My mom was amazing at her job for the same reason she’s a terrible Uber passenger: she provokes people to prove their value to her. Oh, you’re amazing at typing and spreadsheets? A computer program can do that. Oh, you have good communication skills? Let’s see how many languages you can give me directions in. Think you can perform well under pressure? What about with me hollering at you to go faster, pushing you to run the yellow lights, saying there’s a cat in the middle of the street making you brake hard and get rear-ended? (Real talk: my mom is rated as one of the most unpleasant passengers Uber has ever driven because she ruins self-esteem, picks tiny arguments, and has left both drivers and passengers in tears, saying she was just trying to help them with their life skills.)

She climbed into the passenger seat, tripping over her seatbelt. “Frick.” She caught her balance. “How was Clarkebridge?”

I waited for her to be situated before crawling out to the main road. Driving my mom was tougher than my driver’s test—and impossible to retake.

“Great,” I said. “Tryout went awesome, interview went well. Feeling good.”

“Good or pretty good?”

“Come on, Mom.” While I always tried to hold a nonchalant attitude around her . . . well, she started it.

“Good will get you a scholarship. Pretty good means we might need some more options.”

“Why?” Even though it was late at night, in our tiny town, and I was the lone car on the road, I flipped my turn signal on long before I needed to, to appease her. “I’ve got a great shot at getting in early decision. What’s the big deal?”

“I’m trying my best,” she said. “We got an estimate from the federal loan offices last week . . .”

My breath stayed sunken in my lungs. Here it comes, the amazing last week or so, crashing down.

“. . . and we might need more than we thought.”

I exhaled. What could I even say to that? “Is there anything else you can do at work?” I asked.

“I interviewed for a promotion today, actually. I think it went well. Watch where you’re going, Nick.”

Well or pretty well?

Cars honked as I turned a little too close into traffic. The more we talked about Clarkebridge, the harder it was for me to concentrate.

“They have a physical therapy program that I can apply to,” I said, trying not to tailgate the car in front of us. “That gives some financial aid, in addition to whatever I might get for soccer.”

“The six-year program? You really think you’d be accepted to that?”

“Gosh, thanks.” Ahead of us, another car appeared and stopped at a red light. I slammed on the brakes, barely seeing it in time. The dark made it hard to see to begin with, and now I had extra to worry about.

“You know, Mom, maybe if—”

“Pay attention.” We were moving again. She dug her nails into her seat so hard that her knuckles began to turn white, visible even in the night.