Internal drive

 She had a plan. It involved the DMV, circling around the block with the buffer of about 55 hours of parental driving lessons since she turned 16.

I had a plan; While the girl was taking her road test, I would run around the block.

I'd figured it all out. During the fifteen minutes the Department of Motor Vehicles had allotted its road testers to determine the safety and efficacy of New York's latest crop of could-be drivers, I should be able to run a mile and a half. That's fifteen city blocks and back if I were both lucky and swift.

But after she'd carefully pulled away from the curb with the examiner as her copilot - left-hand directional on as is legally appropriate - I couldn't bear to move.

I couldn't even bring myself to lift my gaze and follow the car from its starting position to the stop sign at the end of the street.

Which way did they go after that? I couldn't say for sure.

Instead, I would spend the next fifteen minutes trying to pace a groove in the sidewalk, trudging back and forth from the camp chairs Mr. R.D. Testa had so thoughtfully placed, in the shade, to the fire hydrant fifty yards beyond, in the scorching sun.

Why was I nervous?

I wasn't the one in the driver's seat, navigating unfamiliar streets with a stranger strapped in beside me. Pleasant enough fellow though he was, it would be up to her to determine what the notes he was making on his tablet as he softly clucked his tongue actually meant for her chances of passing.

I felt the centrifugal force of tension against my neck as I craned it toward each vehicle whooshing past the mouth of the roadway, tires grinding pebbles as they turned in and slowly made their way to be next in the lineup.

I checked my watch. Twenty minutes had passed, and still no sign of them.

Eventually, they would return. She would park the car, and there would be a long, silent moment where he spoke, and she looked stricken. His car door would open, and he would approach me to explain that while she did well, she did not do well enough to pass this time.

It was the old conundrum of having to choose between taking a right as when the traffic light is yellow or stopping for all of eternity (or until the light turns green again) smack

dab in the center of a crosswalk.

She chose wrong.

She calmly handed me the keys and melted into the passenger seat.

For the next 22 minutes and 39 seconds, the soundtrack inside our car was a mix of sobs and silence accompanying a repetitive chorus of "I Failed," sung with torment and a lilt of disbelief.

This wasn't part of her plan either.

All the feelings that accompany failure sit with her as we chugged along home. The defensive ones whisper not-so-sweet nothings into her ear: "That guy was just a jerk," her face-saving alter-ego hisses. "He could have passed you if he wanted." 

I find myself taking the examiner's side. "Hey, now. You know he was a nice guy, who has a serious job that he takes solemnly."

"Any one of us – even your dad – could fail that test under the right level of anxiety and one badly timed traffic light. We all make mistakes. We learn from them."

Her sobs turned soundless, and I stopped trying to make her feel better.

Only time and technology could heal that wound. And luckily, the technology she needed was in the palm of her hand.

By the time I pulled into the driveway and switched the car off, she'd booked another road test.

"Ok. New plan: Next week we'll do this again, only this time I'll get my license."