It’s 6:05pm.

Rush hour.

Cars flash by us, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, ten, fifteen, seventeen. One after another after another.

We sit at one of the worst spots to merge onto the highway. Sure, we weren’t potentially held back by lights if we made it too late. But now we can’t get on the highway.

Good thing it’s my dad driving & not me. I will him silently to join soon, legs frozen under a black dress. My hands gripping nothing.

6:07. We’re going to be late. We made it out of the house 3 minutes to 6, made it here in 2 minutes later than usual.

Call time is 6:15. I’m going to have to think up some excuse - there was traffic? What traffic? My choir director is not going to be happy.

Am I overthinking this?

“Hold on,” my dad says suddenly & pulls into the oncoming traffic.

My racing heart finally settles a little once we’re moving at a legal speed, but I can’t shake the dooming feeling that I’m going to get in trouble.

We left on time, I swear! At least my dad’s a fast driver. & a safe one, too.