By Russell Leung

At 16, most kids, when you ask them, will say that they fear death. Others might say things such as heights, tight spaces, and even the dark. While I am afraid of all these things, none can match the fear I have of screwing up. The thought of not fulfilling my role as a 16-year-old kid who really needs to learn the ropes of maturity can be frightening. Since ten months have passed since the crash, I have formed secure beliefs that a fear of screwing up is inevitable. Screwing up is the only thing that makes me understand more about myself today. Why fear such a thing when the lists of things that can go wrong is limitless? This is why I believe in fate. It can be cruel and uncontrollable, and people are usually destined to experience unpreventable mistakes. Everyone is preordained to screw up at some point, whether they like it or not.

Growing up, I had experience driving cars on private property, towing trailers with a truck, and pulling in and out of driveways just to help my parents make room for a dinner party. Driving a car was easy enough, or so I thought. But fast forward to the present, where driving at least six times a week has shown me how there is a large gap between driving, and driving safely. I was in Mississauga when my cousins were over from across the world, cleaning the cars parked in my grandparents’ layby, a seemingly mundane task. “Hold on kids, I just have to back up the SUV to move the other car,” said my aunt. My ears perked up. “I can do it. I mean, I’ve done it before with Dad’s car,” I spoke quickly and innocently, making sure to convince my aunt that I was fit for the task of turning the Infiniti 180 degrees, and backing up into the garage for the night. It started to rain. I glanced quickly at my footwear: Sperry topsiders saturated in soapy water from the afternoon’s car wash. Not the greatest idea. “Well, I guess it’s ok as long as you just make sure the kids move out of the way.” She seemed unsure. I quickly thought to myself, wondering how I would approach this. I grabbed the armrest, pulling myself into the driver’s seat. I adjusted the mirrors and my seat, while my aunt stood right beside me, on the driver’s side while I sat down with the door open. I should’ve known then.

“Wow, this is nice.” I looked around the interior, leather everywhere with double stitching all over the dashboard and seats. “What’d they pay for this thing?” I asked. “I think just around eighty grand all in. Ok, do you know how to back it up?” she asked. “Yep. Foot on the brake and shift into reverse,” I said. “O.k., I’ll stand on the porch with the kids. Just lock it when you’re done,” she said. I looked down at the lever. Easing onto the shifter, I moved the car into reverse. Pressing my foot hard down on the brake, I waited for my aunt to move. Man. This was a small brake pedal. Plastic and spongy. Not even indented to offer more grip. “I’m gonna move back now. Tell me when you’re ready—-“but she was cut off sharply, by the sound of a car flooring into reverse, the door knocking her off her feet and smashing her head into the pavement. I had just run over my aunt. “Stop!” was the only thing I heard, followed by a guttural cry, and in that split second, I slammed on the brakes. But it was too late. The car had careened off the driveway, and came to a dead halt after smashing into a large oak tree. The door had remained open during this wild ride, and caught the tree behind us on the way back, smashing the left quarter panel, and wrenching the door 180 degrees off its hinges. As I sat in the driver’s seat, the check engine light flickering on and off, I realized the door wasn’t even there anymore. I looked at the scene. My aunt was lying motionless on the ground.

Have you ever felt the fear that you’ve killed someone? Even in the thirty-degree humidity, I felt chills down my spine. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t even breathe. What happened? I remember her face as she became trapped under the door, and her dragging on the pavement–a tenacious memory of screaming, then grinding metal on wood as I backed up into the tree. I kept replaying the memory. My grandparents ran out of the house. “What happened?!” said someone. I didn’t even know who it was. “I’m sorry.” I thought. I couldn’t even speak. I had never felt this terrible before. My grandfather sat down on the wrecked car beside me. “Step out of the driver’s seat, ok?” “Your aunt is O.K.” he said softly, but I could tell he was restraining his anger. How he didn’t get mad at me made me wonder how much he was holding back. “You screwed up. Everyone does.” Except he didn’t say “screwed.” “People make mistakes all the time. It’s learning from those mistakes that makes them better. Everyone does screw up at some point, but the most important aspect to take away from each mistake is how you could’ve done things differently. We will take your aunt to the hospital, and insurance will cover the damage. This will teach you to be a more cautious driver. Don’t cry over spilt milk. It’s done, there is nothing you can do about it now but get over it.” I didn’t realize this at the time, but I now know and believe that screwing up makes me a better person. Things could’ve gone much worse. For example, I could’ve killed my aunt instead. My cousins could’ve been standing near the car. I could’ve missed the tree and backed up into the fast oncoming traffic on Mississauga Road. Now that I think about it, things definitely could’ve gone worse.

To this day, I am glad that I experienced what I did. Looking at the present, my aunt and I laugh at what happened. I can joke in the family (close family, of course) that I ran over someone with 3900 pounds of car. This made me believe that not only can screwing up make you a smarter person, it exposes you to different aspects of life that you can’t find anywhere else. I keep telling myself, I’m glad this happened, now that everyone is O.K., and twelve grand in damages have been repaired. Every time I visit my grandparents, I always walk outside to the dent in the tree, still there after this time as a reminder of what happened. Who knows, if this hadn’t happened then I wouldn’t have learned to be cautious and safe while driving. I guess this was a twisted turn of fate. I shouldn’t have worn slippery shoes, causing my foot to slip and hit the gas instead. As of writing this, I have stashed the shoes deep in my basement. The only reason that they are still here is because they remind me of what I’ve experienced. Now, I practice driving with my parents, and take lessons with my uncle on an actual racetrack. I have learned to drive manual, and through my mistakes, I know that the only way to learn is by screwing up. This I believe.