DRIVING by Chloe Brovitz

I (like every other 16 year old in New York) had spent months practicing driving. Though I was not forced to sit through 6 months of Driver's Ed, I did experience the universal feeling of passenger seat parents. Of course they knew much more about driving than I did, but it was still aggravating when they would tell me to go 5 mph below the speed limit. Parallel parking was the worst, as I would only get it right 50% of the time, and everyone thought they had the hidden key to perfecting this daunting task. Regardless, I very proudly passed my first time - even fitting snugly behind the huge black truck my tester told me to park behind. That night I was eager to start my driving career. I told my parents I wanted to go to the Palenville market to get strawberry ice cream. I wanted to be mature and nonchalant about it, but they understood my excitement and made it a very big deal. I ran up the stairs to my room and grabbed my iPod, turning it on and spending 5 minutes picking out the perfect playlist to accompany me on my great adventure. "Don't get cocky, use your lights, drive slow" followed me out the door like smoke before I closed the porch door defiantly.

All it took was 6 steps before I was giggling to myself, saying "oh my god, oh my god" over and over again. I got in the driver's seat of the car as I had so many times before, but this was so different, even drastically different than when I made my dad sit in the back seat and not say anything the entire ride, feigning adult-hood. I plugged my iPod into the stereo and pressed play, thankful that I had done all the pre-planning before stepping foot outside. I knew that the car ride was a mere minute and a half at best, but I was still satisfied with my choice of playlists, even if I only got to listen to half a song.

The car ride was liberating. Though I was only going half a mile away, I knew I could go to Woodstock if I wanted to, I could go somewhere and never, ever be found. I turned right into the parking lot and parked sloppily right on top of a yellow line. Though I was the only car in the parking lot, I quickly backed up and meticulously pulled back in satisfyingly. I debated whether or not to take the keys in with me, and ended up decided for it. All I wanted was for the stereotypically Indian woman to say something about the keys I was cockily swinging around my finger. I had the burning desire to tell her that I drove there all by myself, that I was capable of going out into the world and returning home with a pint of creamy Haagen-Daaz. However, she did not ask which almost made me feel even more mature. After all, no adult bragged about driving 2 minutes to a gas station.