Driver's Ed (7 page)

It was nine forty-five. They had been out two hours. Warren Street's six lanes usually swarmed with traffic, but by now it had just the occasional car, as if Warren were just an occasional road.

“Cops just went by on Warren,” said Nickie. “We got time, they won't double back for a while.”

They parked up close. People had tried to take this sign before. Not bolted with two bolts to a single pole, it was fastened by four bolts on two double channel poles. One bolt had been cut through, its flat edge now rusty. Somebody else had used a hacksaw and gotten halfway through one post. It was obviously a desirable sign.

The boys studied the problem.

The bolts had rusted into the sign. Not good. The cut into the pole, though, was a start.

Nickie handed Morgan the hacksaw. It made a lot of noise. Distinctive, demanding noise. But a city was noisy. Traffic, televisions, tires, sirens, and airplanes drowned it out.

The tendons of Morgan's neck stood out as he worked. Remy had stared at boys all her life, but never with this sense of possession. This knowledge that she could touch that muscle, stroke that tendon.

Nobody pulled up behind them on Cherry. Traffic on Warren flashed by so fast that each car was just a spear of light and then gone.

Morgan was dripping with sweat by the time he finally tore through both metal channels. Remy popped the trunk and Nickie dropped
STOP
on top of
THICKLY SETTLED
. The big red octagon gleamed momentarily and then Remy closed the lid hard. She and Morgan got back in front. Nickie turned on the engine, flicked the headlights up, and took off.

Remy tried to decide what to do with her sign. If
MORGAN ROAD
just materialized in her room, would her mother ignore this evidence? Pretend she never saw? Tell a story about how when she was a girl, she, too, took signs? It wasn't a very Marland family picture. She would have to cherish
MORGAN ROAD
in some hidden spot.

“Where will you put your stop sign?” Remy asked Nickie. “Won't your parents ask you about it?”

Nickie laughed. In the dark of the car Remy could not see his face. The laugh was alone, without a mouth to come out of. “My parents know nothing,” said Nickie. “Never have, never will.”

My parents know everything, thought Remy. Always have, always will.

Once home, she would have to be an actress, fend off questions and affection. Remy was not good at this, but with any luck Sweet Prince would be awake and crying at full volume, which would take the pressure off. Especially if she volunteered to lie down with the baby until he slept.

I will call him Henry from now on, she thought. Now I have a real Sweet Prince.

M
organ worried about school tomorrow. He must not stumble or flush when he saw Remy. People would read his face. Know that he had fallen in love. He had to hide these emotions. It was unthinkable that anybody should realize how he was feeling.

Or was it?

Chase's adoration for Suzi was room filling. Adam no longer talked of sports or cars, but only of Wendy. How did they do that without looking like jerks?

I didn't get a sign, he thought. Next time I'll get one. No Nickie along next time. Just Remy and me.

Logistical problems like no license and no vehicle briefly interrupted his daydream, but he threw them out.

There wasn't going to be a Remy Road anywhere. He'd have to come up with something meaningful and romantic. Whatever constituted romantic. Where could he find that out? He couldn't ask Starr, who was a predator and would probably initiate her romances by bludgeoning her victims.

“I can't leave the signs in my car,” said Nickie. “My dad's going to use the Buick in the morning for errands, because it has the biggest trunk.”

Nickie had just said his parents knew and noticed nothing. But Morgan didn't call him on it. Nickie was
no longer on his list of interests. He shrugged. “We can put them in our garage.” An assortment of ladders had been left by the builders and not once had any Campbell touched them. He'd drop the signs face backward behind the maze of stacked steps for Lark and Nickie to get later.

“I'm keeping
MORGAN ROAD
with me,” said Remy.

Under a streetlamp, the gleam of her laugh and the sparkle of her eyes were illuminated.

He stopped worrying about school.

He stopped worrying about Nickie.

He had the girl.

All he needed now was the license and the car.

“So,” said Mac, “was it Nicholas or Morgan we were trying to impress?”

Why couldn't Mac move away or join the army? Remy needed the house to herself, so she could sing love songs at the top of her lungs and laugh wildly and dance on the ceiling.

“What were you guys doing tonight?” said Mac suspiciously.

She missed a beat. But her brother couldn't have seen her tuck
MORGAN ROAD
behind the bushes by the front door, or he'd have collected the sign already. He'd be waving it in the air and yelling for Mom and Dad to come see what their darling daughter had done.

She could not keep the wildly happy smile off her face and had to pirouette away from her brother, hiding the joy behind cupped hands.

Mac circled her as she danced, squinting into her eyes to gather more facts. “Since when have you gone to Lark's on a school night to see movies? You lied. Where'd you really go, Remy?”

“Out.” She hung on to the voice that wanted to sing.

Sing. Chorus. Mr. Willit. Love songs. Air kisses and air hugs.

Yes! It was all true. Love wasn't just for other people or the final chapters of paperbacks. It was there, and it happened, and it was happening to Remy Marland.

She and Morgan wouldn't have to settle for air kisses now.

Mac made a big deal of studying his watch. “Ten twenty-five
P.M
. on a school night. And you were just … out? I'm usually the one who lies, Remy.”

She wanted to open all the kitchen cabinets and slam the doors in rhythm. Dance on the counter top. Whack a few pots with wooden spoons, like her baby brother.
Morgan likes me
. “Go lick the parakeet-cage liner,” she said to Mac.

“Aha!” said Mac. “I'm onto something here.”

Before Mac could continue his interrogation, Mom and Dad joined them in the kitchen. The Marland family was snack happy. They had more junk food in their cupboards than anybody else in town. Remy had no idea why she was still thin, but certainly her mother was no longer thin.

“Hello, darling,” said her mother, hugging and then standing back to admire her daughter. “Did you have fun?” She nodded approval over the earrings Remy had chosen. Remy's mother approved of everything about her. She told Remy constantly that she was the most beautiful, brilliant, talented, wonderful, interesting girl in America.

Remy had actually believed this until junior high, when the important girls made it clear that she was not.

Now I'm important! Morgan's gone on me!

“You are so beautiful tonight,” said her mother.

I must be. Morgan would never be interested in a girl who isn't.

“She's also in love,” said Mac. “Morgan or Nicholas, one.”

“Morgan Campbell?” repeated Dad, grinning. “Remy, you told me you would never fall for anybody from Sunday school.”

“Then it must be Nickie Budie,” said Mac.

“Nicholas,” corrected Remy, her cheeks flaming. “I don't even
like
Nicholas. He's a scummy dreck.”

“It's Morgan, then,” said Mac. “I knew that anyway. I was just testing you. I saw how you've written Remy Marland Campbell on your notepaper, pretending you're a bride and that's your new name.”

Mom clapped her hands. “Oooooh, I adore Morgan. He's been a hunk since first grade. And I'm very fond of his parents. I wouldn't mind having them as in-laws.”

“Mom! Stop it! I haven't even had a date with him yet.”

“I'm telling Morgan,” said Mac. “He needs to know Mom has prequalified him. He can get on with the wedding plans now.”

Remy tried to cripple her brother with a well-placed kick, but Dad grabbed her to stop a full-scale fight. “Rafe is going to run, did you hear?” he said. “I might work on his campaign. I haven't felt good about a candidate in years.”

“If Mr. Campbell wins,” Mac pointed out, “Morgan'll move.”

That was a year off. Remy had tomorrow to think of first.

Concert-choir fantasy aside, what would Morgan
say to her in school? Tomorrow was Friday. A very important fact. He'd want to go out this weekend, wouldn't he? After those kisses, wouldn't he want to see her right away? He couldn't stand it, could he?

Mac interpreted every expression on her face. “I have several hundred important calls to make,” he said. “The phone will never be free.”

M
organ avoided his family easily. Each of them had a private phone line, and they were all on the phone.

When I take my sign, thought Morgan, I'll keep it in the basement.

He went down to the basement where he kept his free weights. He peeled off his shirt and cords and got right to work, getting rid of the screaming energy collected in his muscles.

Only Morgan ever went into the basement. His parents were not basement people. They did not fix things; they paid others to do that. They didn't know where their fuse box was, or how the furnace ran, or where the shutoff valves were. Dad owned few tools and kept those in the garage. Mom had bought this house partly because each bedroom had its own bath with washer-dryer. No laundry room at all, let alone one in the basement.

He worked out, then moved over to the rowing machine, until sweat ran satisfyingly down his body.

Thank God for weights.

Morgan never argued. His sister, Starr, now, she was a champion arguer. But Morgan could never think of anything to say. He always just wanted to leave the room.

The thought was not a mild
Maybe I'll leave the room
. It was seething, roiling energy that began in his
legs, demanding laps around a track. Words did not form. Speech did not come. Instead every muscle in his body kicked in, shouting for exercise. When other people could argue, Morgan needed to hit punching bags.

It had been a great night. There had been no real danger in his life for a long time. He wanted more of it.

He laughed at himself. Like taking a sign equals danger, he thought ruefully.

He picked up his clothes from the cellar floor, went up two flights, and stuffed them in his washing machine. He had so much crammed in there now there wasn't room for water. The sleeve of his sweater wouldn't go in.

He wondered what it would be like under Remy's sweater.

B
y morning Remy was rehearsed for anything.

She was prepared to be ignored totally, in case Morgan had changed his mind or never had his mind the way she wanted it. In case Morgan was wholly involved with Chase and Taft on some dumb subject like pro football and never looked her way.

If that happened, she had to get through it without a change of expression, never mind desperate sobbing or crazed pleading.

On the other hand, she was ready to be asked out in front of the whole class. To be kissed and hugged in public.

If that happened she also had to act normal. Like of course this was usual for her.

She ran her mind over the schedule of the day, and that portion she shared with Morgan Campbell.

Driver's Ed … Mr. Fielding could not possibly take the same three kids driving three days in a row.
Even Mr. Fielding would notice a certain repetition among faces. So she and Morgan would stay in the library.

Would they acknowledge each other? Would they allow the world to catch a glimpse of what had passed between them last night? Would they allow themselves to admit it?

M
organ Campbell woke up in the morning feeling like a rag doll with button eyes. Never mind weight lifting and rowing. He had to handle having a crush on a girl, and he had to do it in front of people. The whole idea made him limp.

In Concert Choir, Morgan's eyes were so stuck to the music page, there might have been magnets involved.

In Driver's Ed he walked blindly next to Chase, and hid behind Taft, like a toddler behind his mother.

He didn't look Remy's way. He didn't talk to her. He didn't wave.

He was so practiced at ignoring his parents and staying silent next to them that it was relatively easy to ignore Remy and stay silent next to her. How will she know I want to do it again, he thought, if I ignore her?

He went on ignoring her. Actually,
ignore
was hardly the word. Except for Remy, Morgan was hardly even conscious. She was the world, and yet there he was focusing on ceiling cracks and linoleum splits.

Error, he thought, the word flickering in his mind the way it did on computer screens.

This was a game of chicken in which he was the chicken, and if he didn't get brave, he'd be a loser forever.

He didn't get brave. He just tightened in on himself, as if he were a fortress in need of defense.

He skipped Current Events. The stress of another class with Remy was too much.

J
V games began at four-thirty.

Girls of Remy's grade and playing level had usually given up by now. Remy didn't have good hands, or a feel for movement and strategy. She often wondered why she stuck with basketball. But sitting on the bench, toes pressed down hard inside her thick sneakers, she would yearn to play. You never knew whether the coach would put you in. His rotations were based on something Remy did not understand and which the parents said grumpily was called favoritism.

It was clear that Morgan Campbell was sorry he had ever gotten near her. By the light of day he must have realized Remy did not possess the perfection he required. Morgan was probably even now fantasizing about Alexandra.