as the lever goes higher, first to eight, then to twelve before jumping to fifteen.
“Eyes on the road,” Dad reminds me. I look back up, seeing the other end of the parking lot getting closer and closer.
“How do I slow down?” I ask, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel.
“Ease your foot off the gas and onto the brake, press down slow but firm.”
I follow his instructions and the car slows down smoothly before coming to a stop. “How’d I do?”
“You were great, baby.”
Since my foot is on the brake, I figure it’s okay to take my eyes off the road for a second, and I quickly look up in the rearview mirror. Mom’s eyes are a little misty, but she’s smiling. I smile back, because I feel the same way.
“Want to go around the full circle?” Dad asks.
“Can I?”
“You tell me,” he says.
“I can do it.” I take my foot off the brake and slowly move it over to the gas. I turn the wheel to the left, hoping Dad didn’t notice that I forgot to put the blinker on.
At the next end of the big square parking lot, I remember to put my blinker on before turning left. I do the same thing for the other three sides until we’re back where we started.
“Think you’re ready to drive us home?” he asks.
“No way,” Mom says from the backseat.
I don’t mind this time since I know Dad was just joking. I’m not ready for the real roads, but when I am, I hope I’ll be able to remember everything he taught me.