Of course, our teacher made me drive first.
I crept down the road
at thirty-five in a fifty-five zone,
my heart pounding so hard I was sure
it would burst out of my ribs.
“Come on,” coaxed our teacher.
“Give ‘er some gas.”
My eyes flicked to the rear view mirror
and caught the boy.
He was smiling at me.
I forced myself to believe it was a smile of encouragement,
not of ridicule.
I was so busy trying to interpret his smile
that I nearly coasted through a red light.
Our teacher jammed the brake on his side.
He demanded, “Are you daydreaming?”