There were so many signs.

The 'C' on my physics test. The 3 out of 6 on my rhetorical analysis. The friend who was mad at me on the last day before Thanksgiving break. The congested nose. The sore back from my orchestra concert.

So many unfortunate things had already happened to me that week that I just didn’t have the will to go to hockey practice.

Yet I went. I felt incredibly guilty about the many practices I had to miss due to competitions and fundraisers and was quite intrigued by the fact that my coach had “fun things” planned for us.

It was the worst, yet the most beneficial, decision I’ve ever made.

* * *

It was just a few days before Thanksgiving and many people were out of town, so we had less than half of our team on the ice; eight of us plus the two coaches. And of the eight, two offensemen switched gear with the two goalies in a flurry of excitement.

We went through some of our normal drills — Greyhound Stretch and 1 v 1 — then played some fun games like relay races for the puck and 3 v 3.

On a usual day, I would dominate these activities. I had the speed, stamina, aggression, and most importantly, my characteristic hunger, to take down my competitors. But today my skates were loose — I didn’t think of tightening them until the end, when it was too late to compensate for my poor performance — and my feet were numb and my nose dribbled with snot.

I was worn out by the time we got to the 3 v 3, which, during a typical practice, would be my favorite activity. I remember just skating sluggishly to and fro, not defending or driving the puck in a particular direction. I so badly wanted this practice to end. I kept glancing at the clock — which seemed to be frozen at 8:46 — and at my teammates on the side, wondering when I could be subbed out so I could lay on the ice and stare at the sharp, too-white luminescent bulbs.

Finally, my wishes were granted and the coaches were gathering pucks into the puck bag while I was speeding off the ice.

* * *

My driving school instructor warned us to never drive when we were under the influence of emotions.

But I didn’t heed that advice. I didn’t wisely call my parents to come pick me up after practice. I thought, rather arrogantly, that I was strong enough that I wouldn’t let my feelings get the better of me, despite my history proving quite the opposite.

I defeatedly slung my bag in the trunk, threw my sticks astrew and unzipped a pouch in my bag and pulled out my two-week-old Ziploc bag containing my car keys and wallet.

This plastic bag really isn’t working out. I’ll have to think about asking for one of those Vera Bradley wallet key chains for Christmas, I thought giddily, and a car of my own, of course, to go with that, haha!

I sat in my car for a moment before turning on the ignition to calm myself down by thinking about driving so I could simmer down my recent frustration and pile of bad emotions that had slowly built up inside of me this week. Thinking about driving, a meditative element in my life, didn’t resolve my bad mood; it only masked my feelings for a few moments. I started the car anyway, expecting my inner state to lighten up as I drove away.

The gas pedal acted as my punching bag. My last escape, my only dummy to hit, my only pseudo therapist, my only listener in the world. My heel smashed into that little black square as I pulled out of the hockey rink and I didn’t stop putting pressure onto that poor piece of plastic until it was nearly on the floor and at that point, I felt that I was going too fast, that I was unsafe, that I was no longer in control of the car and … and I loved it.

For a little while, I felt nothingness. I wasn’t an entity of darkness anymore. Instead, I was one with a growling inanimate beast who understood me and fueled me into a mindset that imitated its hollow shell of a body.

I reached the police station, located at the bottom of the hill, and slowed down because I didn’t want to get caught for speeding. It was fortunate that I did decelerate because at the instant I reached the bottom of the hill, a police car pulled out and we would’ve collided otherwise. I sighed deeply, grateful that an accident didn’t occur.

I continued on, now an embodiment of a reckless, carefree, teenage Malibu girl with Ray Bans turning Karma Police up and up and up for the world to hear and cruising along in a red Lamborghini along the highway near the ocean, smiling all the way as my speed skyrocketed to a dangerous 60 mph in a 35 mph zone. As I turned the corner that led into a straight shot to my house, a rush of adrenaline coursed through my body and I rammed my foot onto the accelerator just as I had been doing, thinking I could continue getting away with speeding.

On the other side of the road, at some point, I noticed a car that had the body and color of a police car. I didn’t think too much about it — it was night and my eyes could have been wrong, but I did continue to feel a gut-wrenching feeling that maybe, just maybe, it was a cop.

As I neared the end of my journey, coasting along the straight road that led to the hill before my development, I noticed that there was a pair of white lights getting increasingly closer to me. I denied it was the police. Probably just a person in a hurry, I said to myself, trying to knock out any uneasy thoughts.

As I drove up the hill, the lights were so close.

It was a police officer. It had to be.

The red and blue flashed and I pulled aside.

The situation, the dread, the anger, the sadness — they didn’t immediately set in.

“Good evening, ma’am. So I stopped you because on my radar it said you were going at 57 in a 35.”

Horror settled in my stomach.

Thoughts raced through my mind: 57 mph = 22 mph + 35 mph. 22 mph over the speed limit. 4 points, at least. Probably a suspended license for half a year. Definitely an appointment at the juvenile court.

“Speeding citation … license … insurance card … ”

My hand searched through my wallet and obeyed his commands.

“Why were you going so fast?” His voice cut the state of utter shock and post-high confusion I was drowning in.

“Huh? Oh, I — I don’t know.”

The officer returned to his car to file my citation. And then it hit.

My parents are going to be so disappointed. What is that cop going to say to his family about how disappointing it was to ticket a 16-year-old? What will my friends think of me, what will my teachers say, how will I face my neighbors, I am going to court like a — a criminal at age 16 for a speeding citation? I’m going to court, I’m going to court, I’m going to court. This is going to cost so much money, I’m going to get points on my record …

I’m screwed.

Cars whirred past me in blurs. I bet the drivers tsked and passengers rolled their eyes and sighed deeply. My head ducked next to the wheel. My face couldn’t be associated with their judgments of the poor driver.

And then the physical reactions started. My legs, matted to the dirty white leather seat, were suddenly freezing and shivering beyond control. My eyes filled with tears and I broke out into a hysterical ugly cry, crying for everything wrong in my life and for the unrecognizable person I had become.

I was a bad person for finding pleasure in speeding and it had cost me my dignity. Overwhelmed with emotions, I made a pact with myself: I was never ever going to drive more than 5 mph above the speed limit and even if I was prohibited from driving for a few months by the court’s ruling, I would personally ban myself from driving for another two months out of the fear of making another mistake but mainly so I would learn my lesson. Also in this pact, I told myself this incident was a sign that I needed to pick myself back up, that this would be the lowest of my lows, that I had to turn my life back around so that I was in control, not my self-doubt and self-hatred. There was a little smile of hope, the most authentic smile I had in a while, under the ever growing flood of tears.

* * *

Time ticked past even slower than it had at hockey. I watched the bright red and blue alternate through my puffy eyes, still pouring with tears.

Finally, I heard a door slam.

“Could you please call one of your parents, since you are a juvenile and need a parent’s permission to sign the citation?”

I couldn’t look at him. I was too full of shame.

“M-my mom is probably asleep … I’ll c-call my dad.”

He didn’t pick up. Twice.

“Ma’am, since you live close by, I’ll have to escort you home.”

“Ok.” I nodded at the ground. On that short drive to my house, I couldn’t breathe. I gulped for fresh air as more tears fogged my vision. I never thought this would happen to me, a straight-A student attending a well-known private girls school, a researcher in a highly complex physics lab at a nearby university, a greatly accomplished violinist with a seat in one of the greatest youth orchestras in the country, a top mathematician many courses ahead of her time.

I was a good student and this stuff doesn’t happen to good students. Good students don’t have to meet with a police officer this way at 16. Good students don’t ever have to meet with a police officer this way. Good students don’t go to court at 16. Good students don’t ever go to court.

* * *

I drove as slowly as humanly possible and upon arriving at home, trudged to the basement, where my dad was sleeping.

“Dad, a police officer is here. I got ticketed for speeding.”

He jumped out of his seat so quickly, so ferociously, that I feared his veins would pop out and he would yell and yell until his face grew red.

But that didn’t happen. He rushed upstairs with me and I didn’t look at my father or the police officer the whole time as the police officer explained to my dad what had happened. My mother was awakened and rushed downstairs. “What’s going on?” she asked and then a look of deep disappointment instantly filled her face as she saw the police officer. My father granted me permission to sign the citation and the police officer left.

As I unpacked my stuff from the trunk, my dad told me I was going way too fast and asked me why.

“I don’t know,” I whispered as I closed the trunk. And with that, we didn’t speak for another day until Thanksgiving, when everything went back to normal (until my uncle asked about my driving, to which my dad replied I got a ticket and I was embarrassed and had to leave the house before the tears came).

When I went inside, my mother lectured me, as expected and as I deserved.

I don’t remember much of what she said except snippets of how it was low of me to constantly declare my pride for speeding and how it broke her heart. On the following day, she seemed to forgive me, but every time we went in the car, she would say, “Watch for the speedometer, it’s hard to gauge acceleration and especially if there are no speed limit signs around it’s easy to go very fast.” I bobbed my head up and down, just thinking about court and being 16.

* * *

Reflecting back on when I was caught by the police, I realize that perhaps I sped and loved speeding because it divided me from my label. I wanted to escape that chokehold of the “good student” category, characterized by perfection and proper behavior and be that crazy, volatile Malibu teenager in the Ray Bans because that’s what the teenage years are for and … I guess I pushed myself into this situation.

Despite the many days of pain that followed where all I could think about was the monstrosity of a citation and mope around about my foolishness, and blame my hot head, this experience changed my life in one of the most positive ways imaginable.

It got my pre-Covid life back on track.

Before the incident, I was in a haze of laziness and depression due to the lockdown and other internal and external forces that were happening in my life. For a while, I was unable to feel passionate about anything. I wasn’t invested in school like usual, which showed in my subpar participation, and I dreaded my extracurricular activities. It affected me so much that there were many days where I grappled with the idea of ending my grief of becoming a shell of a person because seeing myself like this hurt too much and I wanted the pain to stop.

I had been in a terrible mood for months preceding the incident. I didn’t have the heart to change things around, and I kept telling myself that I had to, but I just didn’t have the determination, the drive to do so.

This incident was the catalyst, the very drive I needed to make my life worth living. Suddenly, with the heavy reality of court weighing on my mind, everything else had a positive spin to it. High school coursework? Easy and fun to learn — be glad it’s not college work or even worse, adult work! Lab work? A privilege that I get to research such advanced concepts! Violin? The most ecstatic feeling I can get comes only from blackened fingers!

I got back to my successful routine I had established before Covid and I was excited to conquer a new day each time I woke up. I didn’t go to bed at 9:00 and wake up at 8:00, only to roll over and slumber in self pity for another hour. I went to bed as late as my body would allow and woke up at 5:00 to do my work and get myself psyched and ready for the day.

Gaining my old self — the one I so dearly cherished — and my childlike eagerness to grab life by the horns was worth the ticket.