Driver's Ed

by Caroline B. Cooney

  It was a sad situation when the most dangerous thing in a boy’s world was Lark going through a red light.

  * * *

  “Hey, Rembrandt?” said Joss. “You do your homework? Can I copy it?”

  “Call me Rembrandt and die,” snapped Remy. “No, you can’t copy my homework. I’m not giving it away; I worked on it all night long.” This was a blatant lie. She had worked fifteen minutes, and been on the phone with Lark at the time.

  “All right, already,” said Joss, pouting.

  “You aren’t supposed to talk so loud when somebody asks you about copying,” said Morgan, grinning at Remy.

  Remy dissolved under his grin. Where had Alexandra found the courage to jump into his lap, and how could Remy find it too?

  “So,” said Lark, after class and before the run to the bus. This left them perhaps ninety seconds for a conversation. “Is it a date?”

  Remy, as so often happened around Lark, felt dense. Lark always seemed to be ahead of the subject or else felt the subject did not need to be named. “Is what?” said Remy.

  “The four of us,” said Lark irritably. “You, me, Morgan, and Nicholas. The first sign expedition.”

  Sign. The word sounded familiar. Vestiges of sign conversation came back to Remy.

  Remy’s memory kept completely different conversations than her best friend’s. Lark invariably remembered more, and in greater detail, as if she were preparing evidence for trials. When Remy thought back on conversations, they had a dreamy quality, as if she hadn’t been there, but had gotten it thirdhand.

  Lark moved on. “What do you say, Morgan?”

  Say yes, Morgan, Remy prayed. She didn’t want to say it first. It sounded greedy, or too sure of herself.

  Morgan paused so long that she had time to pray to the God of True Love, and also time to know that the God of True Love was elsewhere today.

  “Date,” said Morgan finally.

  Blackness and stars filled her mind like fainting. “Date,” she seconded, monitoring her voice to keep out greed and sureness. Casual. That was the thing. Boys didn’t like you unless you were relaxed about them.

  Lark immediately gave orders, with twice the sureness Remy had omitted. “Tell your parents you’re going to watch movies at my place,” she instructed. “Parents don’t mind seeing the sign in your room, but they don’t like knowing ahead of time that you’re going to take it.”

  Mr. Willit had school-bus supervision, which meant standing on the sidewalk trying not to get bruised or otherwise damaged as the high school emptied its eight hundred teenagers. “Yeah, Chase!” he bellowed. “Aw-right, Joss! Go, Remy!”

  He loved his kids. He loved their names. Rembrandt Marland. It killed him. Who would name a daughter Rembrandt? Only a woman named Imogene. Rembrandt and Jesus in the same family. Perhaps Mac was secretly named Napoleon.

  Making Morgan normal had been great fun. Next week Mr. Willit would make Remy normal. Then he’d mix voice parts and subtly arrange Remy and Morgan next to each other. He loved matchmaking.

  Nicholas Budie slouched by. Mr. Willit averted his eyes. He was committed to the belief that all kids were great, and even if they weren’t, every rotten kid had potential.

  Nickie got in the way of this equation.

  Once Nickie’d gotten that Buick, he began running over animals. He had a personal roadkill count. He liked wandering pets best. If they wore a collar, Nickie drove out of his way to get them. In school he liked to torment wheelchair students. Even terrific kids like Morgan Campbell just barely balanced the existence of dirtbags like Nickie Budie.

  The buses were beginning to pull out, long yellow beads on a strung-too-close chain. Morgan Campbell charged out of school with seconds to go before his bus departed.

  “Want a ride, Morgan?” yelled Nickie Budie.

  Morgan got in Nickie’s car.

  Something in Mr. Willit faded.

  Morgan ran in the door just before dinner, which in a household as busy as the Campbells’ was timed to the minute.

  The Campbells’ kitchen was immense. Burnished steel and polished granite, it was state-of-the-art, for gourmet cooks and brilliant dinner parties. Mostly it oversaw the pouring of Cheerios into bowls. It opened into a blaze of glass walls and skylights, a towering fireplace and several comfy couches. The huge TV could be hidden by remote-controlled wooden panels but if any Campbells were home, the TV was on, and the panels rarely closed.

  He knew his father had definitely decided to run for governor when he saw two more televisions and a second VCR lined up on the room-long hearth. This way his father could see how the media covered every event, especially his. Rafe Campbell, Governor. Morgan approved of his father’s name. Rafe. Stronger and more interesting than his own. He visualized the TV ads and the store posters.

  “Hello, son,” said his father cheerfully. “How was your day?”

  Morgan looked at the father he was so proud of and had nothing to say to him. The minute he faced Dad, his thoughts evaporated, leaving no trace, as if he had never had a thought, and perhaps never would. “Okay.” He shrugged.

  His father was instant tired. Like instant coffee. He turned from his son to the televisions. On TV they always looked into your eyes.

  Starr made up for her brother’s silence, spewing junior high gossip throughout dinner. The family sat silently under the submachine-gun fire of Starr’s chatter.

  He thought of Remy. Who cared about that silly sign Lark wanted? It was an easy first date. He hadn’t even had to ask.

  Was he ready for this?

  He had to be ready. He’d been thinking about it for millions of hours.

  His parents had a meeting tonight; they always had a meeting tonight. In another hour he’d be in the backseat of a big, comfortable car with Remy Marland. Holding more than her hand. Touching the golden hair and exploring the fabulous figure.

  “So, son,” said his father, mouth happy around the edges, “what’s making you smile?”

  “Nothing,” said Morgan.

  His father’s pleasure disappeared.

  * * *

  “You realize,” said Starr, flipping two TVs off and turning the third to Wheel of Fortune, “this means we’ll take up church again.”

  “Huh?”

  “People running for office always go to church, dummy,” said Starr.

  Church. He had almost forgotten church. Now that he was sixteen, Morgan could not ditch out after the first hymn and go to Sunday school. He’d have to hear sermons and everything. Mrs. Willit was such a goody-goody. Her sermons put Morgan in a coma. Every time Morgan saw terrific, funny Mr. Willit next to that overly excited wife of his, he could not imagine what had brought those two together.

  Remy always went to church.

  Maybe he would sit with her.

  No, in the incomprehensible world of women, that probably meant he’d have to marry her.

  Mom and Dad popped back in momentarily, resplendent in their Important Meeting Clothes. Morgan felt the familiar surge of pride in them, the intense love for them, and then the need to turn away and show nothing.

  His parents tried to kiss him good-night. He presented his face but did not kiss back.

  “Good night, now,” said his father, and the rules poured out: rules about snacks and bedtime and homework. Morgan and Starr nodded and waved, and Mom and Dad were gone.

  “I won’t mind church if I get lots of new clothes,” said Starr.

  Morgan would mind church no matter what he wore. How about if he took up a committee? Dad could get out of anything by claiming a committee meeting. If actually forced to attend, he’d just delegate the work to somebody else.

  Committees, however, were for grown-ups.

  How could Morgan occupy himself during a year of church while his father ran for office? “I’ll probably be running the Christmas pageant,” said Morgan. That’d keep him busy for the next six weeks, anyway, and possibly he’d be allowed to claim exhaustion throughout January.
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  Starr moved right in. “I’m your sister,” she said, “and that means I get to be a king.”

  Morgan said nothing, but casually picked up his jacket and wandered toward the front of the house to watch for Nicholas.

  “You’re supposed to stay home and do homework!” yelled Starr.

  Morgan said nothing.

  “I’m telling!” yelled Starr.

  “Fine,” said Morgan. “You can be a king.” Typical Starr. Get to Bethlehem using blackmail.

  Nickie had grown much taller, but no wider. Toothpick thin, he was in need of a major shopping trip. His pant legs were too short and hairy wrists stuck out of his sleeves like mistakes. His torso seemed left over from junior high, while his legs had become pro-basketball length. Facial features that had been cute in elementary school were now ratlike.

  Morgan got in front with Nickie. He felt uncomfortable with Nickie; sort of nervous. I’m twice his strength, thought Morgan. I could hold both his skinny wrists in one hand. Nickie is nothing.

  His edginess lay light as mist, fogging his comprehension of the night.

  They took a main drag, Warren Street, lined with corporate headquarters, major banks, and office buildings. Each had its own campus, neat clumps of white birch and reflecting pools with fountains. Vast parking lots were disguised by slender strips of woods.

  They passed the high school, which was indistinguishable from the offices except for a huge signboard in front.

  !PZZA DAY TUES!

  !BRNG CLB MONEY!

  !RED/WH SWTSHRTS 4 SALE!

  !PSATS NEXT WKND!

  There weren’t enough vowels to go around, but apparently an excess of exclamation points.

  “You going to ask her out?” said Nicholas.

  Morgan did not know whether Nicholas meant Lark or Remy, so he shrugged rather than commit himself.

  “You could do better,” warned Nicholas.

  Morgan shrugged his eyebrows, to say they were only girls, after all, no big deal.

  But it was a big deal, and Nickie’s opinion mattered. Dating was not just asking a girl out. It was asking out a girl who met other people’s standards.

  They stopped at the Marland house and Remy, who must have been watching for them, ran lightly and surefootedly across the yard. She was an athlete who consistently played the wrong sports for her skills, so she always came off substandard. She sure met Morgan’s standards, though.

  But Morgan and Nickie were in front, and Remy, seeing the pair of them, opened the back door. So he was not squashed up hot and wonderful next to Remy. Could not even see her unless he rotated uncomfortably, which was more effort than he wanted Nickie to see.

  Remy had gone on a shopping binge—a tray of sparkling eye shadows, a new tube of ultrathick mascara, more lip gloss colors.

  Of course it was a lie that makeup could change your life, and even when she paid for the makeup, she knew it was a lie, but she didn’t care; she would try this new stuff and see if it was still a lie.

  Mac had watched her getting ready, keeping up a running commentary on how useless the effort was.

  Her brother Mac had all the signs of growing up to be pond scum like Nickie Budie. The kind who would steal signs in a heartbeat. Nickie, in fact, had probably outgrown the stealing of signs and was even now busily concealing stolen car phones.

  Remy was the kind of little kid that when she was bad and her mother glared at her and began to count, “One! Two!” Remy was so terrified of what would happen if Mom got to “Three!” she raced to do whatever she had been told.

  Mac was the kind of little kid that when Mom counted, “One! Two!” Mac got into the spirit of the thing and yelled along with her, “Three! Four!” and never once considered what kind of punishment he would get.

  It wasn’t as if Mom and Dad gave in. Once Mac was so rotten and worthless, Mom and Dad took away his television privileges. He went on being rotten and worthless.

  Mom and Dad took away his radio. He went on being rotten and worthless. They took away telephone privileges, and then he was confined to his room, and no matter what Mom and Dad did to him, Mac went right on being rotten and worthless.

  “What do we do now?” Dad said to Mom one night. “Take away his furniture? Leave him with nothing but a mattress?”

  Then it dawned on them it was the mattress Mac loved. Lying awake on the bed doing nothing was Mac’s favorite pastime. So they took away the mattress and after two nights sleeping on the floor Mac began to shape up.

  Why can’t I have a brother like Morgan Campbell? thought Remy. And then, more sensibly, thought, Since when do I want Morgan to be my brother?

  When the car pulled up Remy felt like cookie dough. She was soft and sugary with nerves and delight. “Bye, Mom.” Remy rushed out before her mother saw who was driving. “We’ll be at Lark’s watching movies. Don’t worry. My homework’s all done.”

  Her pleasure vanished when she reached the car. Nickie’s ratlike eyes stared straight through the windshield instead of turning toward the person getting in his car. His arms were as thin as crossed broomsticks. Whitish hair oozed out of his head. Nickie Budie was truly a scarecrow.

  Morgan was facing her, but motionless. Eyes wide and somehow calculating.

  There was something awful and wrong about how the boys sat. Her heart suddenly leapt in panic, her mouth went dry, and she climbed in back, grateful that Lark would be picked up next.

  Unlike everybody else Lark lived in a high-rise apartment complex. Residents’ cars were parked underground. No earth had been left unpaved. Not a tree and not a bush interrupted the flow of stone and pavement. Every one of the hundreds of windows was covered by shades. The immense buildings gave no sense of being occupied.

  No tiny gauzy Lark flew toward them.

  Nickie leaned on the horn long and hard, which hadn’t seemed so bad in front of a single house but was stupid in front of all these apartments.

  “Go get her,” Nickie said, neither to Morgan nor Remy, just being obnoxiously clear that the driver did not run errands. Remy opened her door without speaking and crossed the pavement to Lark’s building.

  Mixed in with Remy’s crush on Morgan was a queer nausea. A kind of knowledge that she was in trouble. She was going as fast as a car, and would crash like metal.

  Good, thought Morgan. When the girls come back, I’ll get the seating right.

  He watched Remy enter the outer lobby and try the interior door. Of course it didn’t open. She rang the apartment from the bell board and talked into a house phone. After a few minutes Remy came back alone.

  Morgan flung open the front door and edged over against Nickie to make space for Remy right next to him. He felt feverish.

  “Isn’t Lark dressed yet?” demanded Nicholas.

  “She can’t come. Her mother’s getting the flu and she has to stay home and help.”

  Morgan found it difficult to imagine Lark heating chicken soup or soothing a headachy brow. But he forgot Lark instantly. Remy was extremely nervous. She sat gingerly next to Morgan, trying to thin herself and not touch him. Morgan reached over her lap and hung on to the handle of her door, slamming it satisfyingly and letting his arm brush over Remy on the way back. The control panel buzzed like hornets, demanding that the seat belt be closed.

  “She says bring her the sign anyway,” said Remy.

  Nicholas drove off too fast, making the tires whine, while Morgan and Remy fussed with the single seat belt.

  It was long enough to go around them both.

  THICKLY SETTLED was on the curve of a sharp downward slope, deep in the woods. A few hundred yards into the curve the road would pass a couple of houses crowded by the edge of a brook. But here, although a new road had been cut into the woods for a future subdivision, no house had ever been built. No streetlights, no house lights, and only occasional headlights penetrated the dark.

  Authority existed as it never had when Morgan and Nickie leapt into ditches at the sight of distant headlights. This
time Authority was Police, and Authority could arrest them, in possession of stolen public property.

  Morgan was amazed to find how much this appealed to him. Not getting caught, of course. But taking the risk of getting caught.

  Morgan battled nausea and excitement.

  If his parents knew … Well, he wouldn’t tell. And there’d be no evidence. Lark was getting the sign, after all.

  Remy was crowded next him. She wasn’t shrinking anymore. He could feel her muscles relaxing, one by one, as she let herself lean on him.

  The whole length of his thigh was tight against the whole length of hers. He couldn’t feel much. Denim jeans were like armor.

  Morgan slipped his hand across her lap until he found her hand. Curling his fingers around, he stroked the soft inner cup of her palm with his thumb. Right away he wanted more, and put his hand on the back of her neck, touching the bristly back of her hair. It did not feel the way he had expected: it was silk.

  Remy Marland was deep in a heady, vibrating excitement. The utter and complete joy of being sandwiched so tightly up against Morgan made all else irrelevant.

  “We’ll park here,” said Nicholas. He backed into the unpaved opening that would have been the exit from the housing development, if it had ever been built.

  How silent the night was.

  No underlying noise: no refrigerators humming, no radio, car, or plane. No coffee perking, computer printing, or baby brother crying.

  And so dark.

  No moon and few stars.

  Nickie got out first. Morgan, who was in the middle, had to wait till Remy got out. Remy hated being outside the car. The night seemed to have a personality of its own. Soft and suffocating.

  Lark had simply decided not to come. Why? Was this part of Lark’s master plan for Remy’s romance? Or did Lark know something Remy didn’t? Lark always knew something Remy didn’t.

  I want to go home, thought Remy, and immediately forgot the thought, because Morgan touched her again, his hot hand at the nape of her neck, having her silent permission to touch her there.