Lilly

I spread my hands to exactly 120 degrees of separation and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go stark and white beneath my skin. “It’s fine, just relax,” my dad says as I put the car in reverse, mentally readying myself for another whirlwind half hour of circles and figure eights in the empty parking lot.

I turn 17 in November. Almost all of my friends have had their driver’s licenses for months—I’ll be late, if not the last, to get mine no matter what at this point. But it’s funny how easily affected I am by being put in control of a few thousand pounds of metal. My parents make it look so easy, navigating packed avenues and narrow roads like it’s nothing. Whereas to me, even pulling into a parking space seems like a nigh on impossible task.

I know I shouldn’t be as anxious about it as I am. All it takes is muscle memory and practice, like anything else, right? But it’s not much comfort thinking that the only way to get better at driving is to, well, drive. I’d rather bike for miles across town than do it twice as fast in a machine bigger than I am. It’s just something that I know I have to be able to do, especially once I’m on my own.

The other day my friend took me to the movie theater in her new car. It’s a stick shift, which she’s never driven before, and before we’re halfway to our destination I’m the one reminding her to gear down at stoplights. “See, you’ll be fine,” she says as she hits the gas and the car wrenches itself out of inertia with an almighty jerk and a screech of brake pads. “At least you don’t have to deal with this—ah, crap, I meant to switch to fourth, not second.”

The car behind us slows to give us a wider berth. We laugh, and I feel a little better. ♦