People apply for a drivers permit at 15. I, being a paranoid teenager, sat in the drivers seat of my mother's Honda Pilot one year earlier, staring at the knobs on the radio, afraid that if I touched something, the car would do something it wasn't supposed to.
My mother pulled open the side door, situating herself in the passenger seat. "Alright, start the car," she said while buckling.
I turned the key gingerly, holding a little too long.
Her face crinkled in pain.
...
We pulled into the parking lot and my mother decided, too late, that I needed to park next to the cart return.
"CRANK THE WHEEL. TURN. TURN. CRANK IT!" My mother hollered from the passenger seat. My brain stopped working for a minute and my right foot hit the gas instead, ramming the left side of the car into the cart return, lodging the wheel between the asphalt and the middle rod. The right side, somehow swung around to knock the parked Corolla in front of me six feet into the aisle. Finally finding the brake, I put the car in park and stared.
...
A woman in a pink sweater and jeans races out of the store, pushing a bag-loaded buggy. She blips the lock button on her key fob, testing to make sure, indeed, the intercom was correct; her car was hit in the parking lot. My mother opens the door, in official Mom-mode, with insurance cards in hand. I watch from the drivers seat; my front door won't open. Impact caused it to buckle, making a cracking noise, almost like a breaking bone.
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