into park. “Think about what you’re doing,” he says. “Try again.”
I flip my signal on, and reverse, telling the scared voice in my head to shut the fuck up. Sam is not here. And if he is, and I rip into his car, it serves him right.
I ease my foot off the brake, give it a little gas, and the car slips back alongside the curb just the way it’s supposed to. The Cadillac’s silver back bumper is directly in front of me now. It’s perfect. I did it!
Why can’t it be Sam’s car in front of me? Why doesn’t Sam come out of that white clapboard house over there and say, Holy shit! That’s my kid!
The test guy doesn’t remark. He doesn’t scribble any more either, though.
“Pull up to the end of the block where there are no parked cars and make a three-point turn.”
His voice really reminds me of Froggy from The Little Rascals show. Calm down, I think, he’s just Froggy all grown up. Harmless.
I signal, carefully pull out, and head down the road, wondering why I’m such a jerk. Three tries, that took me. I know how to parallel park for fuck sakes. I know it. Froggy knows it. Sam would know it too if he took a friggin’ look.
At the end of the block, I make a three-point turn. No mistakes.
Froggy has me drive us back out onto the main road and then up to Kingsway. You’d think I’d be nervous being on a busy street like Kingsway, but it’s a relief after the parallel parking. All I have to do is stay in my own lane. Just watch the bumper in front of me like the driver’s ed guy used to say: “Look in the direction you want to go and the car will follow.”
We roll along, and for a minute or two I feel just the way Lou said, like an old pro. Even Froggy can see that I know what I’m doing now. It was only nerves back there.
He tells me to make a left turn at the next light and I sail into the intersection just as the light turns amber, and then effortlessly steer the car onto Willingdon Avenue again.
I am in the zone now. I am acing it.
“Why did you make that turn back there?”
I squeeze the steering wheel. “You said—”
“You should have anticipated that light would turn red. Should’ve stopped.” He scribbles on his clipboard.
I don’t get it. It’s not illegal to turn left on an amber. Most of the time, that’s what you have to do. Isn’t it? I want to argue this point but I hear Marlene in my head: “You’d argue with your big toe if there was no one else in the room.”
“At the next intersection, make a right-hand turn.”
With the long line of traffic, it takes a while to make it to the corner. But when I do, I have just enough time to make a smooth right before the light changes and traffic starts coming from the other direction. It looks as if we’re heading back to the test centre.
“Check your rear-view,” he tells me.
“Okay. I did.”
“Why do you think those cars are so close behind?”
I glance in the mirror again. “Because … because they’re tailgating?”
“Try again.”
My chest is starting to bang. “I’m going too slow?”
“Because you made that last turn just as eastbound traffic got a green light. You should have anticipated the light would turn and waited. Anticipate!”
Anticipate? I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Anticipate. If I could anticipate every friggin’ thing that might happen, my life wouldn’t be the bowl of turds that it is right now, would it.
My hands start to tremble and I grip the wheel harder.
At twenty past three, we drive back into the test centre parking lot. I put the car in park and pull on the emergency break.
Well, that’s it. I failed. I suppose I have to take the whole damn test over again.
The test guy scribbles some more and circles something. He opens the clip on his board, and tears the top sheet off before he opens his door.
“Driving’s not that hard, kid. Practise. Anticipate.” His voice is all snark—as if he thinks I’m some lowlife, a dirty little cockroach. That’s what he thinks, I bet.
He tosses the scoresheet on the seat and slams the door behind him.
I pick up the paper. Pass, it says with a circle around it. I passed by one point.
I should be happy. But my