Driver's Dead

by Peter Lerangis

  Classes had already ended. Kids were leaning against cars, sitting on the stoop, walking, laughing, enjoying the crisp early-autumn air.

  Relief washed over Kirsten. All she had to do was go through the gate, follow a wide driveway along the side of the school, and park in the big lot behind the building. End of lesson.

  She turned right, steering toward the open gate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two students walking arm in arm toward the driveway. Of course they would see her and stop.

  They smiled at each other. They kissed. They stepped off the curb together.

  Right in front of Kirsten.

  “Ohhh …”

  She yanked the wheel to the left. She lifted her foot to step on the brake.

  She missed.

  Her foot clomped down on the gas pedal. The car tore off through the gate.

  It careened up the driveway. Two football-player types dove into a hedge, their books flying. Kirsten executed a perfect ninety-degree skid into the parking lot.

  Just beyond the lot, a pickup baseball game stopped as the players turned to watch.

  Kirsten gritted her teeth. She was in control again. More or less. The front of the car was pointing right at the driver’s ed parking spaces. Just to the right of the auto shop.

  A group of kids had been working on an old, jacked-up car. Now they were staring at Kirsten in terror.

  All of them scrambled around the car as she got closer.

  All but one.

  He was tall and dark-haired. His face was extremely bony. That was all Kirsten noticed before he took a step toward her approaching car.

  “Watch it!” Mr. Busk bellowed.

  “Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh!” Gwen gasped.

  Kirsten and Mr. Busk jammed their feet on the brakes.

  EEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

  Thump.

  With a dull cry, the boy fell to the blacktop.

  Chapter 3

  “AAAH! AAAH! AAAH! AAAH! Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!”

  Gwen’s rapid-fire shrieking filled the car as Kirsten pushed the door open.

  The boy was sprawled on his back, eyes closed. Kirsten stared at the oil-stained T-shirt that showed under his black leather jacket. He wasn’t breathing.

  Mr. Busk barged through the gathering crowd. “Out of the way!”

  Quickly he knelt down next to the boy and felt his pulse.

  Maria and Sara stood beside Kirsten, stiff with shock. Gwen was staggering out of the car, bone-white. Her shrieks had become whimpers, and she was nervously fingering a locket around her neck.

  Mr. Busk tilted the boy’s head back until his mouth opened, then lowered himself to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  The boy’s eyes sprang open.

  “Yo,” he said, looking into Mr. Busk’s face. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  Absolute silence. The crowd gaped, dumbfounded.

  The guy stood up with a grin and brushed himself off. “I mean, really, you ain’t my type, Mr. Busk.”

  From behind the old car, a whoop of laughter rang out. A couple of auto shop classmates stepped around the car and exchanged high fives with the boy.

  “That was a joke?” Sara remarked.

  Maria looked disgusted. “I can’t believe this.”

  Gwen propped herself on the driver’s ed car and covered her face with her hands.

  Kirsten kept staring. She thought she had killed him. Her terror was slowly leaking out of her, like air through a pinhole in a tire.

  He had pretended. He had scared half the school to death—for a dumb laugh. What kind of jerk would do something like that?

  Mr. Busk stood up slowly. His fists were clenched. The veins in his temples stood out. The roast beef was becoming raw.

  As he walked toward the boy, the crowd fell silent. Kids began to scatter.

  But the guy wasn’t backing away.

  He was smirking. His green-gray eyes hadn’t the slightest fear.

  They were cold, steady, penetrating. The color of polished jade.

  As he gave a casual glance across the crowd, his gaze met Kirsten’s for an instant. A split-second, really. She wasn’t sure he had even focused on her.

  But Kirsten was rooted to the ground. Transfixed. In that instant she felt he had drunk her in, absorbed her like a sponge. She felt it in the follicles of her hair and the soles of her feet.

  Kirsten had never seen eyes like that.

  The spell was broken by Mr. Busk’s voice. “I want you out of my class, Maxson!”

  “Heyyy, come on, I was just kidding—”

  As Mr. Busk roared in anger, Maria grabbed Kirsten by the arm. “Let’s go,” she said.

  They began walking toward the driveway. Around them, the lot had emptied. Mr. Busk and the boy were face to face.

  And the boy still had that cocky grin.

  Mr. Busk’s shouts faded as Kirsten and Maria approached the front of the school. “Who was that guy?” Kirsten asked.

  Maria shot her a look. “Kirsten Wilkes, don’t even think of it.”

  “Think of what?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Rob Maxson is a scuzzball. A slug. Pour salt on him and he shrivels up. Definitely NYT.”

  “NYT? New York Times?”

  “Not Your Type.”

  Kirsten giggled. “Oh, I know that. It’s just that … well, I mean, his eyes—”

  “Yeah. Green. The color of slime. Need I say more?” Maria sighed. “Kirsten. Look what happened to Gwen. She used to be nice before she met him.”

  “They went out together?”

  “Until he totally ruined her life.”

  “How?”

  “He got bored with her and broke up. She was devastated. Well, for months Nguyen Trang had been mooning over her—so she went out with him, thinking Rob would get jealous. Nguyen showered her with gifts, gave her jewelry, treated her sooo specially. But she still loved Rob, and Nguyen knew it. That was why he did what he did… .” Maria’s voice trailed off.

  “What exactly did Nguyen do?” Kirsten asked. “All I know is that he was killed in a car accident.”

  “Well, that was the official report,” Maria replied. “But everybody knows it wasn’t really an accident.”

  Kirsten’s eyes widened. “You mean, someone—”

  “Not someone. Himself.” Maria gave her a confidential look and lowered her voice. “He stole a car, Kirsten, and drove it into a ravine. He committed suicide.”

  Chapter 4

  SUICIDE.

  The word was so ugly. How could Nguyen Trang have done that? Over Gwen? What a waste.

  Kirsten had a sudden pang of sympathy for Gwen. Imagine how she felt.

  But if it were true—if Nguyen did commit suicide over her—hadn’t she caused it by manipulating him?

  What a horrible story. Why hadn’t Kirsten known about it until now? She was living in the Trangs’ old house. Why hadn’t the Lorillards mentioned what had happened? Or the real-estate agent who had sold them the house?

  Zing!

  The Lightbulb of Obvious Answers switched on in Kirsten’s head. Of course they didn’t talk about it. How would the truth have sounded? You’ll love this house, Dr. Wilkes! Three bedrooms, two baths, new kitchen, nice location, and a recent suicide committed by one of the former residents!

  Maria’s face broke into a sudden smile. “Hey!” she called out. “Over here!”

  Virgil Garth was standing in front of the school, looking bored. When he saw Maria he brightened. “Where were you?”

  “You didn’t hear?” Maria asked.

  “Hear what?” Virgil said.

  “Oh, Rob was being a sadistic jerk,” Maria replied. Then, with a sly smile, she added, “But you’ll never guess who has a crush on him.”

  “Mariaaaaa!” Kirsten felt the blood rushing to her face. She barely knew Virgil!

  “Oh, come on, it’s okay,” Maria said. “Virgil had a crush on him, too.”

  Virgil grimaced. “Maria, what did you have in your
lunch today?”

  “Well, you used to think he was soooo cool.”

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not the same as—”

  Maria threw her arms around him. “I have a big mouth, but he loves me, anyway.” She planted a kiss on Virgil’s lips, and he blushed. “Go ahead,” she continued, “you tell her about Rob.”

  Virgil rolled his eyes. “Well, he’s kind of … unpredictable. If I were you—”

  “You guys!” Kirsten interrupted. “I mean, I’ve never even met this guy.”

  “Keep it that way!” Maria said with a laugh. As she and Virgil began walking away, she said over her shoulder, “Call me later!”

  “Okay.”

  Kirsten was amazed. Maria could say whatever was on her mind, no matter how obnoxious—but you couldn’t stay angry with her.

  She watched Maria and Virgil for a while, then headed in the other direction, toward her house.

  This was one part of suburban life she liked. Walking home among the chirping birds, shuffling through bright piles of fresh-fallen leaves, smelling the cool, sweet air. It was a far cry from the sweat, the B.O., and the car-horn noise of her ride home on the M19 crosstown bus.

  Each day Kirsten was missing New York City less. Port Lincoln wasn’t so bad. Despite the cliques. And the fact that kids went everywhere in cars. And hung out at a mall. And wore the same clothes. From the same store.

  Well, almost all the kids were like that. Rob wasn’t. How had Virgil described him?

  Unpredictable.

  Virgil had used that word so dramatically, as if it were the world’s worst quality. No kidding, Rob was unpredictable. Kirsten had seen that, all right.

  But behind that word was something else. Rob was different. Different in dress, attitude, looks.

  Different from us.

  And being different was deadly in Port Lincoln.

  Kirsten laughed to herself. Now who was being dramatic?

  She walked down Anchor Street to her family’s white, Cape-Cod-style house. With the overgrown lawn and the mismatched curtains.

  Kirsten was kind of proud of the fact that her house stuck out. The Wilkeses were in no great hurry to be exactly like everybody else. The walls of the house were still bare, save for one enormous china platter that her mom had hung on the kitchen wall because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else.

  From the outside the house was dark and still, all the doors and windows locked. Precautions left over from city living. Never give a burglar a chance. Kirsten bounded up the stairs, key in hand. She grabbed the mail from the box, which still bore a brass plaque with THE LORILLARD’S stamped on it, misplaced apostrophe and all.

  Clutching the stack of letters, Kirsten let herself in.

  The house was dark, clammy. After the fragrant walk home, the stale air was suffocating. Kirsten went to open a window.

  Then she stopped.

  Someone was in the house.

  She didn’t know how she knew it. But she did.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  “Nat?”

  This had happened last week. She’d come home to an empty house and Nat had sprung out of the kitchen pantry, scaring her to death.

  “Don’t do this to me, Nat!”

  Kirsten thought a moment. It was the last Tuesday of the month. That meant Dad was at the hospital seeing Emergency Room patients, Mom was at her monthly editorial board meeting—and Nat had soccer practice. That was it.

  She walked into the kitchen, plopped the mail on the table, and let her backpack fall to the floor.

  The windowless, L-shaped pantry was dark. She pulled the light switch and looked inside. Just to be sure.

  It was empty.

  She carefully opened the door to the back foyer and hung her jacket on a wall hook.

  To the right of the hooks was the door to the basement. She opened it and peered down the stairs.

  “Hello?”

  Natless.

  She was alone. Safe.

  No, I’m not.

  Why did she still have that feeling?

  It was the house.

  Had to be. It always felt a little like a locker room. Even on a beautiful, balmy day like this. Too much insulation, maybe. Her family would just have to learn to leave a few windows open when they left.

  Which is just what she did, before heading straight for the fridge.

  In moments she put together a nice, thick, toasted cinnamon-raisin bagel with a huge wad of cream cheese in the middle. Her favorite snack. Guaranteed to cure all ills.

  As she munched away, she flipped through the mail. Not one envelope had her name on it.

  That did it. She vowed to write her ex-best friend Rachel Ross out of her will. She would make a will just to do that.

  If Rachel had written a letter, Kirsten could be reading it now. Then she could have written back. What a great afternoon it would have been.

  Now, instead, she had to do her homework.

  She reached into her backpack and pulled out its contents. Social studies text (yawn), mathbook (gross), French lesson (quel ennui), and a stack of dog-eared papers—notes, mimeographs, whatever.

  Kirsten glanced at the glossy sheet on top. It was the driving-contest flyer Mr. Busk had given her class the week before.

  Kirsten felt a knot in her stomach. The kids had laughed when she’d taken it. She had been so embarrassed, she had stuck it in her pack and never read it.

  Win the Car of Your Dreams! was emblazoned across the top. Under that were the contest rules:

  1. All PLHS seniors in driver’s ed classes are eligible.

  2. The winner must have the highest combined scores on his or her written test and road test.

  3. Tie scores will be decided by lottery.

  4. Top prize is on view at CUNNINGHAM MOTORS of Port Lincoln.

  In the center of the flyer was a color photo, the sleek profile of a white Ford Escort, speeding along a highway.

  Ha! Fat chance, Wilkes, Kirsten said to herself. She folded the flyer and stuck it back in her pack.

  Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Social studies first.

  She opened her book. After one paragraph, her eyes began to wander.

  Across the table, the stack of mail had fallen over. The letters had fanned across the table, right to the edge. Kirsten stooped to pick up one that had dropped to the floor.

  Actually, it was only a piece of an envelope.

  It must have fallen out of her hands when she came in—but where was the rest of it?

  Kirsten looked closer. She could make out half a postmark, with strange, foreign letters—and below it, the letter M, where the address should begin.

  She retraced her steps back to the mailbox. Nothing had fallen onto the living room carpet.

  The missing pieces were outside—two at the bottom of the mailbox, one in a corner of the porch, and the rest under the bushes in front of the house.

  She brought them inside, muttering to herself. Her dad loved to complain about the post office, especially when they sent those little plastic bags with destroyed letters inside and a computer-printed apology. The letters always looked as if they had been chewed by a wild tiger.

  Maybe they didn’t use plastic bags in the suburbs. But the tigers were much fiercer.

  These pieces were shredded, not ripped. They looked as if they’d been in an explosion.

  A letter-bomb, she thought. Maybe that was what she should send to Rachel.

  Taking a roll of tape from the kitchen desk drawer, she began piecing the fragments of the envelope together, like a jigsaw puzzle.

  The address on the envelope soon came together:

  Mr. and Mrs. H. Trang

  477 Anchor Street

  Port Lincoln, New York 11500

  The return address read, Outreach, Inc., Ho Chi Mihn City, Vietnam.

  Kirsten was used to seeing junk mail for the Lorillards and Trangs, but this was definitely not junk mail.

  She got to work on the letter, which w
as typed on onionskin paper with an old-fashioned typewriter.

  As the letter began to form, a tiny voice began to pipe up in back of her head: This is none of your business.

  But it was her business. What if the letter was about a huge inheritance? Or a note from a long-lost relative? What if the Trangs had to go to Vietnam right away for some emergency?

  Do we have the Trangs’ address? she wondered. She doubted it. The Lorillards wouldn’t have left it, nor the real-estate agent. They’d acted as though the Trangs never existed.

  And that was just plain wrong.

  Kirsten owed it to the Trangs to forward this letter.

  Not all the pieces were there, but slowly the message began to take shape:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Trang, Outreach Americ

  uniting family members of the Southeast Asian-American community with lost or forgotten loved ones overseas. I task filled with sublime joy and, sometimes, unexpected sadness. unately, in the latter spirit that we must inform you that Mr. and Mrs. R. Haing, the parents of your nephew, Nguyen, have been located. Last month they died of natural causes. Please accept o of deepest sorrow for you and the young man.

  In Sympathy, Lynn Ngor Director

  Nguyen was a refugee. He had dropped his real last name, taken his uncle’s. Or had he been sent here as a child? Did he know about his parents?

  Kirsten turned another piece of the letter over.

  This one had a stain on it.

  A dark, red stain. Still wet.

  Chapter 5

  “HELLO? … STOP! … HELLO? … Will you—?”

  “Hi, Maria?” Kirsten said into the receiver. “It’s Kirsten. I have to talk to you!”

  “Down, Virgil! Hi!” Maria burst into giggles. Kirsten could hear barking noises in the background. “Sorry. Virgil thinks it’s hilarious to distract me when I’m on the phone. Virgil, it’s my father!”

  The barking stopped.

  “There. Now, what’s up?”

  “Do either of you know where Nguyen Trang’s family moved?”

  “Hang on.” Her voice became muffled and distant as she asked Virgil the same question. “Uh-uh. Neither of us knew him that well. Why?”

  “I need to swear you to secrecy about something.” Kirsten told her everything—about the letter, the condition she had found it in, the stain.