Driver's Ed

by Caroline B. Cooney

  The phone rang.

  Morgan’s been sitting by the phone trying to work up courage! Remy thought joyfully. He forgot the time, but who cares? The thing is to get Mac away from me so I can hold a real conversation.

  Naturally at this hour, Mom thought somebody was dead or in a dreadful accident, and she leaped across the food line to the phone. “Lark?” said Mom in astonishment. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Lark? thought Remy. She must be checking to see if Morgan called. I’ll lie. No, I’ll tell the truth. No, I don’t want to lie or tell the truth. I’ll tell her I can’t talk.

  “Is this important, Lark?” said Mom severely. “Can this wait until morning?”

  “Come on, Mom,” said Mac. “We’re not doing anything earth shattering here. We’re just chewing. On a Friday night. Let Remy talk.”

  Mac on her team? That in itself was earth shattering. Remy took the phone.

  “Don’t talk where they can hear you,” whispered Lark.

  “Huh?”

  “Did you see the news?” Lark’s voice was abnormally husky.

  “Me? No. What news?” Unless it was war or her favorite department store leaving the mall, Remy wouldn’t be interested. The Marlands were not news minded. They took a local paper, mostly for sports. Remy herself read the comics, Ann Landers, her horoscope, and the ads. Rarely did the Marlands glance at television news.

  “Don’t talk out loud, Remy!” hissed Lark.

  Remy giggled. “What other way to talk is there?”

  “Remy, listen to me.” Lark sounded strained and peculiar.

  There is a war, thought Remy. Which of the many countries they followed in Current Events had finally gone over the edge and drawn the United States in? She considered the senior boys that Lark adored and wondered if they, thrilled by this violent turn of events, were running to a recruitment office to enlist.

  “A woman got killed last night,” said Lark. “It was just on the news. Somebody took a stop sign. She drove through an intersection and got pasted by a truck.”

  “Oh,” said Remy. “How sad.”

  “Remy. Are you listening to me?”

  Remy was not. Not really. She was rehearsing how to share everything about Morgan and yet keep the best parts secret in her heart. She was—

  —took a stop sign.

  “The police said teenagers probably stole the stop sign,” said Lark.

  Remy was listening.

  “The husband was on TV,” said Lark. “They had a police information number on the screen.”

  “She died?” whispered Remy.

  “She died,” said Lark.

  “What was the corner?” said Remy. But she knew. She knew right down into her bones, as if she were the dead person.

  Remy Marland had just made a dent in the world.

  The late-night news went on.

  Rafe Campbell sipped his white wine and Nance Campbell indulged in two more skinny pretzel sticks.

  Anne discussed the economy, which was worse. Irene was distraught over the possibility of precipitation. Chuck could hardly wait for his turn and the details of a locker-room fracas.

  “By the way, Morgan, I want to wear the red velvet cape with the ermine trim,” said Starr. “And the biggest crown.”

  Morgan had no idea what his sister was talking about.

  “Mom, make him give me the best king costume.”

  “Why would Morgan make that decision?”

  “He’s going to run the Christmas pageant.”

  “Morgan, darling, how wonderful!” exclaimed his mother. “I’m so proud. You’ll do such a lovely job. I adore the pageant.”

  Do they let killers run Christmas pageants? thought Morgan. The thing is not to think about it. If I think about it, somebody might see it in my eyes. Be able to tell what I did. So I won’t think about it.

  Starr was the blackmailer of the century.

  I am not thinking about the stop sign, he thought, and faced her. His hands had gotten thick; the swelling was noticeable. If he’d been wearing his class ring, it would have hurt. Did guilt puff you up?

  “I’m your sister,” said Starr, “and that means I get first dibs on costumes.”

  “Will you let the Marland baby be Jesus again this year?” said Mom.

  A woman who pretends her kid is Jesus, thought Morgan. What happens when she finds out her other kid helped kill somebody?

  He had known the truth for five minutes. Already he was trying to spread the blame. Remy had never gone near the stop sign. Even Nickie—all he’d done was to choose it. But Nickie was a weakling. Morgan was the only one who had actually used the hacksaw.

  “Can’t you wait for the ads to talk?” said Dad. Even though it was only weather, he hated distractions when he was receiving information.

  Mom, however, talked when she felt like it. “I recommend against it,” said Mom. “He’s a toddler now. You can’t predict what a one-year-old will do. He might scream or run away or throw up.”

  “Neat,” said Starr. “Jesus the vomiter.”

  “Leave the room if you have to babble!” shouted Dad.

  Whoever did that should be shot.

  Dad would shoot me. But he doesn’t know. But he could. Easily. The signs are in the garage! I have to get rid of them.

  What if Dad caught him?

  His father was a big voice for Law and Order. Would he stick with that? Would Morgan go to prison? Or would he and his father destroy the evidence? Just a little father-son activity on a rainy weekend.

  That’s right, he thought, think about yourself. A woman is dead, her little kid doesn’t have a mother. But don’t think about that. Hey. Put yourself first.

  He took his father’s advice and left the room. He made it upstairs. He didn’t fall down or scream or put his fist through the wall or anything. He shut the door neatly behind him.

  They were very privacy minded, the Campbells. Nobody would dream of coming in anybody else’s room without permission. They met only in the kitchen, in front of the television, or inside the car.

  I’m safe in here, thought Morgan.

  And Denise Thompson. She was safe where she was too.

  Safe in a drawer at the morgue.

  Remy did not sleep.

  It was an event that had never happened in her sixteen years. Total insomnia. Her eyes never seemed to blink, let alone close. She lay in the dark thinking: Don’t let it be ruined. Don’t let Morgan hate me for being there. For seeing him. For saying yes to the whole thing. I want to have Morgan still!

  Nice, Remy.

  You kill a woman and all you’re worried about is whether Morgan kisses you again.

  If Mom finds out …

  So tell her first. Face the music.

  But it would not be music. It was not music you faced when you killed somebody.

  What did you face? Remy did not know.

  How could it be me? I don’t do bad things. I don’t think bad things or say bad things. I can’t be part of this!

  She tilted the ankle and the foot that had such fun driving. She imagined Denise Thompson’s foot on the gas pedal as she followed Cherry Road; Denise Thompson’s confusion as she found herself in the middle of—a truck—where did ? that ? come from?—rip foot off gas—slam brake—slew to the side—try to avoid—try!—no!—too late—too—

  But Remy could follow Denise Thompson no further.

  Midnight passed and Friday turned into Saturday.

  No school in the morning; no world to face. He who had not even been able to face guesses about his crush on Remy. How would he face Driver’s Ed, where everybody had talked about taking signs? How would he face Lark, who knew which three had gone out sign-stealing when? How would he face Remy, who had been there?

  In Current Events, Morgan had been astonished to find half the kids never watched the news. He’d assumed the entire world curled up in front of the TV each night to see what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. But no. Plenty of peop
le couldn’t care less. It was entirely possible that Remy did not know about Denise Thompson.

  Nickie would almost certainly not know. He had his own television and watched exclusively MTV, cartoons, and sports.

  Lark couldn’t actually know. But she could make a very good guess.

  And the class.

  They couldn’t know.

  But they could guess.

  Who had watched that broadcast?

  Who had written down the police number?

  Who was deciding whether to call? Christine, who thought it was wrong? Would she tell?

  The odds, Morgan told himself, are that everybody was at the movies, or a party, or playing Nintendo. If they were watching TV, it was a talk show, not the news. If they watched the news, it was some other channel. Besides, a car accident. Happens all the time. People probably got up and got another piece of cake while Anne spent time over yet another traffic incident.

  Incident.

  A woman is dead, thought Morgan, and I who killed her am trying to call that an “incident.”

  Dawn was sluggish and reluctant, the death of night instead of the birth of day. Remy left her bed, and stood barefoot and shivering in front of the window. Trees in the yard were thin and brittle without leaves. Already their autumn color had vanished, and only the deadness of coming winter remained.

  It was just a sign, Remy said to herself.

  Just a piece of wood on a post. That woman was probably a lousy driver anyhow. Maybe the road was slick. Maybe she was reaching down to the floor to get her coffee cup where she’d wedged it. Maybe she was singing along to the radio and not paying attention to the road anyhow. Maybe it was her own fault.

  Saturday passed.

  Remy stayed home with Henry while everybody else was out doing interesting things. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, when they were crawling backward down the stairs, which was his new thrill of the week, she thought: Denise Thompson’s little boy isn’t much older than this.

  She isn’t crawling backward down the stairs with her baby son. She’s dead. She’ll never see her little boy grow up.

  Remy began sobbing, first soundlessly and then with huge bawling groans. She actually felt better from it, and cried more, and the hot acidic tears seemed to drain off some of the horror.

  Her little brother was stunned. He was the one who cried. Not his big sister! His world split open and he clung to Remy. His tiny clumsy hands patted her cheeks. “Me?” he said frantically. “Me?”

  It’s his first word, she thought, and it’s not me, it’s Remy. He’s saying my name.

  Bobby Thompson would be calling his Mommy today, trying to find her, looking for her in her usual places, raising his voice. Mommy. Where are you? Mommy would never answer.

  Oh, God! thought Remy. Why weren’t you there? Why didn’t you make me stop? Why didn’t you make Denise Thompson stop?

  His first word had gotten him nowhere. Her little brother began screaming with her, the center of his world caving in, until he didn’t even want Remy to hold him anymore, because it was too scary.

  Saturday passed.

  The accident was not on the news again. It was old already. Now Anne of the silver hair was distressed because a football coach had been caught selling drugs and a young housewife had masterminded a mail scam.

  Saturday had one use. Morgan had time to move THICKLY SETTLED and STOP to his cellar. He thought the signs would disappear into the dim corners, but they did not. They shouted their color and size and words even with their backs turned.

  Sunday they went to church, as Starr had predicted.

  Morgan, who considered Not Listening to Sermons one of his more polished skills, listened. Hoping for clues. Wanting Mrs. Willit to give him—what? An excuse? A way out?

  “There’s an interesting passage in the New Testament,” said Mrs. Willit. She was given to fatuous remarks. Morgan would never know why Mr. Willit stayed with her. In this era of divorce it often seemed the wrong marriages lasted.

  “Jesus hasn’t begun his ministry yet. He’s still living at home. Hasn’t done a thing. Hasn’t told a parable, hasn’t got a single follower, hasn’t pulled off any miracles. He gets baptized in the River Jordan and from the heavens comes the voice of God.”

  Morgan detested this kind of story. Nobody heard the voice of God, except schizophrenics in padded rooms.

  “And God says, ‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.’ ”

  Come on, thought Morgan. How pleased can you be with a thirty-year-old son who hasn’t held a job yet?

  “God is pleased even before His Son has done anything. His Son has no accomplishments, and still, God is pleased.”

  Morgan was sitting between his parents. His beautiful mother, wearing her long black cashmere coat, was on his right. His brilliant father, in charcoal gray, perfect tie, perfect crease, was on his left. They were one up on God. Their son and daughter had already been impressive. By age thirty Morgan and Starr would have done a lot more than a little carpentry in some backwater village. Jesus could get away with that, but not Starr and Morgan.

  His father spindled the Sunday bulletin and then flattened it out and made a paper airplane. Mom laid a stern hand on the airplane, even though Dad was the least likely person in the church actually to fly it. They gave each other secret grins. People-in-love-in-spite-of-everything grins.

  “Unconditional love. That’s what parents give their children,” said Mrs. Willit.

  But surely every parent had some conditions. Like: I will love you as long as you’re not a murderer.

  Whoever took that sign should be shot.

  Oh, Dad! thought Morgan, and he actually splinted himself against the pain in his soul, bending at the waist.

  Remy and Morgan had been in Sunday school together for years. Their Sunday school was deeply into arts and crafts, so they’d turned out cotton-ball Christmas sheep, folded-box Noah’s arks, and vividly colored Joseph’s coats. Together they had memorized commandments, received attendance ribbons, and sung in Junior Choir.

  In eighth grade, just when boys ought to start thinking how much they liked this girl they knew so well, the Campbells had faded, to be seen only on holidays.

  This was sensible, because church was best on holidays. At Christmas you were starry eyed and believed in babies without birth defects, presents with perfect ribbons, and snow without pollution. Remy approved of the Campbells coming only on holidays.

  But here they were on a dull ordinary November Sunday, not even Thanksgiving.

  Morgan told, she thought. He told, and they’re here to ask God’s help. Tell Mrs. Willit, because she’s the minister. Then she’ll tell Mr. Willit, who thinks I’m nice, and in a minute the world will know.

  Suddenly Concert Choir seemed like the most important forty-five minutes of any day, with Mr. Willit laughing and teasing and leading and loving. He would never look her way again; he would write her off, one of the dirtbags. Because nobody played favorites as much as Mr. Willit, not even the basketball coach. I don’t want him to know, she prayed.

  Dad was laughing in Mr. Campbell’s direction. “Guess he’s running,” said Remy’s father under his breath.

  “Those are definitely campaign-speech clothes,” agreed Remy’s mother.

  Morgan didn’t tell, thought Remy. It’s just a campaign thing.

  Relief went through her like thick medicine.

  Coffee hour actually lasted twenty minutes. Kids loved it. There was always an immense sheet cake with thick Crisco and confectioners’ sugar icing, plus hundreds of doughnut holes and cups of apple juice.

  Morgan loved icing. It was kind of nice to be back at coffee hour, where he hadn’t wasted time in years. He cut himself a corner, swept off the icing with two fingers, and tossed the cake part away. He started to eat the icing and smashed car filled his mouth instead, destroyed flesh, broken bones, spilled brains.

  With difficulty he reached a pile of napkins. He could not separate them.r />
  Rafe and Nance were shaking hands all over the place, laughing, nodding, agreeing, admitting. “Yes, he’s going to run,” said Morgan’s mother. “Isn’t it exciting? The actual announcement won’t come until spring. I know we can count on you to work with us.” She made the campaign sound like a year-long party. People adored Nance, even when she whipped out her ever-present notebook to take names.

  Morgan managed to get the icing off his fingers. He was an exhibit of sickness: his complexion had changed, his breathing was different, his eyelid was trembling.

  One of the feminists of the church descended on Nance to demand why Nance wasn’t running instead of her husband.

  Morgan meant to listen for the answer, because he had often wondered himself, but Mac came up, smirking as if he and Morgan shared a secret.

  There was only one secret.

  He knows, thought Morgan. Remy told him. Or Mac found her Morgan Road sign. And made her tell. This worthless little cowpat knows what we did.

  What would happen? What would his father do to him? What would the law do to him? What about college?

  Remy, pink-cheeked and golden-haired, was wearing a dress, which was unusual for her even on Sunday. It was a lovely loose dress, in soft colors with soft folds. If they went on a date, he would want her to wear that, not utility wear, like jeans.

  He was swamped by romantic thoughts, images that had never before entered his mind: getting her flowers, buying her presents. “Hi, Remy,” he said awkwardly. “How are you?”

  Her paper cake-plate fluttered in her hand. He wanted to help her eat the cake, hold the plate for her, smooth life for her.

  Oh, yeah, like I could smooth anybody’s life, he thought. Look how well I did smoothing Denise Thompson’s life.

  “Guess what?” said worthless little Mac, grinning evilly at Morgan.

  Morgan tried to stay steady. It came to him that he, Morgan, was the worthless one now. Nobody but Mac knew yet. Oh, God. I have to tell my parents before Mac does. We have to get out of here, so I can—

  “You’ll be glad to know my mother has prequalified you for marriage,” said Mac.

  “Huh?”

  “Remy has a crush on you,” said Mac. “So does my Mom.” Mac whapped his sister’s wrist so her cake flew off the plate and icing spattered all over the floor.