Leap Day by Wendy Mass
“Not joining us today, Josie?” Ms. Bitner asks. “You’re not sick, I hope?” She does a set of lunges in front of me as she waits for my answer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her stand still for more than a few seconds at a time.
I shake my head. “I have to leave in a few minutes to take my driver’s test. The office approved it.”
Her lunges turn to squats. “Would you like to get in a few laps before you go?”
“Um, not really?”
“Okay,” she says, reaching down to touch her toes. “But you should be sure to do some exercise today. Maybe jog a few miles after school.”
“I’ll try,” I tell her, knowing for a fact it will never happen. Oddly enough, I don’t think lying was on the list of seven deadly sins. But wait, sloth is, and I’d say being too lazy to exercise counts as sloth, so my homework is one-seventh done! Actually, it’s more like three-sevenths done, if you count my pride in my appearance this morning in front of the mirror, and my anger at Katy for making me miss saying hi to Grant in the hall. Hmm. I’m moving through them at a remarkable speed. At this rate I’ll be finished by lunchtime. I wonder if I should be concerned about this.
Ms. Bitner blows her whistle and everyone joins me on the bleachers for attendance. Katy is the last person out of the girls’ locker room. She runs over with one sneaker still in her hand and sits next to me.
I lean close and whisper, “Where did you go before?”
She whispers back out of the side of her mouth, “I just had to take care of something.”
“Is it about my birthday?”
Katy pauses. “Uh, sort of?”
“Cool.”
“Here,” Katy says loudly as Ms. Bitner calls her name. Then she points to a bulge in her sock and whispers, “I stuck my cell in there on vibrate. That way you can call me if you pass the driver’s test.”
“You think I might not pass?” I ask, instantly worried. If my best friend doesn’t believe in me, what hope is there?
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sure you’ll pass, don’t worry.”
I can’t help but worry. I only manage to parallel-park correctly half the time. I also don’t know what to expect, since none of my friends have gotten their licenses yet. Katy and her long legs jog off to join the rest of the class for jumping jacks. I sling my bookbag over my shoulder and make my way around the jumping-jackers. As I pass Alyssa Levy I’m reminded of yet another of the seven deadlies that I’ve already committed. Envy. I’m really blowing through that list.
When I get to the front lobby, a boy I’ve never seen before is waiting as well. He nods at me as I set my bag down in front of the tall windows. We stand in silence for a minute and I sneak a glance at him. He has this expression on his face like he’s thinking about something very deeply. My eyes wander over to a poster taped on the wall reminding the seniors not to bring their dart guns to school this week. I forgot Dart Wars starts after school today. It usually starts on the first Monday in March, but leap year must have pushed it back a day. I wonder if Rob signed up. Last year two kids were suspended for bringing their Nerf guns to school. Each year the principal tries to ban Dart Wars, but he never can. It’s a tradition. The prize is five hundred dollars, but it’s not really the money that matters. It’s more the winning itself. The winners are famous for the rest of the year. I read the rest of the poster while I wait.
ONLY TWO PEOPLE TO A TEAM. NO SHOOTING ANYONE ON SCHOOL PROPERTY OR IN THEIR CARS OR AT THEIR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT. NO NERF GUNS ANYWHERE ON DISNEY PROPERTY.
They left off the most controversial rule of all — you cannot be shot if you disrobe down to your underwear. It’s not like they could write that on a poster in school. Everyone knows it anyway.
Suddenly the boy next to me gives a kind of half giggle, half shout. At first I actually think he knows I’m picturing someone stripping while a dart gun is aimed at him. I quickly realize that of course he doesn’t know that. Just to be on the safe side, I move a few inches away and peer out the window for my father’s car.
“Sorry,” he says, turning to me. “Did I make a strange noise?” “Pretty much.”
“Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s in my head or out loud.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Do you want to know what I was thinking about?” he asks.
I look at him in surprise.
“I was thinking about parallel universes. Are you familiar with them?”
“Not really.” In the split second after I say this and before he responds, a strange jolt zips through my brain. I don’t know what I was expecting him to be thinking about, but it sure wasn’t parallel universes. I don’t know why, but I always imagine that other people are thinking about really boring, mundane things. Why is it just hitting me on my sixteenth birthday that if I have weird thoughts, then other people probably do too? Is this something that everyone besides me knows?
“Let me explain, then,” the boy says, his eyes bright. “The theory of parallel universes states that with every decision we make, there are an infinite amount of other choices that another version of ourselves is living out. So I was thinking that on some parallel Earth, some other version of me is standing right here, waiting for his mother to pick him up. Except this other me, he’s going to town hall to get an award for outstanding service to his community. That’s why I was laughing. At least one of me is doing something good.” He laughs again.
I smile at him. “So you’re not going to town hall, I assume?” “Oh, I’m going all right. But not to get an award, that’s for sure.” I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. We stand in silence again. I look down at my watch. It’s officially 10:45 and no Dad in sight. He’s been so strange lately. At least I always knew where he was when he worked nine to five. Maybe something bad happened. An image of a tornado swirling out of the sky and flinging Dad’s car into the air fills my head.
“What’s your name?” the boy suddenly asks, dissolving the tornado image.
“Josie.”
“I’m Mike Difranco. You going to the doctor or something?” “Driver’s test. I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t worry, it’s easy. Just watch out for that parallel parking. It’s a doozy.”
“Great,” I say with a sinking feeling.
Mike suddenly looks excited. “Hey, does that mean it’s your birthday today?”
“Yup.”
“No way! You were born on Leap Day? That’s awesome! Do you know how rare that is?”
I felt myself stand a little taller. “Yes, actually, I —”
“Sorry, gotta go, that’s my mom,” Mike says and two seconds later disappears through the door. I watch him climb into a red Toyota. As the car pulls away, my dad’s car zooms into the circle in front of the school and screeches to a halt. I’ve never seen my dad screech before. I run out and hop in.
“I’m sorry I’m late, honey,” he says as we take off. “I was reading about the history of Disney World.”
“Boy, you must really be bored.” But he doesn’t look bored. There’s a gleam in his eye I haven’t seen very much of before.
“Did you know there are hundreds of Mickey Mouse designs hidden all around the parks?”
“No, Dad. I did not know that.”
“Yup.” He doesn’t say anything else so I start daydreaming about an alternate me who lives in a parallel universe and who fails her test and hides in her closet in shame. As long as the alternate me fails, then the real me will have to succeed. It stands to reason. We slow down for a red light and I make a mental note of how close to the light Dad gets before he starts braking. When we come to a full stop he turns to me and asks, “You know how your mother and I always encourage you kids to follow your dreams?”
That’s twice in five minutes that people have surprised me with what they ask. “Why is everyone asking me such weird questions lately? Do I have a sign on my back?”
“Who else asked you a weird question?”
“S
We’re nearing the parking lot now for the Department of Motor Vehicles, and I should be focusing on my test. Instead, we’re talking about dreams. This is not the way I thought this drive would go.
“If you had a dream, you’d want to pursue it, right?” Dad asks, keeping his eyes on the road. “Like how you love acting so much. You wouldn’t let anything stop you, right?”
“I don’t know, I guess not. Why? Do you know something I don’t know about the play? Tryouts aren’t until this afternoon.” Then my heart starts to pound faster. Did Mr. Polansky call home to tell my parents I wasn’t going to get it? Was my father trying to warn me?
We pull into a spot at the DMV, and Dad shuts off the car as my heart continues to pound. “No,” he says, “it’s not about you.”
I’m embarrassed, yet relieved. “Oh.”
“Maybe we should talk about this afterwards. You have much more important things to do right now than listen to me blabber on.”
Before I can argue, he hustles me through the doors of the gray brick building. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Dad peers up at the different signs hanging from the ceiling and motions me to the far right line.
“Who has a dream then?” I ask as we make our way through the rows of hard plastic chairs. “Is this about Rob choosing which college to go to?”
He shakes his head. “You really need to focus now. Do you have your information?”
I dig through my bag and find the folder where I put my birth certificate and the card from driver’s ed saying I passed the written exam. Luckily three of the five people in line ahead of us were actually standing in the wrong line, so we reach the front in only a few minutes. The tired-looking woman behind the counter holds out her hand, palm up, and I give her the two documents. She enters some information in the computer and then goes to use the photocopy machine. She doesn’t appear to be an overly happy person. In fact, as I look around, nobody seems very happy to be here.
The woman returns and gives me my papers along with a small orange form with my name printed on top. “Give this to your instructor,” she says in a monotone voice and points me to a door on the other side of the building. “Wait there and someone will come get you.”
We do as we’re told and join two other kids and their parents. The girl is aggressively chewing on a cuticle. I’m afraid any minute she’s going to start gnawing on her entire finger. The boy is staring straight ahead, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. It’s very rhythmic. Now that the time is almost here, my heart starts beating faster. I wonder if the swaying boy can hear it.
The boy’s mother asks me and the other girl if our birthdays were yesterday, like her son’s. The girl 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 waiting, still wringing his hands. Instructor Joe undoes his seat belt and gets out. I follow straight away.
“Well?” my dad asks. “Did you pass?”
“I don’t know yet.” I turn to Instructor Joe and wait for him to say something. He makes a mark on the small orange form and hands it back to me. I look down. The box next to the word pass has a checkmark in it.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” I tell him, jumping up and down. Then, without really meaning to, I give the old man a hug. He doesn’t hug me back, but he seems to soften a bit. I didn’t let anyone down, that’s the important thing.
“I knew you could do it, honey!” my father says, swinging me around. “Congratulations!”
Together we practically run back inside the office and wait in another line to hand in the form and get my license. The boy who was waiting with us before is at the front of the line, but I don’t see the finger-chewing girl anywhere. I hope she’s okay. It certainly feels different waiting in line now compared to before. Not only do I feel relieved, but I actually feel older. Josie Taylor, licensed driver. One scary thing down, two to go. But if tryouts go badly, I’m sure I won’t even want to go to the lake.
When I hand in the form the woman types a few words into her computer. She double-checks my form again. “I’m going to have to manually type in your bir
A minute later she’s back and asks me to verify my name, address, height, weight, and eye color. I sign my name and she gestures for me to stand a few feet to the right to have my picture taken. Not surprisingly, there’s no mirror on the wall. That would have been too thoughtful. I hurriedly smooth my hair down and hope there’s no food in my teeth. Although if there was, it would have been there since breakfast, and that means no one would have mentioned it to me all morning and I’d be pissed.
I step onto the black X and before I even have a chance to smile, the woman clicks the button.
“Wait, can I try that again?”
She shakes her head. “Sorry.”
I don’t move off of the X. “Just one more time?”
The woman shakes her head and calls out, “Next.”
I grumble and move off to the side. The next woman on line must be getting her old license renewed because she’s at least ten years older than I am. As soon as she steps onto the X she breaks out into this huge smile. She clearly knows the score. While I wait for my name to be announced I call Katy and let it ring a few times to signal her. I sure hope she still has her cell on vibrate. Teachers will take your phone away if it rings during school. Five minutes later my name is called. I go up to yet another window.
“Congratulations,” the skinny man behind the counter says with a big grin. He is the first person here who’s in a good mood. He hands me the license. I’m afraid to look at it.