The deafening ring of my head-splitting alarm clock strikes me out of my peaceful slumber. Happy birthday to me. And to my surprise, the gift on my 17th year on earth is a nerve racking test which determines whether I’ll be on the road or not. Yay me. 

I’m patiently waiting in the passenger seat of the old Honda Civic I was picked up in. The seat under me is fuzzy and stained and I run my fingers along where the seams end. I wonder how many other kids have sat here in my same situation. I start to notice the tight converse on my feet and the seams of my socks become recognizable. My driving teacher seems tired of doing the same thing everyday, especially when it involves the DMV. The look on my face is obvious. Nervous, exhausted, eager, pale from skipping breakfast. The contrasting emotions make my stomach hurt and I’m bobbing my leg irritably. My driving teacher is yawning while making multiple turns like she knows the way there in the back of her head. She was wearing her work uniform, a grey embroidered polo shirt with khaki slacks. She looked uncomfortable. All I can do is look out the window and give myself a mental pep talk while I chew my fingernails off painfully.

When we arrive, I notice the extremely long line out the door, people are constantly moving their feet sloppily and impatiently trying to stay warm. The winter air smacks me in the face and my eyes water from the scent of snow and ice. There are officers shaking their heads doubtfully at cars who didn’t stop a full three seconds at the sign. Orange cones and white lines are everywhere guiding the new drivers. The grey sky above us illustrates a cold January morning and the air burns my nose. The specific and calm voice of my instructor clouds my thoughts repeating basic knowledge I’ve already retained. “Mirrors, blind spots, handbrake.”

I flinch at the sounds of people slamming doors out of frustration. It’s freezing outside and I regret only wearing a hoodie and leggings. I grimace at the brown slushy half melted snow piling up near the entrance. Observing my setting, I take a mental note of the deep potholes near the testing area to avoid them later. All I smell is the putrid lit cigarette of a middle aged man waiting for his daughter to finish while tapping his foot as if he has something better to do. It’s my turn and my eyes widen.

My name is called and I enter the car with the police officer in the passenger seat. She is wearing her usual uniform and writing stuff on her clipboard that I desperately want to peek at. I put my seatbelt on, checked my mirrors, and went off. I brake too hard at the stop sign for the reason of never driving this car before and apologize profusely. She brushes it off and sends me a comforting smile. Minutes pass that feels like hours of her instructing me where to go. I’m sure I’ve failed at this point. My turns were wide and my parking was sloppy. Sure enough, she checks everything off her clipboard and clicks her pen a few times.

What seems like a small nose the click of the pen is excruciating. “You can pull up right here, ”she directs in a controlled small voice. I put the old loud sedan in park and expect a lecture about coming back in two weeks and to keep practicing. “You passed,” she says emotionlessly. And the first words out of my mouth were “really?” Astonished, I got my license and enjoyed the rest of my birthday.