Free Leap Day by Wendy Mass Page A

nods, still chewing, while I shake my head and tell her mine is today, Leap Day. I’m slightly disappointed when that evokes no reaction. A minute later a woman comes through the door and calls the girl’s name. She looks panicked and doesn’t move. Her father pushes her gently out the door. A minute later another woman comes and takes the boy and his mother. Now my hands are starting to get numb from anxiety. What if they can’t grip the steering wheel? I flex my fingers and turn to ask Dad more questions, but he is very absorbed in a brochure called
Teens and Driving.
    A few minutes later an old man comes through the door and holds out his hand. Am I supposed to shake it? I hesitate and look at my dad. This guy is so old he probably gave my Dad
his
driving test! The man must sense my confusion because he sighs, holds up his clipboard, and says, “I need the orange form.”
    I quickly hand it to him. The tag on his jacket reads instructor, and below it, joe.
    “Follow me,” Instructor Joe says and shuffles back through the door. He leads us to the curb and starts to get in the passenger side of a light blue car. I don’t move.
    “Aren’t you coming?” he asks.
    “Don’t I take the test in my own car?”
    He shakes his head. “Everyone uses the regulation cars now. Insurance issue.”
    I look pleadingly at my father. How could I do this in a different car? Dad’s is the only car I ever practiced in besides the one at school, and that was so long ago.
    “Isn’t there any way she can use mine?” Dad asks the man.
    He shakes his head. “No, sir. This one or nothing.”
    Alrighty then. I run around and slide in the driver’s side. My father waits on the curb with his hands clasped tightly in front of him. I put on my seat belt and stare at the unfamiliar dashboard. For a second everything blurs and I’m afraid I’m going to cry. And I’m not a crier.
    “Take a minute to get the lay of the land and let me know when you’re all set,” Instructor Joe says, shutting his eyes.
    I take a deep breath like the driving instructor at school told us. Steering wheel. Lights. Horn. Gas pedal. Brake pedal. Odometer. Radio, probably won’t need that. Emergency brake,
better
not need that. Rearview mirror. Side mirrors. Okay. I’m no longer on the verge of tears.
    I tell him I’m ready and wait for instructions. He doesn’t say anything, and finally I look over. His eyes are still shut and he’s sitting very still. I wait another few seconds before it dawns on me that maybe Instructor Joe is
dead
! My hands start to sweat and I give the horn a little honk because I can’t think of anything else to do. His eyes pop open and he asks me if I’m ready, as though he hadn’t just returned from the grave. I wipe my palms on my pants and manage to nod.
    The next few minutes are filled with:
Start the car, pull away from the curb, turn right, turn left, honk, turn on the wipers, do a K-turn, go in reverse.
I peek out of the corner of my eye at the marks he’s making on his clipboard, but he keeps it close to his chest. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
    The only thing left now is the parallel parking. “Please maneuver the vehicle between those two orange cones,” he tells me.
    I approach the front cone and pull a half-car length ahead. I take another deep breath and slowly start backing the car into the spot. I realize too late that I’m about three feet away from the curb. I try to straighten out but it’s no use. As a last-ditch effort I back up again and —
yikes
— hit the cone. Maybe he didn’t notice? My heart sinks. I sit very still while he makes a lot of marks on the clipboard. I’ll still pass as long as I didn’t mess up anything else. I run the whole test back through my head. Did I remember to signal when I turned left? Did I check the rearview mirror before I backed up?
    “You can drive back to the building now,” he tells me.
    I pull up to the curb, where my father is