Driver's Ed

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Remy forced Henry into his high chair, but Henry was sick of the high chair and buckled his knees, curled his toes, and fought.

  Using hands, elbows, and even chin, she tried to shove Henry down and jerk the tray in to hold him. Henry preferred sliding out the bottom. He slurped down like an otter until only his little nose showed above the tray.

  “Some Jesus he’ll make,” Mac observed. “He’s lying there as limp as a war protester. The only difference is, protesters don’t drool.”

  Now the baby was panicking. He was too far down, couldn’t get back up, and couldn’t go out the bottom. “Come on, Matthew, baby, you can yell louder than that,” Mac told him.

  Remy got the tray loose, hung on to the baby’s right arm, hauled him back, and set him upright. It was a miracle his arm wasn’t stretched several inches by all this hauling around. Henry grinned his soppy four-toothed grin and started fighting the tray again. Remy whipped Henry on the third try and Mac smacked a bowl of Cheerios in front of him to keep him occupied.

  “Mac!” yelled their mother. “He eats them dry!”

  Mac had added milk. Henry joyfully splatted his fist down into the bowl. Milk and O’s hit the wall. It was wonderful!

  Dad, whose entrance was unheard over the shrieking and giggling and Cheerios-splatting, said, “I’m not sure that kid is really an A-one choice for Jesus this year.”

  “Morgan deserves better,” agreed Remy instantly. She wanted Morgan’s pageant to be perfect.

  Henry stared in awe at the mess he had achieved and did it again, and managed it a third time before his mother could get in there and take the bowl away. What fun!

  Too much laughing made Henry throw up, and sure enough, they leapt back with experienced timing and then had a good stirring fight about whose duty it was to clean the floor. Mac failed to see his responsibility in the matter.

  “Remy, you have stars in your eyes,” said Mom, laughing.

  “Every time she sees vomit, she thinks of Morgan,” explained Mac.

  “You’re dead, Mac Marland,” said Remy. “You—” She heard herself. Mac heard her, too, and winced. You’re dead.

  “It’s that serious?” said Dad, grinning. “Even Cheerios-throw-up is romantic to you now?” He hugged her. “I like a girl in love. I’m even going to forgive you for quitting basketball, although it’s not going to be easy for me, and I want you to know how hard I’m struggling to continue loving you.”

  Oh, Dad! The struggle isn’t here yet.

  What if Nicholas carried out his threat? What if he told these parents of hers that Morgan and Remy waited to see if somebody would get killed? Enjoyed the entertainment event of the year?

  No. Remy could not, not, let her parents hear Nickie’s horrible suggestion. Because another horror had come to Remy.

  They might believe him.

  Starr answered the phone. She was so surprised by whatever she heard that she stared down into the receiver for a moment before she said anything. “It’s Remy’s mother, Morgan. For you.”

  Remy told, thought Morgan. Or Mac did.

  He wasn’t ready. A few hours ago he’d been ready; now he was totally unprepared. It was going to be like war, and Morgan needed to have his artillery. He felt exposed and weak.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said his mother. “You don’t suppose something’s happened, do you? Remy’s hurt?”

  “I love that!” said Starr. “They call Morgan when Remy goes into the hospital? That’s so romantic.” She rested her chin in her hands, looking at Morgan as if he were the cover of a romance novel, instead of a useless older brother.

  “Is it true that Remy’s real name is Rembrandt?” said his mother. “Or is that just one of those peculiar rumors that get started out of nothing?”

  “Not only that,” said Starr, “but her brother is named for the computer.”

  “Mac?”

  “See?”

  Mom burst out laughing. “You lie, Starr Campbell. Nobody, even people who call one kid Rembrandt and nickname another one Jesus, would name a kid Macintosh Computer.”

  Morgan was able to hold the telephone. He was even able to talk like a normal person. “Hello, Mrs. Marland.”

  “Ask her,” whispered his mother, poking his ribs. “Find out why they named Mac Mac.”

  Morgan’s hands were thickening again.

  “We’ve decided Henry shouldn’t be Jesus this year after all. Is it too late for you to use the Van Holland baby?”

  His tongue lay like a dry napkin in his mouth.

  “Sorry, Morgan,” said Mrs. Marland. “We’ve taken a family vote and this kid is not manger-scene material this year.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Marland,” said Morgan. He was lisping, his mouth was so dry. “Maybe Henry is a little wild for Jesus.”

  “Jethuth,” mocked Starr.

  “Tell Starr she’ll be a beautiful king,” said Mrs. Marland, before she hung up.

  “Starr, you’ll be a beautiful king,” said Morgan obediently.

  His mother and Starr became distracted on a feminist theme: Should queens also have visited the baby in Bethlehem? Should the Bible possibly be revised to include queen visitation?

  Morgan felt he had enough things to consider without that one. He retreated to the basement and his weights but even that was contaminated. The stop sign was there with him. It was all but in his bloodstream now; in his sweat.

  After the weights and before the rowing he walked over and looked at the back of the sign.

  Nickie was right. It was numbered.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Willit.

  The chorus knew from his voice that something was up. They smiled happily and shifted in their chairs with anticipation.

  “May I have our Normalcy Representative up here, please?”

  Morgan had no choice. He had to stand. Expose himself as Normalcy Representative. Everybody went into wave posture, and now he had to wave back, graciously and royally.

  A terrible thing happened to him. He was perilously close to tears.

  He waited for whatever joke or game the music teacher had in mind and thought of Nickie’s threats.

  The two people whose opinions he cared most about on earth were his father and Mr. Willit. If they heard those words … He was hoping there’d be an accident, that’s the kind of person Morgan is, he enjoyed himself when Denise Thompson bought it … what would they think of him then?

  And yet—what did anybody’s opinion of Morgan matter? Whether they loved him or despised him, a woman was still dead.

  “Beautiful, beautiful wave,” said Mr. Willit. “Everybody on their feet, everybody wave, turn to page six, and take it from the top.”

  He saw me cave in, thought Morgan. He knows something is wrong, he let me off. What if he asks me to come in and talk? He’s the kind of teacher who does that. Thinks he can get to the bottom of things and help.

  Time had lost its usual spacing. Every minute lasted a century. Every night toppled down like falling dominoes, hitting him again with television news, adding night to night in which he had not yet told the truth.

  The ads ceased.

  Morgan’s mother said poor Mr. Thompson probably ran out of money. “Or steam,” said his father. “You can sustain that kind of rage only so long.”

  “And then what?” asked Starr.

  “Then morning comes,” said Dad. “You have a baby boy to bring up. Baby-sitters to find, macaroni and cheese to bake, Goodnight Moon to read out loud.”

  “I wanted to ask you, Starr,” said their mother, switching the subject with the abruptness of a sneaky trial lawyer. “If Dad wins, would you want to stay and go to school here?”

  “Here, of course,” said Starr. “And why aren’t you asking Morgan too?”

  “It would be his senior year. We’d never disrupt that.”

  Disrupt it, thought Morgan. I’ll go right now if you want. I’ll be the advance team. I don’t mind a few hundred miles between me and the intersection and Nickie.


  “Forget it,” said Starr. “I’m not starting at any new school.”

  “Where’s your spirit of adventure?” said Mom.

  “Let’s win the campaign first,” said Starr darkly.

  “What are you going to do, Starr?” teased Dad. “Sabotage me?”

  Everybody laughed, as if that were the funniest idea!

  One of Dad’s two kids! Sabotaging his campaign! Laugh, laugh.

  Morgan saw the skeleton in their closet walk straight to the television stations. He saw the microphone at Nickie Budie’s lips. His father ruined. Every dream and hope of both parents smacked down and run over by their own son.

  CHAPTER 10

  Remy Marland was the first to find out whether she was actually driver educated.

  The night before, she spent in her closet, deciding what to wear for a driver’s test. Twice she walked up to her mother, to say, “I can’t be allowed to have a license,” but she wanted the license, and she let her mother comfort her—“Now, darling, you’ll do fine, they don’t make you parallel-park anymore. Only twenty-four more hours, darling! It’s a rite of passage, and you’ll pass with flying colors, I know you will.”

  Remy thought of Denise Thompson’s rite of passage.

  She didn’t meet Mac’s eyes all night, because he knew too much. Remy had always thought it would be wonderful to be known, right down to the bone, to be understood and loved anyway. Well, it wasn’t.

  The class was wildly excited for her.

  “Remember, the full stop has to be full,” said Chase. “The car has to give that little jolt.”

  “Don’t turn on the radio while you’re actually driving,” ordered Joss; “If you have to touch any control, wait till a red light. They don’t like it if you do two things at once.”

  “They’ll make you park at Super Stop and Shop,” said Alexandra, “where the slots are extra thin, so leave yourself room to make it on the first try.”

  “And at the corner of Warren and Kennedy,” said Kierstin, “there’s not a right turn on red, even though it looks as if there ought to be, so don’t make one.”

  Mr. Fielding, of course, gave Remy no advice.

  “Don’t forget to take off the parking brake!” said Taft.

  “Remember I’m your first passenger,” Morgan told her. “This afternoon. My house. You arrive complete with car and license. I’ll be in the road thumbing a ride.” He stood between the desks, combining a hitchhiker’s thumb with the royal wave. He was so handsome. So perfect. How could it be that the thing they shared was so imperfect?

  “Give her a kiss,” ordered Taft.

  “Two kisses,” said Lark.

  He kissed her. It was such a careful, gentle kiss. His hand, curled in a light fist, strayed over her cheek and chin. “Do well,” he murmured.

  “Of course she’ll do well,” said Joss; “she’s driven eight hundred times more than the rest of us.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Lark, when Remy had left, “all money has to be in this afternoon because Christine’s test is day after tomorrow.”

  “Have you ever driven at all, Christine?” asked Taft.

  “Dad took me out twice. Mom took me out once.”

  “Christine, you can’t take the test! Cancel it. Tell the truth.”

  “Since when,” said Christine, “did anybody in this class ever tell the truth?”

  The Motor Vehicle Bureau was on the opposite side of the city, between a large fitness center and discount appliance supermarket. It was just a storefront, as if you might buy shoes there. It hardly seemed possible that in such a building your life would change. In such a building, you would acquire your freedom.

  Or not.

  Remy curled and uncurled her fingers. In the end she’d worn the same faded blue jeans and baggy sweatshirt she’d had on almost all school days since September. She felt safe in them, protected by the fleece of the sweatshirt.

  “You’ll be fine,” said Mr. Fielding. “You’ve been an excellent student.”

  How could he know who was excellent and who was not? He had never looked up. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I shouldn’t teach this again,” said Mr. Fielding. He rubbed his eyes, and rubbed them again. His voice was heavy and loaded. He was not talking to her like a teacher, but then, he never had, so Remy did not answer him like a student.

  “No, Mr. Fielding. Probably not.”

  He held the door for her. “Kierstin has the stop sign, doesn’t she? Lark had the idea, didn’t she? Kierstin wanted a souvenir of Driver’s Ed. The way Chase has his BIKE PATH collection.”

  Lines to renew licenses. Lines to get boat permits. Lines to acquire new plates. Lines to ask which lines to get in.

  But Remy was scheduled and there was no line. No time in which to stand and think.

  How many in Driver’s Ed were slim blond girls in faded jeans and baggy sweatshirts?

  Kierstin, Cristin, Lark, Remy, Alexandra, Christine.

  The switching of name tags had for Mr. Fielding actually switched the personalities.

  It made Remy feel interchangeable. As if the girls were appliances in boxes, marked the same, packaged the same. As if whoever bought them would get exactly the same item.

  “Miss Marland?” The man was thick bodied, his glasses like Coke-bottle bottoms; he looked like the gork that Mr. Fielding was. “I’m Mr. Barth. I’ll take you for your test.”

  They shook hands.

  Mr. Fielding dropped into a chair.

  She stood before the computer terminal. Thirty questions. She tapped her answers quickly and got twenty-six right. A solid pass. It was difficult to feel thrilled. It was difficult to feel anything. She could not even feel the sweatshirt fleece now. Mr. Barth led the way to Remy’s car. He got in the passenger seat. Remy got in the driver’s. Fastened her belt. Started the engine without grinding it. Took off the parking brake. Checked the rearview mirror. Backed out. Circled the lot.

  She could not even feel her fingertips against the wheel. She, like the wheel, was made of plastic.

  “Let’s turn left onto Macey,” said Mr. Barth, “and go straight for half a mile.”

  Macey had red lights every block, parallel parking, and hundreds of shops and businesses with entrances and exits. Remy slowed for people opening doors into her half of the road, for cars turning without signals, for yellow lights in the distance.

  “And now let’s turn down Wellstone,” said Mr. Barth.

  This led past an elementary school, but at this hour she would not have to worry about buses emptying or little kids dashing out under her wheels.

  “And now on the interstate,” said Mr. Barth.

  She got on the interstate.

  Would Mr. Fielding go to the police with his guess? Or to Mr. Thompson and the reward? Or would he let it drift? Maybe he had gotten it off his chest by speaking to Remy.

  Why me? Do I give off an aura of maturity? Or was it just timing? Mr. Fielding reaching his limit on keeping secrets?

  “And exit here,” said Mr. Barth.

  How she’d love to exit! Get off this problem. But there was no exit.

  “And let’s park between that Cadillac and that blue van.”

  Remy slid into the space.

  But since Kierstin didn’t do it, they can’t prove anything. Besides, somebody like Kierstin would just elbow her way out. She’d be okay.

  Except who could be okay after an accusation like that? From a sturdy source like your own Driver’s Ed teacher?

  People would say Kierstin just got away with it. Had a good lawyer.

  And Kierstin’s parents; her family. Would they get over it? Remy did not know Kierstin’s parents. Some parents were very visible. You tripped on them continually from kindergarten through twelfth. Other parents might as well not have existed.

  “Good work, Miss Marland,” said Mr. Barth, opening his door. “You have passed your driver’s test.”

  They were back at the Motor Vehicle Bureau. She had no recollect
ion of coming back. No memory of traffic or road. Mr. Barth and the test might as well not have existed.

  “Congratulations,” said Mr. Barth.

  “Tilt your chin up,” said a bored wrinkled woman at the photo counter.

  She tilted her chin up.

  “Hold still.”

  She held still.

  They probably do police mug shots like this, she thought. That lawyer told Morgan that kids with no priors don’t do time. Right now, I am a person with no priors.

  The license was given to her a moment later. A small plastic rectangle, her picture on the left, vital statistics on the right. She held it by the top and right side, and then by the bottom and left side.

  Permission to begin adulthood.

  Her license.

  Her ticket out of childhood.

  She looked at that girl in the photo, and knew, then, who had reached a limit on keeping secrets. She and her teacher went out the door and across the pavement and as they opened their doors, she said quietly, “I took the sign, Mr. Fielding. Just give me tonight to tell my parents.”

  She knew she had never before looked at Mr. Fielding. Never before seen this person who was half bald, whose tie was old and shiny, whose leather belt was scratched and stretched. And whose shock was complete. He had to steady himself on the car door. Her car door. Her own car, in which she could now chauffeur her brothers and of course kill people if she had a free evening.

  Mac came home, dropped his books exactly where his mother told him every day not to, went into his room, and shut the door carefully behind him. The hardware clicked into place. Mac was always gratified by the thickness of his bedroom door.

  He lay down on his bed. He didn’t turn on the radio, he didn’t pick up the phone, he didn’t move toward his new comic book or his new Stephen King. He just lay there. Mac loved doing nothing.

  He thought about his sister. Mac had expected that little word reward to bring Mr. Thompson the information he needed to find Remy.

  But nothing had happened.