Driving Miss Agnes

My 14-year-old daughter -- in the interest of protecting her identity, let's call her "Agnes" -- has established very specific rules of engagement for the daily drive to school:

-- No speaking unless spoken to. Although I am chock full of relevant, often entertaining, commentary on the passing scene, I am to keep it to myself. I am permitted to speak when she initiates the conversation but must not digress or, under any circumstances, use the exchange as an entrée to talk about “when I was In high school;” ask if she’s started thinking about college yet; or discuss boys.

-- She controls the radio station selection. Usually she sets it on one of those awful, yuk-it-up, overcaffeinated morning shows that make me want to drive head-on into a light pole. I have, however, negotiated the right to listen to ESPN Radio on Mondays during football season, a major concession on her part. In exchange, I agreed not to say things like “That Justin Bieber sounds like a girl, dontcha think?,” “so, what’s the deal with that Lady Gaga anyway?” or, “You know, the Beatles did this song originally. Have you heard of the Beatles?”

-- No looking at her for more than three seconds at a time.

-- No singing or moving my upper body to the beat of the music.

-- No funny pimp driving moves.

-- No driving more than a mile and a half below the speed limit.

-- No stops that haven't been pre-authorized. If an unauthorized stop must be made, it must include a cappuccino or other treat for Agnes.

-- Finally, when we reach the school, I am to avoid eye contact with any of her friends or teachers who happen to be in the lot. If I accidentally do look one in the eye, I am to remain impassive and make no sudden movements or display any emotion whatsoever. And, obviously, no public displays of affection toward my daughter. Also, no sitting in the car watching her go into the school and hoping longingly that she’ll turn back to blow me a kiss or give me a smile or acknowledge my existence on the same planet in any way whatsoever.

You may ask why I let Agnes push me around this way. Perhaps you missed the first sentence. She is a 14-year-old girl and, truth be told, she may scare me just a little. Well, not her so much as the species in general. In fact, taken one or two at a time – OK, maybe just one – girls of this age can be quite delightful. Or at least tolerable. But where three or more are gathered, look the hell out.

The only thing keeping 13-to-15-year-old girls from running roughshod over the rest of us is their inability to travel more than a few blocks without assistance. If they were more independently mobile, there would be no stopping them. Their communication system also is highly sophisticated and could serve as a model for special-forces military outfits, taking out all the "likes" and "OMGs," of course. Sure, you could temporarily slow them down by disabling their cell phones and Facebook accounts. But they're a resourceful lot, and pretty quickly they'd fashion a rudimentary but effective communications system comprising eye rolling and heavy sighing.

I think a helluva scary movie could be made by recasting the coming Zombie Apocalypse as a takeover of the world by 13-to-15-year-old girls.

I started to share this idea with Agnes on the way to school the other day, but the look she fixed me with made my blood run cold. I kept my mouth shut the rest of the way and, just to be on the safe side, didn’t change the radio station until about two blocks after I dropped her off.