As a perpetual passenger without a driver’s license, I can only imagine the perks of being able to drive. While Alexa Liu fights the glare of the sun with one leg propped up on her seat, steering with a leisurely hand on the wheel, I’ve been thinking of high school as a long road trip.
Beyond my vision, the road stretches out like a thread pulled taut beneath the wheels. But not every mile has been smooth —there were roads I didn’t recognize, unexpected traffic jams of deadlines and more than a few wrong turns taken. Still, what’s stuck with me most aren’t the roads I’ve taken, or the exits I’ve missed. It’s the little moments in between: windows cracked open, a breeze curling through the Tangs’ car while a large table rattled in the seat next to me; the pit stops I didn’t plan; and especially the people who rode shotgun, backseat, and every seat in between.
Some were buckled in from the very beginning: my childhood friends of over 10 years who’ve seen every version of me, whether lost, loud or quietly listening. My parents, whose voices hummed steadily in the background, even when the map rerouted. Seventh-grade friend groups that bloomed and withered with the seasons. Group chats born during COVID-19 (half comfort, half chaos) filled with blurry screens, glitchy audio and the shared strangeness of growing up behind a webcam for Zoom classes. New ninth-grade students who, no matter how many years passed, were always softly labeled “new.” Teachers like Mr. Yang and Ms. Lee who patiently responded to my frantic midnight emails with a steadiness I never had. Mr. Chenier who still checks in with our ninth-grade history class through occasional emails. Some of them are still in the car, voices mixing with the music; others I’ve dropped off at strange exits I barely remember passing.
And then there were the ones who left. Some quietly, others mid-conversation, the door swinging open before the sentence could finish. But even those who unbuckled early left something behind — a candy wrapper stuck to the wedges of the back seat, an echo of laughter caught in the rearview mirror, a version of myself that I might not have ever met without them. A reminder that presence doesn’t always need permanence to matter.
If I’ve learned anything at Harvard-Westlake, it’s that you don’t always get to choose the route. You’ll miss turns. Take the long way. Double back. The road will stretch, dip, detour. But you do get to notice who’s sitting next to you — who makes you laugh when you’re stuck in traffic, who holds the map when it’s too dark to read. And if you’re lucky, you’ll get to be someone else’s passenger, too.
