Page 10
GO ON
Read the next two selections. Then choose the best answer to each
question.
Car Talk
by Nicole M. Docteur
1 I’ve been the proud owner of a driving permit, a small plastic card
verifying my right to drive with a consenting licensed driver, for the past
year. I am also, unfortunately, a very poor driver. Thanks to my abilities, the
rear end of our station wagon has seen pine trees, poles, and snow banks,
all up-close and personal. It’s embarrassing, actually. I am supposedly a
bright, well-rounded student who should be able to sail through this one
teenage rite of passage with no problem. Alas . . . I cannot.
2 The problem all started a year ago when that now-aging permit first
found its way into my eager hands. Mom and I took our first trip around an
empty parking lot. I was totally unaware that my mother was most definitely
not the best teacher for me. It wasn’t that she yelled, or told me that I was
doing poorly. No, actually my mother told me I was doing quite well while
digging her nails into the seat and trying to brake for me. As you can
imagine, my mother’s “helpful instructions” only managed to make me more
nervous. A quick evening run to the drugstore, where I nearly plowed over a
small, parked car, brought an end to any hopes of learning from Mom.
3 Since it was obvious that I could no longer practice with her, the job
was placed in the hands of my father. The idea of learning from Dad was not
one that thrilled me. I loved him dearly, but I just did not see Dad as
someone I could be comfortable learning from. He almost never yelled,
which was an advantage. And Dad also almost never talked. We shared a
typical father-daughter relationship. He’d ask how school was, and I’d say it
was fine. Unfortunately, that was the extent of most of our conversations.
The prospect of spending hours alone with someone who might as well have
been a stranger really scared me.
4 As we got into the car that first time, I was not surprised at what
happened. Dad and I drove around, saying almost nothing, aside from a few
instructions on how to turn. As my lessons wore on, however, things began
to change. Dad would turn the radio up so I could fully experience, and thus
appreciate, his favorite Stones music. And he actually began talking. It was
a bit scarier than silence, at first. I was soon hearing about past failed dates,
“basic bod” gym class, and other tales from his past, including some of his
first encounters with Mom.
5 Dad’s sudden chattiness was shocking until I thought about why he was
telling me so much. In the car, I was a captive audience. In order to learn to
drive, it was a requirement that I sit and listen to his every word. In all the
years that I had wondered why my father never spoke that much, I had
never stopped to consider the possibility that it was because I had never