Hi! I'm Sarah, I'm 17, I live in Minnesota, and on Thursday, August 19, 1999, at about 10:40 in the morning, I became a LICENSED DRIVER. On my second try. Which is fine. Lots of people need two tries. (Please tell me lots of people need two tries.)

Most of my friends got their licenses right when they turned 16. I waited, because honestly I was scared of driving, and I'm still a little scared, which my dad says is the correct amount of scared to be. This page is the whole saga, from the first day of driver's ed to the little piece of paper they give you until your real license comes in the mail. And at the bottom there's my Road Test Survival Guide, which is actually useful, I promise.

Classroom part first. Every afternoon for a few weeks in a room that smelled like floor wax, learning what all the signs mean and how many car lengths to leave and what to do if your brakes go out (pump them, and downshift if you can, and don't panic, which, yeah, sure).

And the FILMS. They were older than my parents' marriage. Bad hair, ominous music, and every single one ended with a car upside down in a ditch and a deep voice telling you to think about your choices. I'll admit it, they worked on me. I think about my choices constantly now.

Then behind-the-wheel with Mr. Boettcher, who has taught driver's ed for about a hundred years and has the calmest voice of any human being alive. His car has an extra brake pedal on the passenger side. He used it on me exactly twice. Once was a squirrel. The other one was my fault, and I don't want to talk about it, but there was a stop sign involved and I did not see it, and I'm really glad he did. Now I look for stop signs like it's my job.

Every Sunday after church, Dad and I stayed in the church parking lot after everybody left and I drove around and around it. Then around the block. Then on actual roads, with actual other cars on them. Dad is very patient. He is also, as of this summer, much grayer. My mom kept count.

Mom says he looks distinguished. He says he looks like a man who taught his daughter to drive.

Mom doesn't have an extra brake on her side. She uses one anyway. Every time I came up to a stop, her right foot would slam down on the floor of the car, on a brake that isn't there. There's a dent in the floor mat. Also she holds the handle over the door the entire time, even in parking lots, even at 5 miles per hour.

But Mom is the one who taught me to merge onto the freeway, and she was really good at it. She'd say "Find your spot, match their speed, and go," and that's exactly how I do it now. So she's not all imaginary brakes.

OK. So. In July I was turning into our street with Dad in the car, and I was going a little too fast, and I was also reaching for the radio, which I know, I KNOW. I swung too wide and the right side of the car clipped the neighbors' mailbox, and the whole thing went over, post and all.

Nobody was hurt. The car got a scratch. The mailbox got destroyed. My pride also got destroyed.

I went right over and knocked on the door and told our neighbors what happened, which was the worst part, worse than hitting it. They were really nice about it. And that same afternoon Dad and I went to the hardware store and bought a new post and a new mailbox, and we put it in together. It's honestly nicer than the old one. They said I can hit it again in ten years.

What I learned: slow down BEFORE the turn, not during it. And never, ever touch the radio while you're turning. Set it before you go, or leave it alone.

Everything was going GREAT. Full stops. Signals. Checked my blind spots like a pro. And then the examiner said "Okay, let's parallel park," and my brain fell out of my head.

I cut the wheel too early and bumped the curb. Then I pulled out to fix it and ended up about three feet from the curb. Then I tried again and bumped the curb again. By then I was crying a little, which is not a great look at the exam station. The examiner was really nice. She told me everything else was good and to practice the parking and come back. So I failed. But I failed nicely.

My brother Chad, who is 21 and home from college for the summer, set up two garbage cans in the street in front of our house with a car-length and a half of space between them, and made me parallel park between them until I could do it in my sleep. I think I did it two hundred times. The neighbors (yes, the mailbox neighbors) started bringing out lawn chairs to watch. Here's how Chad taught me:

	Signal. Pull up next to the front car (or front can), about two or three feet away, with your back bumpers lined up.
	Check your mirrors and look over your shoulder. Back up slowly until your back bumper passes theirs, then turn the wheel all the way toward the curb.
	Keep backing slowly. When your car is at about a 45-degree angle to the curb, straighten the wheel and keep going straight back.
	When your front bumper clears the back of the front car, turn the wheel all the way the other way, away from the curb, and keep backing slowly until you're straight.
	Straighten your wheels and pull forward a little so you're centered in the space. Close to the curb, not touching it.
	Go SLOW the whole time. Slow is how you get it right. Nobody gives you points for speed.

Different examiner, a man with a clipboard and a mustache who did not smile once until the very end. Same route. Full stops, signals, blind spots, school zone at exactly the speed limit. Then: "Parallel park behind the blue car, please."

I signaled. I lined up. I checked over my shoulder. I backed in, slow, slow, slow, turned, straightened, turned back... and I was IN. One try. Nice and close to the curb. Not touching it. I could hear Chad in my head going "Slow is how you get it right."

At the end he made some marks on the clipboard, looked up, and said, "Congratulations." And then he smiled. I did not cry. (I cried in the parking lot. Happy crying. Dad hugged me so hard my sunglasses fell off. Mom cried too. Chad said "Told you" about forty times.)

I HAVE MY LICENSE!!!

DAD:

	"You're doing fine. You're doing fine. You're doing fine. Brake."
	"That's a stop sign, honey, not a suggestion."
	"Check your mirrors. Now check them again."
	"We're not in a hurry. We are never in a hurry."
	"Let's just... sit here a minute." (After the mailbox.)

MOM:

	"Oh! Oh. Okay. Never mind."
	"Is that a deer?" (It was a dog. It was always a dog.)
	"The speed limit is the most you can go, sweetie, not the goal."
	"I'm not scared. I'm just holding the handle."