I look around. “Put it in reverse?”
“Adjust your mirrors.” He points at the little buttons on my door that move the side mirrors. “And check your blind spot, especially in a parking lot.”
“Right. There could be rogue parking lot squirrels.” I make a show of looking behind me. “Now can I back up?”
He nods.
I move the gear shift and watch the backup camera, trying to remember which way you turn the wheel to back up toward the right. The vehicle moves three inches and Nick puts his hand over the screen on the dashboard that displays the feed from the backup camera.
“Get in the habit of physically looking through your back windshield,” he says. “Don’t rely on the camera.”
I take a breath and turn my head, trying again.
Four minutes later, Nick’s car is out of the parking spot and facing the intended direction.
“We probably should’ve started with the part where you just make circles around the lot,” he says.
“Well, it’s good that I humbled myself before I demonstrate my skill at very slowly curving right.” I take my foot off the brake and navigate the car around Lokahi, trying to keep the speed steady.
“So, you never took driver’s ed?” he asks.
“I did the classroom part, where you watch videos of accidents and get quizzed about what a flashing red light means. Sometimes my dad would let me get behind the wheel just for fun.”
He called it fun. He claimed that he learned how to drive at fourteen because he had a “natural affinity for cars.” It wasn’t fun to feel my fifteen-year-old palms sweating on the steering wheel, horns honking, trying desperately to remember where the clutch was. The fact that I failed to master the skill immediately crushed my desire to keep trying.
“Try pulling into one of these spaces,” Nick says. “Be very light on the accelerator.”
I push on the gas with a little too much force and the car hurtles toward the curb. I scream and slam on the brakes, causing the tires to screech against the asphalt.
“Shit. Sorrysorrysorrysorry.” I try to catch my breath. “Dammit.”
“It’s fine,” Nick says. I look over to see if he’s white-knuckling the nearest handle. “Just try it again.” He looks much calmer than I feel. I’m practically cowering.
“Maybe you should take the wheel.”
“Just tap the gas lighter this time and try to stay between the lines. You’re just practicing.”
I exhale. No part of me wants to press my foot against this pedal again. But I do it because I can’t stand failing at something. (Yes, I realize that’s ironic, because I’ve been feeling like a huge failure for five years.)
I pull into parking spots, pull out, circle around until I feel just how lightly I can press my foot against the gas pedal.
“You’re a good teacher,” I say quietly. “Are you hungry?” I ask, shifting into park. “Or is that a stupid question because you have unlimited access to baby back ribs?”
15
“Make a right up here,”I say. “Just past the Rusty Bucket.”
“For someone who doesn’t drive, you definitely know your way around the city.”
“I grew up here.” I shrug, which about sums up my feelings for Columbus at the moment. “I thought adults could choose the perfect place to live. And instead I’m stuck.”
“You’restuck?” Nick scoffs at that, shaking his head as he makes the right turn. “A young, single person with no one to support? With a great education?”
“With great education comes great financial responsibility.”
“I’m sorry but only one of us gets to be ‘stuck’ in Columbus, and it’s the person with a child and an ex and a house here,” he says. “I don’t mind this city. It’s the knowing Ican’tleave that gets to me. Not for nine or ten years, at least. By that time, I’ll be almost fifty.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter as we stop at a red light.
