Driver's Ed

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “They must have been at it all night. It’d take hours to do that much damage,” said Chase. He and Morgan yanked out chairs opposite Joss and Remy and dropped boy-style onto their seats, as heavily as elephants with broken legs.

  Good view. Thank you, God of True Love.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” said Taft. “You’d have two guys in the bed of the pickup truck, swinging alternately, and you could cover the city in no time.”

  “Were you in on it?” asked Christine.

  “Certainly not,” said Taft indignantly.

  “Anyway, that’s not how you play,” said Cristin. “It really is just like baseball. One person at a time swings. Three strikes and you’re out.”

  Vandalism was supposedly a boys’ activity. Did Cristin speak from experience? This certainly put Cristin in a new light.

  Remy could not imagine herself smashing mailboxes. She would probably laugh hysterically the first time she picked up the bat, and then of course, the God of Her Mother Watching would descend and make it impossible to do anything even remotely bad. The God of Her Mother Watching was very powerful.

  “Lots of idiots go out and paint rocks with their initials,” Lark said. “Or paint the sides of bridges. Or in this case, smash mailboxes. The urge for immortality, of course.”

  Remy was surprised by this little speech. She took her eyes off Morgan long enough to check out Lark’s smile. Small, stretched—a rubber band demanding to be shot. “You know what I’m thinking?” said Lark.

  The class listened. Lark usually had good ideas.

  “Let’s all take signs. I love signs. Let’s make it a class game.”

  “I love signs too. I’ve got a BIKE PATH collection,” said Chase. “I’ve got six of ’em lined up on my wall next to my trophies. I’m on the bike team, you know.”

  They knew. Chase could be very tiresome about his old bike team.

  “I don’t have any signs, but I’ve always wanted WEYMOUTH ROAD,” said Alexandra Weymouth. She resembled her name: elegant and historic. She had golden-blond hair like Remy’s, but long, swingy, and better. “Weymouth Road isn’t named for my family, of course. We’re not from around here.” She shook her head, amused by the concept of being from around here. “Still, I’d like the sign.”

  Alexandra swung her golden hair in Morgan’s direction. “Let’s us get WEYMOUTH ROAD this weekend, Morgan.”

  Alexandra was gorgeous. Morgan was as crazy about her as he was about most girls. Alexandra wanted his company? He should have been thrilled. Instead he felt panicky. “I don’t have a car,” he pointed out.

  Lark laughed at him. “Morgan’s afraid of girls, Alexandra,” said Lark.

  This was the kind of thing Starr said, to bring people to their knees and obey her every whim.

  I’m not afraid of girls, thought Morgan. I adore girls. I think of girls every waking and sleeping minute. Sometimes I even have to wake up in the night to think about them more.

  Alexandra left her chair and sat right in Morgan’s lap.

  Morgan had no idea what to do. He couldn’t flirt, or laugh, or even enjoy it.

  “All boys are afraid of girls,” said Lark. “Has anybody actually heard of a girl having a date?”

  “This is a school for sick puppies,” agreed Christine. “Nobody dates. You hear rumors, but you never actually come across it.”

  Alexandra wrapped herself around Morgan. If he blinked, his lashes would graze her chest. Less chest than Remy, but still, a chest he was more than willing to graze.

  “In fact,” put in Cristin, “the most that actually happens when two kids ‘go together’ is that now and then the boy ‘lets’ the girl go with him to a movie.”

  The girls all groaned and nodded. The boys all listened carefully. They knew they knew nothing.

  “Last week,” said Lark, “I shouted at Morgan, Take me, Morgan! I am yours! Name your time and place! And Morgan says, Chemistry, fourth period, on the lab table next to the Bunsen burner. I, of course, show up. Morgan, of course, skips class.”

  The class laughed.

  Morgan blushed even though Lark was making this up completely. Tentatively Morgan moved his hands. Alexandra gave him a half smile that could have meant anything.

  Remy was beside herself. How could Alexandra move in so fast? It wasn’t fair, but then, Alexandra was too beautiful for fairness to be in the picture. Remy would never have more of Morgan than hand-holding in the back of the Driver’s Ed car.

  Morgan’s hand crept around Alexandra, while Remy prayed to the God of True Love to make Morgan want her body more than Alexandra’s.

  “So! Okay!” said Lark. Tiny as she was, she had a drill sergeant’s voice. “Signs! Our class activity. Our own personal Driver’s Ed special. Here’s the rule: Nobody gets a license without taking a sign first.”

  “Awww-right!” said Chase. “I’m in.”

  “I’ve been in for years,” said Taft. “You know Lighthouse Lane, with the cute little wooden lighthouse sign? We’ve got three of them. My brother took it for his college dorm, they replaced it, my sister took that one for her college dorm, and when they replaced it again, I took it for my room.”

  They all laughed except Morgan, whose mind was on other things, and Christine, who said, “Cut it out. I’m dropping this class if you really start that. I’m not getting into trouble.”

  “You just want an excuse to quit Driver’s Ed,” said Alexandra.

  “Don’t be a flea bite, Christine,” said Lark. “Nobody would get into trouble. Everybody takes signs.”

  Mr. Fielding wandered in and conversation stopped for once. Mr. Fielding only represented authority, and had not yet actually exerted any, but you never knew. “All right, class. Joanne, Carson, and Chrystal will drive today.”

  Since the class did not include anybody named Joanne, Carson, or Chrystal, there should have been a pause, but nobody missed a beat. Lark, Remy, and Morgan leaped right up.

  Even though the same three had driven yesterday, nobody interfered. Instead they high-fived each other and made notations in their notebooks.

  Driver’s tests were already being scheduled. Mr. Fielding would actually escort to the Motor Vehicle Bureau kids who had driven only once. The class had placed serious bets on whether the single-time drivers would pass.

  Mr. Fielding headed out through the library with Lark nipping at his heels like a small ill-behaved dog, claiming to be Chrystal, and begging to be first to drive.

  “You be Joanne,” Remy said to Morgan.

  “Wave to us, Joanne,” said Taft, grinning.

  Morgan waved like the Royal Family, swiveling the wrist, so as not to tire the whole hand.

  “Queen Joanne the Normal,” said Taft.

  Lark drove.

  “River Road,” said Mr. Fielding.

  Morgan sat in back with Remy, staring out the window because looking at Remy made him nervous.

  It was surprising how much country there was left, and how close to the city it lay. Their city had become a cement amoeba, splitting endlessly into more cities. Enormous office complexes, huge tracts of housing developments, miles of strip malls. Nevertheless, the buildings and developments ended more quickly than he would have thought.

  River Road grew narrower and the woods closed in. They’d had a dull and speedy autumn. Leaves hardly even turned colors, just made a brown exit from life. Morgan did not find the scrawny woods attractive.

  A square yellow sign was set diagonally on its tall metal staff, THICKLY SETTLED, said fat black print.

  “Don’t you love that?” said Lark. “You never see a THICKLY SETTLED sign in town, where it really is thickly settled. You see THICKLY SETTLED out in the woods, where it isn’t settled at all, never mind thickly.” Lark counted driveways as she hurtled by. “There are exactly four houses here, so naturally the highway department throws up that desperately needed sign, THICKLY SETTLED.”

  Morgan had certainly never given any thought to sign placement. He didn’t now eithe
r. Queen Joanne the Normal. It made him laugh, and want to wave at the crowds again.

  THICKLY SETTLED vanished as Lark whipped by, much too fast. She lucked out. There was no oncoming traffic and she didn’t careen off the road. “THICKLY SETTLED,” Lark announced, “would be perfect in my bedroom.”

  Morgan tried to picture a girl’s bedroom in which a large yellow THICKLY SETTLED sign would be perfect. His sister’s bedroom was the only girl’s room he knew, and he didn’t know it well. Starr killed people who went unasked into her bedroom, and she certainly never asked her brother there. Starr had not quite left her Barbie and Ken stage, and the room was full of dolls and dollhouses and doll accessories, with Barbie outfits hanging from tiny closet rods mounted in a pink-painted jog in the wall.

  “How will you get THICKLY SETTLED?” Morgan asked. They had to be five miles beyond city limits. Obviously nobody had a license, although Remy had a car.

  Four months ago, when his sixteenth birthday arrived, Morgan had been absolutely completely positive he would get a car. His parents were rich; they had a BMW and a Range Rover; he had dropped many hints of Miata convertibles. He wasn’t sure he’d get the Miata, but he certainly knew he’d get a car.

  He was wrong.

  A VCR for his bedroom was their idea of a decent present. As if he ever wanted to stay in his room again! “Sixteen equals cars!” he wanted to yell at his parents. “Give me a car!”

  But he didn’t.

  He rarely spoke to his parents at all.

  The years he was thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, he could love them only when they were out of sight. Especially his mother. Just being in the room with her made him crazy. He wanted to scream and swear and disobey, but rarely did. He stayed silent and waited until she left, or he could.

  Finally, this year, he could be in the room with them. He wasn’t talking yet, but he was close. He was now at the stage of thinking of things he would say to his father if he were talking to his father. Receiving a car would have been a good conversation starter.

  Now his hopes rested on the morning he got his driver’s license. They hadn’t wanted to start carrying expensive car insurance before he was actually driving, that was all. Or have in the garage the temptation of a car he couldn’t yet touch.

  That’s the plan, he told himself. Day of my test, I’ll come home and find my own car waiting in the driveway. That new metallic red I like. Actually, it doesn’t have to be red. Or a Miata. It just has to have Wow-factor. No clunkers. No wide-bodies.

  Remy recrossed her legs the opposite way. Her jeans made an audible friction rub. Morgan stared at the jeans-crossing. Talk about Wow-factor.

  “The bolts are probably rusted together,” said Lark.

  Morgan struggled back to the subject of signs.

  “And I’d need help taking the sign off the post.”

  Is she serious? thought Morgan. She really wants a dumb sign? He could never tell when girls were serious.

  “It probably really is thickly settled, Lark,” Remy pointed out. “The thick part is just hidden by trees. Probably the neighbors participate in Neighborhood Watch, and they’ll be watching. They’ll see you take it and they’ll write down your plate number.”

  “And then it’s prison for Lark,” said Morgan. “But prisons are THICKLY SETTLED. The sign could still be useful.”

  Lark had a very small mouth, as if her lips had been designed for some other face entirely. She tightened her tiny lips into a pout. “You don’t go to prison for stealing signs, Queen Joanne,” said Lark. “It’s a little itty bit of wood and paint. All you do is pay a fine.”

  “How do you know?” said Morgan, genuinely interested. Did Lark have experience at this? She had experience, according to high school rumor, at everything else.

  “Joel and I used to take them all the time,” said Lark. “It’s so fun. I’ve got YIELD and DANGEROUS CURVE and NO RIGHT ON RED and three sizes of arrows. And then Joel moved away and my parents wouldn’t let me go to Atlanta with him.”

  They had reached the end of River Road and were at the north entrance of the bypass. Lark merged perfectly into the southbound traffic, because there wasn’t any, and headed back to the city.

  “You were fourteen when you went out with Joel,” said Remy. “How could you possibly have thought your parents would let you go to Atlanta with him?”

  “Because I was fourteen,” said Lark. “Fourteen is dumb and ignorant. Now, Morgan, I want that sign. I need THICKLY SETTLED to round out my collection.”

  Morgan did not know why girls had to chatter all the time. How were you supposed to have a decent daydream about the various Wow-factors of life when they babbled about their personal history?

  “Morgan,” said Lark, “you’re a good friend of Nicholas Budie, aren’t you?”

  * * *

  They were nearly at the exit for the school.

  Mr. Fielding gazed at the high enticing sign of a Dunkin’ Donuts. He was as separated from his students as if he had gotten out of the car and gone for coffee.

  Morgan felt invaded. He had not been friends with Nickie for years and yet Lark immediately identified his past.

  Fifth and sixth grade had been spent playing with Nickie. Nickie was a year older, which meant nothing until Nickie entered junior high, acquiring friends from other parts of town and demanding to be called Nicholas. Nickie didn’t “play” anymore. Morgan just annoyed him; Morgan was a baby.

  What a shock to find his friend wanted him to dry up and blow away. Morgan came back again and again for punishment, somehow believing that this time, Nickie would want his company. Nickie did not.

  Nickie, now a high school senior, had a car. It was a heavy, featureless old Buick, the kind women who play bridge and men who sell office supplies might drive. But did it ever have an engine! That car could go.

  You could fit three in front because it didn’t have a divided seat, and in back you could cram four if you wanted. Nickie usually wanted. The ultimate popularity test was to have a full car at all times to all destinations, so Nickie gave everybody rides.

  Even Morgan.

  Morgan was ashamed to see how willingly he rushed back into friendship. He must have been hoping all this time that Nickie would let him back, as if Nickie were a secret clubhouse and now at last Morgan could join.

  Nickie loved being the one with the license and the car. He might have been Captain in the army, with the brightest uniform and the shiniest medals. And his passengers might have been slaves taken in battle, eager to line up and please the master.

  All these thoughts made Morgan slightly sick.

  He said to Lark, “Yeah, I know Nicholas Budie.”

  Lark’s eyes were shining, and she tucked her lips in like sheets, as if keeping plans inside. “Do you think Nicholas would drive?”

  Remy knew what sign she’d take.

  MORGAN ROAD.

  Wouldn’t it be neat to have the street sign with the name of the boy on whom she had a crush?

  Of course, if Nickie Budie drove, Remy wouldn’t be allowed to go. Nobody’s parents approved of Nickie Budie, even though now he was called Nicholas, which sounded more reliable.

  But she couldn’t take MORGAN ROAD when Morgan was around anyway. Any boy, at such visible evidence of serious crush, would flee the country.

  Would Nicholas drive …?

  When they were ten and eleven, Morgan Campbell and Nickie Budie were in love with roads.

  They’d sneak out after dark, follow the road out of sight of their houses, and wrestle on the white line in the middle of the street. When headlights appeared, they had to dive for cover, as if oncoming cars were bombers in war.

  They could not hide like girls, protecting themselves, worrying about clothes, scratches, brambles, or broken glass. It was imperative to dive into the ditch without checking out the bottom.

  Extra points if you actually dove onto rusty cans or an old hubcap or a pile of sharp rocks and hurt yourself. Blood was good.


  He remembered his mother’s exasperation at the torn clothes and the wonderful lies he told because you could hardly explain to your mother that your hobby was playing in the traffic after dark.

  Morgan and Nickie played chase too. The point was that neither boy could slow down once the chase began. Not for anything. Not for fences or dogs. Not for backyards or traffic, brooks or swamps.

  Morgan loved being the one who fled. He felt criminal, sick with the sense that if caught, he would be jailed or thrashed. It had a curious appeal. But he also loved being the one who chased. Closing in on Nickie—knowing that in a moment he’d throw the other boy to the ground—that he’d be the winner and the power.

  Chicken and chase had faded away, their place taken by socially approved games like baseball and football. The swamps and the woods had vanished in the last few years anyway, infilled and built upon, seamlessly part of the vast new city.

  Memory came back, sweaty and enclosing, as if Lark had tossed Morgan back into a soup of running and chasing, screaming and catching.

  “Yeah,” he said, “Nicholas would drive.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Current Events was last period.

  Morgan hoped there would be a film. He wanted to sit in the dark and think about girls and cars, not the world. Unless the topic was war. Morgan loved war. He wished he could be in the army.

  In September they had drawn names of nations at war so each student would have his own personal conflict to report on. Morgan got Guatemala and was bored and annoyed. Guatemala’s civil war was just lying there, as inactive as last century’s volcano.

  Morgan wanted danger: Beirut danger, Azerbaijan danger, Israeli danger. He was also attracted to mountain danger: Yugoslavian and Afghanistan danger. But nobody would trade. They said he’d gotten enough trades in Driver’s Ed. How were you supposed to find danger in the world Morgan had been born occupying? Bosnian sixteen-year-olds got to use machine guns and divert snipers and rescue their families.