High Life A WEEKLY FORUM FOR HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS : Yielding to Routes of Passage : Driving: Sometimes it seems that all that stands between a teen and her freedom is a DMV examiner and a Y-turn.

In the course of being a teen-ager, there are rites of passage when we move one step closer to being an adult. For years we have dreamed of the freedom that comes with cutting our ties to childhood.

And while we simply have to wait for time to pass before we can vote or drink, getting a driver’s license requires passing not only a written test but also a behind-the-wheel test.

After waiting 16 years, my day to tackle this “mother of all tests” had finally arrived. Becoming a full-fledged, official California driver was now all up to me.

The morning of that fateful day, I practiced basic driving maneuvers. My mother’s words--”Stop hugging the curb, and slow down”--were impressed in my brain, and I knew that if I could remember and follow the basic rules of the road, I would pass.

After practicing two hours that morning in my Hyundai Excel and scoping out every possible route the Department of Motor Vehicles examiner could test me on, I headed home. My stomach, which was completely full of nervous knots, would not settle down enough for me to take a bite of sandwich. And my concentration span was so short, I couldn’t pay attention to “All My Children.”

When the time came to drive back to the Placentia DMV that afternoon, I knew it would be my final chance to practice. As I was headed toward my fate, my mother began her prepared speech: “It’s OK if you don’t pass,” she said. “You know, I didn’t pass my first time, but I eventually did. You can always retake it.”

Those last few words--”You can always retake it”--lingered in my mind, and I envisioned myself a 30-year-old woman with only a student permit.

Standing in line at the DMV, I realized I had forgotten the paper that shows verification of automobile insurance. I realized I could still make my 3:17 appointment if my mother hurried home and retrieved the document.

After she left, I took a seat as far as possible from the crowd gathered around the information desk. I began to watch people as they came back into the office after their behind-the-wheel exams. I tried to guess by their expressions if they had passed, but most appeared to have blank, dazed expressions. Not a good sign.

Looking at my watch for what seemed the millionth time, I began a test-taking fantasy that ended with my examiner saying, “You’ve passed.” Just as quickly, however, my fantasy shifted gears, and he said, “You’ve failed. I’m sorry.”

Snapping out of my fear-induced trauma, I saw my mother arrive with the insurance paper. I showed the document to the clerk, then quickly went outside and pulled the Hyundai next to the curb and prepared for my date with destiny.

A man, with clipboard in hand and pencil tucked neatly behind his ear, walked slowly to the car and got in. He first tested my skill with hand signals. I got them mixed up, however, and was correct on only two of three. Pulling away from the curb and onto Rose Drive, I knew the pressure was really on.

Maintaining the 40 m.p.h. speed limit, I tried to concentrate on the road before me. I heeded the examiner’s orders for lane changes and turns. I pulled my car into a residential side street and proceeded with the requested and dreaded three-point turn. I had heard stories about people failing because they couldn’t make this turn correctly, so I knew this was the make-or-break portion of the exam. While saying a prayer, I managed to maneuver through the turn without stalling the car’s engine.

When I finally pulled back into the DMV parking lot 15 minutes later, awaiting pronunciation of my score, my entire future adolescent life flashed before my eyes: Without my license, I would never have the freedom to go out on my own. I would be reduced to begging for rides from my family and friends. . . .

“Well,” began the instructor, “you’ve passed.”

“I passed!” I said excitedly. “I really passed!”

Feelings of exhilaration and relief spread over me. Basking in the glow of a score of 83, I was finally a full-fledged, licensed California driver. I smiled from ear to ear for my picture.

As my mother greeted my triumphant return outside the DMV office, she said, “You owe me $1,500 for car insurance.”