Driver's Ed (2 page)

Few people conquered fear on the first day of Driver's Ed. In fact, several members of the class developed so much
more
fear that they refused to go driving again.

“H
ave your parents taken you out in your new car yet?” Lark asked Remy.

Remy hated trying to talk while driving. There was far too much to think about. Traffic behind and ahead. Traffic to the left and traffic to the right. Curbs and signs and red lights and turns. Foot on brake and hands on wheel. Eyes on mirrors and ears on sirens.

And the Driver's Ed car was an automatic. She'd never be able to drive standard. What if she also had clutches and shifting and gears? “Uh. No,” she said.

Remy Marland was the only person in the eleven
A.M
. Driver's Ed class who already owned a car. Her parents had assigned her the wonderful role of family chauffeur and errand runner. On the day she turned sixteen, she would become the taker of baby brother to day care and middle brother to orthodontist and karate.

“Actually,” said Lark, “you will be the family slave. An unpaid, unappreciated beast of burden. Trapped around the clock in the very same car with Henry and Mac. A lifetime occupation of strapping the baby in and out of the car seat. Sentenced to hard labor, breathing the same air as Mac, the state Fart Master.”

It was true that Remy did not even like to have her clothes washed in the same cycle as Mac's, lest she be contaminated.

Here he was in eighth grade—almost fourteen years
old—and Mac had yet to do any growing. He was the same size, height, and weight he'd been in sixth grade. Being eye level with girls' elbows made him hostile. His life's goal was to be a little more disgusting today than he had been yesterday.

Just last night he'd wrapped his used dental floss around Remy's toothbrush in case she'd forgotten they shared a bathroom.

However, as driver, Remy would have the upper hand. If Mac tried anything with her, she'd stop the car two miles from his karate lesson and see what he did then.

Of course, it was Mac. He'd probably hijack her.

But Remy visualized her license life as one of dropping Mac off—emptying the car of Mac, as opposed to being locked in with him. Mac's karate, tennis, swimming, and weight lifting were at different places, reached by different roads at different times of day. Remy would triumph, easily making tough turns against traffic, whipping into teeny little parallel parking spaces, brilliantly passing slow cars on narrow roads.

“You're just jealous,” said Remy.

“Better believe it,” said Lark. “Your own car? Of course you'll have to chauffeur me, too, you know, because I'm your friend.”

M
r. Fielding heard nothing.

Not traffic.

Not blowing horns.

Not sirens.

And most of all, not student conversation.

Mr. Fielding was looking at the scenery his student driver passed—too fast—wishing he had a different life.

A life without kids with these ridiculous names.

What had happened to the solid names of old? Karen and Susan and Janet? Peter and Robert and Jim? Mr. Fielding's Driver's Education classes had boys with last names for first names: Taft, Chase, and Morgan. Girls with names from nowhere: Lark and Joss and Remy.

It seemed to Mr. Fielding that these were interchangeable names. These kids had no personalities and could have been anyone at all. Their names never stuck to them the way real names would, but were just sounds. Syllables. Signifying nothing.

These kids, like their names, were fluff.

Empty headed and personality free.

When he scanned a room, he couldn't tell one from another. Often, depending on the fashions of the year, he could not tell boys from girls either.

Certain names spelled death for telling kids apart. This year, in the eleven
A.M
. class alone, he had a Cristin, a Kierstin, and a Christine. His eight-thirty
A.M
. class actually included a Khrystyn. What was it with these parents who had to have designer spelling along with designer names?

Luckily, as Driver's Ed instructor, he didn't have to participate in Parents' Night. Sessions were only eight weeks and nobody—especially Mr. Fielding—felt that Driver's Ed was really a class.

Besides, what would he say to the grown-ups who had spawned these brainless little clones? “Yes, Kierstin occupies her seat well.”

And most of all, what would he say to grown-ups who had actually, legally, named their daughter Rembrandt?

Rembrandt!
At least the kid knew better than to use
the name and called herself Remy. She had a shock coming when she got her driver's license: no nicknames allowed. Her license would say Rembrandt Marland and there was no escape.

Mr. Fielding had to refer to his class record book to have the slightest idea who was sitting in the car with him. Last year he'd had each kid wear a name tag, laminated and glued to a pin. Very successful. He was doing it again this year. That way, when he turned to the blond girl in torn, faded blue jeans who looked exactly like four other blond girls in torn, faded blue jeans, he would know which was Remy and which was Kierstin. And not confuse Kierstin with Christine or Cristin.

Today he had a Post-it on his classbook, to remind himself the current driver was not part of the Cristin series. The Cristin series member was in back with a last-name-for-first-name boy and would rotate forward if and when Mr. Fielding remembered to change drivers. “Take River Road, Remy.”

“River Road?” she squeaked. “It's about an inch wide!”

“It's wide enough for two cars,” said Mr. Fielding. “You just have to pay attention.” He did not imply that
he
had to pay attention.

He knew he was not teaching. He was merely there, and they were merely there. Time passed and then they left. Year after year he and they mindlessly drifted through an eight-week session. Then a new set of indistinguishable little clones filled the seats and wore the name tags. Sometimes he thought he should just pass out the same name tags. What would it matter if Chad wore Thad's tag? Who could tell if Darya responded to Darcy?

*  *  *

O
f course, the class was way ahead of Mr. Fielding.

They had been exchanging name tags for weeks. Christine, who had not successfully merged into the eight lanes on day one, but gave up, sobbing, and tried to abandon the car at the edge of the turnpike, never took another turn. Lark usually got her name tag.

Kierstin would drive only if there were no boys along. She was palm-sweaty, migraine-headachy, and jelly-kneed behind the wheel. She was afraid of every driving decision and it showed. She didn't mind girls laughing at her, but
boys
—forget it. The class hours were required in order to register for the state driving test, but Kierstin figured practice with her mother would be enough. She usually gave her name tag to Remy.

This was one reason why Mr. Fielding could not tell his Cristin/Kierstin/Christine group apart—they were generally Remy or Lark.

L
ark had unfastened her seat belt and was leaning way forward, resting her tiny chin next to Remy's shoulder. She was a committed backseat driver, monitoring RPMs, speed, following distance, and especially Mr. Fielding's instructions. “Go right,” he'd say.

“No, not here,” Lark would argue. “That road looks dull.” Lark had high scenery standards.

“You won't even be able to enjoy the radio, Remy,” said Lark relentlessly. “Your two brothers never stop yelling.”

Lark was correct. Henry, who was thirteen months old, yelled without words. He offered constant shrieking opinions when he couldn't even talk yet. He had a howl that meant, “No! Never! Get a life!” and another that meant “Yes! Now! Get with the program!” Henry
had a full-speed personality. He'd gone straight from crawling to running, and like a new ice skater at an indoor rink, he had difficulty stopping. Taking care of Henry was like being a hockey goalie.

Mac, on the other hand, had a vocabulary, though limited. Mac's idea of a good thing to do when he grew up was sue people. It was his favorite sentence. “Let's sue 'em!” he loved to yell. Mac wanted to sue his teachers, the bus driver, the neighbors, the opposite team's coach, and everybody else on earth who ever got in his way.

The person who most got in his way was his sister, Remy.

Remy sensibly avoided the subject of her brother Mac. “Henry isn't a life sentence,” she said. “He'll outgrow the car seat eventually.”

“Left,” said Mr. Fielding.

Remy clicked her signal and carefully studied the unfamiliar left turn. Two lanes of oncoming traffic, but there was a stoplight. She halted exactly behind the white line. The light turned green. Remy didn't give the intersection any more thought. She had the green, so what was there to think about?

Remy spun the steering wheel left and accelerated. She loved accelerating. It was so neat how you just flexed your ankle and the car sprang across the road.

“Sure, when you're in college, Henry'll be out of his car seat,” said Lark. “It's Mac who won't outgrow anything.” Lark turned to Morgan and added, “That subhuman stage lasts so long in boys.”

Oh, to have a brother like Morgan, thought Remy. Morgan had never gone through a subhuman stage. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were not the kind of people who would give birth to a primitive savage like Mac.
The Campbells had put in an order for blond, slim, athletic, brilliant, articulate, successful children and gotten them. Starr and Morgan Campbell were without flaw.

Remy studied Morgan in her rearview mirror. If Morgan were her brother, he would be worth keeping, which was a rarity in brothers.

And if he were her boyfriend …

However, boyfriends were even rarer than worthy brothers.

Regrettably, while she was observing future boyfriends, Remy did not observe the median. In spite of a gaudy yellow line painted on the curb, Remy did not notice that the road onto which she had turned was divided by a raised cement strip.

“Remy, stop!” shrieked Lark.

Remy's heart leaped. Stop for what? There were no cars aimed at her! She had the green.

“Look out!” shouted Morgan. “Turn! Pull to the right!”

Her nervous foot slammed down on the accelerator.

Mr. Fielding, of course, said nothing. Driver's Ed was largely self-taught.

Remy drove into eight vertical inches of solid cement.

She screamed. Lark screamed. Morgan groaned and slid out of sight.

The low-slung Driver's Ed vehicle was not a Bronco or Jeep designed for this. The car went up, but not across. From its underside came a horrible grinding and crashing.

Remy accelerated, because that's where her foot was—on the gas. The engine roared.
What am I doing?
she thought, doing it.

The car would be hung up on the divider. People would point and stare and laugh. They'd take videos and sell them. She'd have to pay blackmail.

In front of Morgan! Oh, please, God, where are you? Don't let me be a jerk in front of Morgan. No wonder Kierstin won't drive in front of boys.
God, get me out of this!

The horror of being stranded in the middle of the road forced Remy's foot down even harder on the accelerator. The car lurched over the cement, scraping and tearing, leaving some of its innards behind. By now Remy was giving the car so much gas, it vaulted through the air as in a movie stunt.

She kept going. She couldn't think of anything else to do.

The engine continued to throb.

Morgan reported that it was just part of the muffler Remy had deposited on the divider. Nothing essential.

Remy's heart developed a new rhythm, like some Caribbean dance nobody had learned yet. Her fingers turned to ice and her face was a beet of shame.

“Why'd you do that?” said Mr. Fielding curiously.

“I didn't see it!” she wailed.

“What if it had been a person standing there, instead of just cement?” asked Mr. Fielding.

“I would have seen a person!”

But what if it
had
been a person? What if she'd left a
body
behind, instead of tailpipe?

She'd be a hit-and-run driver. A criminal. Leaving the scene of the accident. No excuse but a heavy foot. “Don't tell,” she said urgently to Lark and Morgan.

“Of course we're telling,” said Lark. “This is the best mistake yet.”

*  *  *

O
f the two types of magazines Morgan liked to look at, only car magazines were permissible in public, so he kept a
Car and Driver
with him at all times, memorizing, studying, and yearning.

He had stood on the threshold of being sixteen ever since he could remember. He ached to be the driver. He wanted long journeys. Total freedom. Complete control. He'd leave town, leave the state, drive every turnpike in the nation from start to finish.

He had no destinations. He didn't care about destinations. He just wanted to drive. Fast.

He came from a family that specialized in yearning for things.

His father yearned for power, and was going to try to move up in the world: from statehouse to governor. His mother yearned for money, and had just become full partner in her law firm. His sister, Starr, yearned for both these things, but she called it popularity.

Starr was cruel in the way of twelve-year-old girls, going up to people on purpose and telling them their teeth were crooked, their jeans were dumb, and their jokes were pathetic. Starr was the most sought-after girl in junior high, which in Morgan's opinion was due to fear. She had terrified the other girls into submission. Starr didn't have a friend in the world; she was just popular.

Experience with Starr established that girls were awful. And yet girls were the wonderful and desirable focus of the other magazines, the ones he kept in the cellar, behind his weight-lifting equipment. Sometimes he thought even more about girls than cars.