The first time I take initiative driving myself somewhere, it’s the third day of school. Driving has always been a source of anxiety for me, and I far prefer my parents picking me up and dropping me off. But this year, my mother finds no reason I can’t drive myself to school, and so I find myself beginning the year terrified.

Yet I must have been underestimating myself because the first few days of driving go unexpectedly well. Suddenly, I feel confident in my newfound freedom and abilities, unusually mature and adult-like. So when I drop French for a dance class, I decide to buy the required tap shoes that afternoon. By myself.

I call my mom to tell her about my decision; she sounds surprised and skeptical as she cautions me to think over this decision carefully. But I’m riding high on overconfidence as I sling my heavy backpack into my car, a used green Saturn that I admire for its size: not too big, not too small. The leather of my seat would burn if I didn’t have jeans on, the car’s been cooking in the sun all day.

Inside the vehicle, the air is hot and stuffy, unbearably boiling after walking downhill to reach the lot, and I blast the air conditioning. Still-warm air attacks my face with a loud sound as the engine strains. Pointing the vents away from me, I plug the name of the dance store my teacher recommended into Google Maps, turn on directions, and slowly back out of my parking spot, careful not to run over any of my peers in the process.

The store is downtown, in an area I've never ventured to before. Fortunately, I get there with little trouble, singing along to the songs on the radio and occasionally clenching my jaw as I merge on and off the freeway. I turn off the radio to concentrate as I get closer to the store’s location.

“Arrived,” Google maps informs me. I ease my foot off the gas as I squint at the row of shops on this street. No dance store. Maybe I missed it? I circle back around the block.

“Arrived,” Google maps says once again. I scan the various storefronts but still can’t find the one I’m looking for.

I circle around a THIRD time. “Arrived.”

Finally, I give up on trying to locate the store while driving and decide to park somewhere nearby. Maybe I’ll have better luck walking.

One problem: there’s no parking anywhere—not outside the storefronts, not on the streets, not in the tiny, makeshift parking lots—so I end up ditching my car in a far-off, run-down neighborhood. Wife-beater-wearing residents giving me the hairy eyeball as they take their trash to the curb, watching this clear outsider walk through their territory. I keep my gaze low and to the ground, trying to look confident and self-assured while simultaneously being stiff with self-consciousness.

Even walking, I still can’t find the store. I’ve switching from driving directions to walking ones, and I’m right in front of where the map says the store is, but instead all I’m doing is pacing back and forth in front of an “adult toys” shop. The middle-aged men loitering outside and smoking marijuana eye me suspiciously, the smell of their fumes clouding my lungs and my thoughts.

By now, anxiety and fear are rising within me at an unparalleled pace. I call my mom, voice quivering, but she’s little help. I keep talking to her as I walk back to my car, just to ensure that if I get mugged, there’s a witness. It’s traffic hour on the way home, and I switch lanes apprehensively, the car behind me honking loud and long as I desperately try to get to the exit I need.

By the time I get home, my fingers ache from squeezing my wheel so tightly, and tears threaten to spill down my face. They make good on this threat when I recount the whole horrible ordeal to my mother, unsympathetic as she cooks dinner.

“I told you not to go,” she says, stirring ground turkey on the store. I can hear onions sizzling, the smell of spices and meat expanding to fill the whole kitchen. As I wipe away my tears, bitter at her lack of sympathy, I realize she also told me that driving to school wouldn’t be a problem for me.

Later, I learn that I’m partly justified in blaming Google Maps—it wasn’t up to date on the fact that the dance store in question had moved locations (precisely BECAUSE of the lack of nearby parking). This makes me feel marginally better about my inability to find an entire store.

But still, I decide that from now on, I’ll be taking my mother’s advice.