Driver's Ed (5 page)

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.

W
ould 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.”

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.

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

*  *  *

“H
ey, 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?

“S
o,” 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.”

M
r. 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.

M
organ 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.

*  *  *

“Y
ou 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.

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.

N
ickie 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.

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.