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weirdness of having her drive me to my driving test, her awkwardness and deeply unhelpful attempts to bond (probe) when I was trying to focus, her disorienting new need to get in my head that screwed me up at that vital moment.
    Or maybe I was feeling slightly, well, disappointed in her, judging her harshly—which was so unfair and just plain incorrect that it completely threw me off my game.
    Or maybe I actually suck at driving, despite my sisters’ oft-repeated belief that I am excellent at it in their impatience to have me drive them everywhere. Maybe they are just fooled about that, too.
    Whatever the cause of my distraction or lack of talent during the test, though, and whatever the mitigatingcircumstances—like the squirrel that truly did, whether Driving Inspector Man saw it or not, run in front of the car as I was attempting the three-point turn—it is not really under dispute whether or not I smashed into that police car.
    I mean, the siren went off.
    Or, rather, went on.
    And on and on and on.
    Nobody was injured or anything. It was a small dent. I am not trying to make excuses for myself. I agree that the driving instructor was well within his rights to fail me. Though I will admit the thought crossed my mind that this is some impressive job for an adult to have—did this dude dream when he was seventeen of someday becoming the judge and jury on whether kids who were nervous and doing their best to block out the rest of their stressful lives and focus on making three-point turns (which never in my life have I witnessed a driver actually making) without committing a small mistake like, Whoops that is actually still in reverse! , should be given a second chance after their profuse and, I should add, immediately accepted apologies to the cops whose car they smashed?
    But what I said aloud was, “Of course, I understand. I hope your neck feels better soon.”
    Then I slipped quietly into the passenger seat of my mother’s car and waited for her to drive away.
    Instead, she turned to me, her hand loose on thegearshift of her Porsche. “What happened?” she asked, not unsympathetically.
    I shrugged.
    “Well, of course you passed.”
    “I didn’t,” I told her. “Can we go?”
    “You are so hard on yourself,” Mom said. “I’m sure you did much better than you think you did.”
    “Uh, no.”
    “Tell me what happened,” she cajoled, her voice smooth steel like always, despite her lack of cajoling practice. “It’s probably like that time you thought you’d failed your presentation in seventh grade because you hesitated for a second, and said, horror of horrors, ‘Excuse me,’ before you continued. Do you remember? And you got an A-plus on that, if I remember correctly.”
    She did not remember correctly. I got an A. I gritted my teeth. She was always bringing up that story.
    “Come on, Quinn, what happ—”
    “I smashed into a police car,” I said.
    She blinked twice. “By smashed, do you mean—”
    “Did you hear the siren?”
    She clapped her hand over her mouth. “That was you?”
    I tilted my head and half smiled. “Yeah.”
    “No!”
    I thought: We can’t all be as perfect as you, Mom.
    I said: nothing.
    “A cop car?” She was actually starting to laugh. “Seriously, Quinn? You crashed into a cop car on your driving test?”
    “Can we go?” I asked again, then added, “Please?”
    Mom turned the key in the ignition. “I can’t believe…Was anybody hurt?”
    “No,” I said. “Well, Driving Inspector Man was grumbling about his neck, but—”
    “Were they in pursuit of criminals, at least? And cut you off? It was probably their fault,” she tried, racing through a yellow light.
    “They were drinking sodas, parked,” I admitted.
    “No!” Tears were streaming down Mom’s cheeks, she was laughing so hard.
    “Air bags pop out at like the least provocation, don’t they?” I asked.
    “Oh, Quinn!” She pulled into a gas station and yanked up the emergency brake in