I could not wait to get my driver’s license. In order to prepare for the driver’s permit test, I saved up my babysitting earnings and attended Driver’s Education at the Dootson Driving School. The classes took place over the course of several Saturdays. Attendance was mandatory. I happily complied, even if that meant sitting inside a beige-on-beige classroom watching Red Asphalt over and over. Anything that got me towards my ultimate goal of driving. Being able to drive represented freedom. To head out farther than my feet or bicycle would take me was a dream.
Once my permit hours were complete and my 16th birthday was celebrated, I was ready for the behind the wheel test. I barely passed. I was beyond nervous. The DMV tester was gruff and impatient. He was too well seasoned to worry about the hopes and dreams of every anxious teenager that he had to endure.
Of course, no one knew my secret. I had been driving by myself for several months. When my mom was away on the weekends with her current boyfriend, I was taking out her car. I would go grocery shopping or to the library. I never told my friends. There was no way I wanted to be put in the position of refusing to drive to a party or just cruising around. Each time I returned the car home, I would meticulously park. Using the brick pathway and our front door to get the angle of the car just right. We lived on a tight cul-de-sac, and my mom always parked out in front of our house.
After a full day of running errands, I turned back to look at the car, checking my parking job. The front license plate was gone. Where it should have been was a scrape on the front bumper. I panicked. There had been one moment during my drive where I had underestimated the dip in the road. There was only one thing to do. Go back out and find the license plate. I retraced my steps, slowly. I looked side to side. Maybe the license plate had migrated to the gutter. Defeated, I returned home empty handed.
The next day was spent nervously debating myself about what to do. In the end, I convinced myself that my mom would never notice. She was not a car person. This was only the second car I had ever known her to own. Our previous car was a 4-door Volvo, purchased by my mom and dad when my arrival dictated a more family-friendly vehicle than my dad’s beloved Porsche 912.
By the time my mom had been convinced to get rid of the Volvo only 2 of the 4 doors opened and the standard issue Swedish, anemic air conditioning was completely gone. I was driving our ‘new’ car, a beige Chevy Malibu Classic. The Malibu was a big deal; it had ‘real’ air conditioning, a roomy back seat, and even though it was a few years old, it felt modern. However, in this moment, the good news for me was that for all my excitement over the Malibu to my mom, the car was still just a way to get from point A to point B. Her automotive indifference would save me from having to face my lawlessness.
