The silent purr of the engine. That detail’s stuck with me this entire time, perhaps because of its familiarity. The quiet thrum beneath my feet dissipated into silence as the Highlander drifted to a stop in the left turn lane of the intersection.
I remember my firm grip on the steering wheel. The chill of the leathery material through my gloves. A deep breath in. Orbs of light floated and blurred in the darkness of the intersection. Overhead, an angry red light glared down at the rusted jeep in front of me.
“You’re doing so well,” my mom commented from the passenger seat. She was right. After two months with a driver’s permit, I’d become more and more familiar with the main roads that hatched across Orangevale. My current predicament was not unfamiliar to me. Drumming idly against the steering wheel, I gave my mother a curt nod in acknowledgement.
Nevertheless, I found myself observing the movements of the spiky haired figure in the Jeep ahead of me, mirroring their hold on the steering wheel. Even after months of practice, I doubted my capabilities. “I think I have more confidence in your driving ability than you do,” my mom would always tell me. She was probably right.
Somewhere in the darkness, red flickered to green. The pixie haired figure ahead of me effortlessly guided their rumbling heap of a car into the intersection. I trailed behind, following the glow of the headlights as they curled around the cement barrier. When in doubt, follow the leader. My body operated autonomously from my mind, circling the steering wheel at the precise angle that would land us in the perpendicular street. I allowed the pressure from my foot to subside on the gas, waiting for the preceding car to reach the right hand lane…
…Except it didn’t.
In one fluid, expeditious motion, the Jeep swiveled around the parking barrier into the parallel left lane. My chest tightened as I realized we were about to do the same.
The wheels screeched against the concrete beneath us as I gyrated the wheel in the right direction. My sight tinted red, the surrounding headlights blurring into an indistinguishable mass entrapping me. An orchestra of car horns jumbled together and my mother screamed. A second voice joined in, barking out the most filthy, salacious word in the English language. Through my drunken haze, I realized the voice was my own.
I’d never wished for death before, but the tiny, self-hating part of my brain cried out for it, if only to be saved from biting trepidation.
The red tinge seeped from my vision as the Highlander sailed into the destined lane. My body remained cold and stiff, my breath coming in fleeting rasps.
“Pull over.” My mother’s cool monotone brought me back to sobriety.
After I unceremoniously swerved into a nearby parking lot (earning a few appreciative honks from other drivers) and parked, my panting started up again, my chest coiling in anticipation for the scolding I was about to receive.
I was surprised to feel a warm hand on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath. It’ll help you calm down.”
It did.
After a moment, I turn to my mother, expecting a pair of stern eyes, but meeting a pair of empathetic ones instead.
“You aren’t gonna yell at me?” I finally managed to choke out. “I swore.”
She shook her head, a smile playing at her lips. “No. I’m honestly more worried about the fact that you almost killed us.”
I shrunk into the driver’s seat, curling my knees to my chest. “Oh.”
I rode in the passenger seat on the drive home, lowering my head to my knees and willing the incident away from my memory.
