Mr. Drum administers his final Driver’s Ed exam on the last Saturday of February. If I pass, Mom promises to let me retake my permit test. After that, I just need to find someone brave enough to spend sixty-five hours in the passenger seat while I practice driving.
The night before the final, I sleep over at Jana’s house, assuming we’ll spend a few hours cramming. What we actually do is flop on her bed in front of a zombie love story, (still scary, though billed as a chick flick) with all of the bedroom lights on and the closet doors open.
Between scenes, we pause the DVD and quiz each other on driving laws.
“Friday night studying goes against our principles,” Jana complains.
“I’m all for violation in this case. I can’t deal with one more Saturday morning stuck in class listening to sophomores bragging about the new cars they got for their sixteenth birthdays.”
Jana frowns. “You’re right. At this rate, Colette will be driving before me. She’s already pushing my parents for a car. Baby girl gets everything in this house.”
I’m tempted to remind Jana that her sister shares a bathroom with their younger brother. Totally gross, in my opinion. I’d definitely ask for a car as payback.
“Let’s study.” I crack open our Driver’s Ed manual. “What is the minimum distance allowed between a parked vehicle and a stop sign?”
“Fifteen feet? No, that’s a fire hydrant. Thirty. It’s thirty!” Jana shovels a handful of popcorn in her mouth.
“Ding ding ding! Correct!”
Jana jumps off the bed and slaps the wall, right where her posters of The Vamps and Shawn Mendes used to hang. “We’ve got this! I can’t wait to sleep in on Saturday mornings.”
***
The next morning, after Jana and I deflate a stack of pancakes, Mr. Rodriguez offers to drive us to class. He’s not much taller than Jana, a well-trimmed man with jet black hair. Even though he focuses on immigration law at his small firm, on special occasions such as this frosty winter morning, he insists on interrogating his daughter about driving regulations.
“Tell me how long your license will be revoked if you’re caught driving under the influence,” he says as we motor along the side streets of town.
Jana slumps against the side door. “If your last name is Rodriguez? Forever.”
“Longer than a forever,” he says.
“Enough, Father. Mr. Drum showed us tons of pictures of DUI crashes. Besides, he’s mainly worried about our driving skills when we’re sober.”
“Texting, then,” Mr. Rodriguez continues in his clipped voice, which still carries a trace of his Cuban heritage. “You kids are transfixed by those screens. Tell me, petunia, what is the penalty for texting while driving?”
“Really bad. I won’t do it. Ever.”
“Yes, because aside from the legal ramifications, you do realize the parental punishment would be significantly worse, am I right?”
“Yes, Father,” Jana answers, with an annoyed sigh.
“That’s my girl. Go get ‘em, daffodil.” Mr. Rodriguez lives to embarrass Jana with his flowery nicknames. He’s been at it for years, and always feigns innocence when she brings the awful habit to his attention. I consider Jana’s mortification as one more reason I’m happy my dad lives on the opposite side of the country—one less person to humiliate me in public.
We follow our fellow non-driving classmates into school. The completion of Driver’s Ed creates a class-wide buzz large enough to rival the effects of a dozen super-sized mocha macchiatos.
“Open your test booklet and begin immediately.” Mr. Drum waves us into the room, as if he, too, is excited to free up our seats in his class.
I speed through thirty multiple-choice questions, circling the correct answers on defensive driving, proper seat belt use, and most efficient steering techniques. Next, I crank out a bunch of true and false answers. Excitement rises in my chest. I know this stuff! Somehow, while I vegged out in class the last six Saturday mornings, the driving code sank into my head.
I zoom through two pages of diagrammed intersections, scrawling arrows to indicate the right of way and correct traffic patterns. (Not necessarily the biggest car first, as I now know).
I turn to the final section. A list! I am so acing this exam.
Give five examples of driving distractions and explain how to avoid them.
My responses:
1. Cell phones – turn them off.
2. Loud music – keep it down.
3. Food – resist the call of the McDonald’s drive thru.
4. Putting on makeup – you don’t need to look good when driving.
5. Mr. Drum – because he’s so hot I forgot how to drive.
“Jana,” I whisper. At the sound of her name, she rips her eyes from her test, looking frazzled. She must not be doing as well as me. I slide my list to the edge of my desk for her to read before I erase and revise my answers. But Mr. Drum notices my answer-sharing and reaches my seat in three, lightning-fast strides.
“Finished, Miss Matthews?” He yanks the booklet out of my hand. His arm sweeps in front of my face, granting me an eye-level view of his forearm tattoos, an inked assortment of lethal weapons. Like a curved ninja sword. And I think something called a sickle decorates his elbow.
I shrink back into my seat. “Um, not quite. Can I please have my test back, Mr. Drum?”
“No. You’re done now. Everyone else, five minutes. Final grades will be posted next week.” Without bothering to wait for Mr. Drum to discover exactly why I will fail Driver’s Ed, I grab my backpack and run.