“Try again.”

 

It takes everything in me not to refuse, not to get out of the car entirely. My ears are pounding. My mind starts racing. I don’t want to try again. I’ve tried four times already. Again won’t make a difference. It’s late, I’ve got school tomorrow, I haven’t driven here before, and I can  hardly see in the dark. I hate this. Begrudgingly, I grip the wheel and put the car in reverse again until I hear from the passenger seat, “Just STOP.”

 

My dad’s head spins around.

 

I put the car in park and brace myself for the lecture that’s coming, which I’d also heard the first four times.

 

“You have to know how to do this,” he says. “You’re gonna have to do it on the driver’s test. That’s the whole reason we came to Maquoketa tonight. I mean, seriously! What’re you gonna do if parallel parking is your only option?”

 

I sit and stare at him for a minute, trying not to cry. My usual sarcastic responses, such as “I’ll go home” or “I’ll just marry a man who can do it for me,” probably aren’t going to get the best reaction from my already frustrated father, so I decide against those and choose to remain silent.

 

With my 18th birthday in less than a week, Dad is determined to nail this driving thing on the head. It was his idea to do a “practice driver’s test” in Maquoketa, starting at the DOT and making our way around town to get an idea of what it would actually be like on Wednesday afternoon. However, I’m uncertain.

 

Because I still haven’t answered him, he continues. “Do you think I’m just talking to hear myself talk? You are not good at this yet. You need to listen to me, Taylor.”

 

This hits me like a ton of bricks. Why am I not good at this yet? I’m the girl who never has to study for a test. Everything has to be perfect the first time around. All of my peers have received their brand-new licenses on their 16th birthdays. Why is it different for me?

 

Deep down, I know why it’s different. It’s because I’m afraid. But I’m not afraid in the typical sense of the phrase. I’m not afraid of totaling the car; I’m afraid of being wrong. I’m not afraid of getting in a wreck; I’m afraid of not knowing everything. I’m not afraid of getting a ticket; I’m afraid of the fact that maybe I’m not perfect.

I’m afraid of admitting I need help.

 

“Try again.” He turns around, and so do I. I try as hard as I can to see the lines in the dimly lit parking lot as dad yells, “crank it left” or “now right,” then “ok, forward.” I repeat silent prayers in my head as I wrestle with the steering wheel. Slowly but surely, I finally parallel park my brother’s tiny, red Ford Taurus. “There you go,” my dad says finally. “Now do it again.”

 

This time, I fight back. “I’ve done it five times!” I say. “I’m done! It’s eight o'clock, let’s just go home!”

 

“Honey,” he says. “We are doing this until it’s perfect. Until you can do it on your own, with no help, the first time. Got it?”

 

I’m caught on his word choice for just a moment. Perfect. The first time. I think of one of my mom’s nicknames for me, “Kris Jr,” which she uses whenever she thinks I’m sounding or acting like my dad. I realize that even though he and I have grown apart as I’ve gotten older, we still have one thing in common: the same stubborn, sarcastic, perfectionist, self-reliant personality. We would rather fail than ask for help, rather fail than admit we are wrong. My constant desire for perfection came from him.

 

I stop arguing. It takes a while, but I park the car again. And again. And a couple times more. And finally, I start to drive home.

 

“If you don’t do it right,” dad warns, “you’re not gonna pass the test. I don’t know if you’re ready to take it on Wednesday.”

 

“I know,” I say with a sigh. “I have to do it on Wednesday. Putting it off won’t make it any better.”

 

He breathes heavily in agreement. We sit there in silence for a second or two before he says, “Just take it slow. You don’t gotta rush it. It’s not NASCAR.”

 

Don’t rush it, I think to myself. Take it slow. Because, like it or not, I don’t have all the answers, and I am not perfect. And you know what? That’s perfectly ok.