The Boyfriend Test

My 16 year old daughter Samantha, dressed to the nines for her first date with Jeremy, glances up above the front door and groans. “Oh, Dad, not again, huh?  Pretty soon I won’t get any dates.”  She is referring to the fact that I have hung my fake shotgun, a prop relic from my college acting days, above the front door.

“A little fear is good for them.  Keeps ‘em honest.  Did you tell him to arrive 15 minutes early?”

“Oh no, Dad, you’re not going to give him the Test too, are you?  Oh no, please say no.  I like this guy….”

The “test”, as Samantha calls it, is a little driving test I like give to young drivers who want to drive her somewhere.  I have them drive around the block while I try to distract them by lecturing about driving fatality statistics, and see how well they perform.  “You know the statistics for new drivers, don’t you?  Why young drivers are…”

She cuts me off “Yes, I know, I know.”  Mimicking me she says “Young drivers are four times more likely to have a fatal accident than older adults. But Jeremy’s a good…”

The sound of the doorbell cuts her off in mid sentence.  She squeals and runs down the hallway.  “Can you get that Daddy, and be nice to him, please?  I’ve got to finish putting on my makeup.”

Oh, I’ll be nice to him alright.  I remember being a 16 year old hormonally charged male quite well.

I look at myself in the front hall mirror, squint like a young Clint Eastwood, then pull the front door open.  Oh, he’s getting the test alright.  He’s tall with jet black hair, has an earring, and is wearing black pants and a black leather jacket.

He looks taken aback to see me at the door; apparently he was expecting Samantha to answer.  A little off balance is just right for my purposes.  He takes a half step back, and in a hesitant voice says “Um, I’m here to pick up Samantha.  Is she ready?”

“No, not quite yet.  You have a few minutes.  Let’s take a look at your car while we wait”.  An old red Chevy Camaro sits in the driveway.  I walk down the steps and around the car.  The back end is jacked up, and it looks ready for street racing.  But it’s also got small rust holes behind the fender wells.  “A ’68 right?”

“Um, yessir.  It’s my Dad’s”

“Do you think he’d be upset if you wrecked it?”

“Of course, but…”

“Let’s go for a spin, shall we.”  I pull open the passenger side door, and slide into the bucket seat.”  Jeremy just stands there for a moment, then shrugs his shoulders and climbs into the driver’s seat.

He puts on his shoulder belt before putting the key into the ignition.  He looks over at me and says “Um… would you mind putting on your seat belt?”  Ah yes, very good, he’s passed the first part of the test.  A small smile plays at the corner of my mouth as I put on my seat belt.

Jeremy turns the key, and the engine starts with a throaty roar.  He waits until the plume of blue smoke clears from behind the car, then backs out of the driveway.  Phil, my next door neighbor, stands in his doorway with a smile on his face.  He knows what’s going on.  I wave to him as we pull away from the curb.

Jeremy asks “Where to, sir?”

“Oh, just around the block is fine.  So what do you have planned with my daughter tonight?”

“Well, I figured we’d drive around a bit, maybe go down to cruise the beach.  Then maybe head over to the mall and hang out for a while. They have a cool skating rink there, so maybe we’ll do that.  A lot depends on what Sami wants to do.”

“I see...  So, Jeremy, did you know that motor vehicle crashes are the leading cause of death for American teenagers?”

“Uh, no sir I…”

“And did you also know that in 2001, 3,600 drivers age 15 to 20 years old were killed in motor vehicle crashes, and an additional 337,000 were injured?”

“Well, I…”

“In the last decade, over 68,000 teens have died in car crashes. “

“Um, wow, that’s a lot of…”

“And you know what’s really scary, Jeremy?  Sixty-five percent of teen passenger deaths occur when another teenager is driving.”

“Oh, I think I see what you…”

This unnaturally detailed lecture goes on for a few more minutes, until we come to a stop back in our driveway.  My neighbor Phil is still on his doorstep, and I give him the thumbs up.  He smiles and goes back inside.

Jeremy turns the car off, and follows me up the front steps into our house.  Samantha is standing in the front hallway, looking way too good to be my baby daughter.  She gives me a questioning look, and I whisper to her “Despite appearances to the contrary, he passed”.  She smiles at me, then turns to Jeremy.

Jeremy is turned toward the front door, and his gaze rests on my fake shotgun.  He looks pale.

Smirking, Samantha takes Jeremy’s hand and leads him out the door.  I say “Be back by nine sweetie”.  She turns and says “Daaaad, that’s way too early.  How about ten.”  Always the negotiator; that’s why I always start low. I say “Nine-thirty”.  “Done.”  She flashes me a quick smile, then her eyes turn to Jeremy and I know that I’ve just been forgotten.

* * * * * * *

Of course I wait up for her, and not surprisingly they are right on time.  Peeking out the window I see Jeremy give her a hug, but nothing more.  When she comes in the door, I ask “How did it go sweetie?”

Her grin turns sour and she says “Oh he was a perfect gentleman”, and stomps off down the hall.

I smile to myself and look up at the fake shotgun.  A perfect ending. Just perfect.

Author’s note:
As I write this my real life twin daughters are 14, and this is all in my future.  The statistics quoted are true, and were taken from http://www.edmunds.com/advice/womenfamilies/articles/44908/article.html