Remy Marland crossed her fingers and prayed to the God of Driver’s Education that she would get to drive today. Remy’s fingers were splayed on the denim of her torn, pale blue jeans, inches from the second most desirable piece of laminated paper on earth. (The first, of course, was her future driver’s license.)
Next to her, Christine prayed not to drive today or ever. Poor Christine held her shiny name tag in her lap, ready for Remy to snatch up.
“All right, class,” said Mr. Fielding. He didn’t look at them, because he never looked at them. He looked only at his enrollment book. “Remy, Christine, and Morgan will drive with me today.”
“Yes!” yelled Remy. She didn’t have to exchange a name tag after all. She jumped up so fast, she knocked her books on the floor, tried to grab them, and tripped over Taft’s extended legs.
This was not clumsiness. It was calculated. Remy was the Distraction Princess, because even Mr. Fielding might one day catch on to what was happening.
“I love driii-ving,” sang Remy. She had a beautiful voice, and enough poise to sing her way through all her classes. The class smiled indulgently at her, the way you smile at a favorite pet.
Christine lay low. Many hands stretched out to grab Christine’s name tag so they could go driving in her place, but Lark, of course, got there first. Lark was small, almost a shadow of the other girls in the class, but her shadow was invariably at the front of the line.
“Taft,” said Mr. Fielding, “you and Chase show the class this film on drug and alcohol abuse. Everybody behave. Mrs. Bee will be watching.”
With a huge melodramatic gesture Mrs. Bee, their elegant librarian, threw sunglasses on the bridge of her nose to let Mr. Fielding see that no, she would not be watching.
Driver’s Ed was assigned to a glass-walled cubicle off the library, making the unfortunate librarian responsible for supervising the kids not going driving. Mrs. Bee pointed out that if this were a sport, the coach would get extra money for handling an extra group. Librarians never got extra money for anything, so Mrs. Bee wore her sunglasses and supervised nothing.
The class had given her earplugs as well, which Mrs. Bee was perfectly willing to wave in Mr. Fielding’s face (or the principal’s, should he come by), but she said they felt icky, and just to close the glass door for auditory privacy. Auditory privacy was almost always needed.
Remy bundled Mr. Fielding through the library. She had to set the pace or half the period would be wasted just approaching the Driver’s Ed car.
Remy gave a circular wave to the left-behinds. “Now, children,” she called back. “No gossip. No sick cartoons drawn on the blackboard. No carving of four-letter words into somebody’s crew cut.”
Jealous would-be drivers snarled and then laughed. Remy got more turns at driving than anybody, and most of the time it was okay. The boys—since they were boys and therefore thick—did not know why Remy was always getting other people’s turns. The girls—since they were girls and grade-A schemers—understood perfectly.
Remy Marland was in love with Morgan.
Morgan, however, didn’t know she existed. Since true love is a beautiful thing that requires two participants, the girls didn’t mind switching so Remy could have extra turns in the backseat with Morgan.
Remy admired Morgan from the rear. From all angles Morgan Campbell was worthy of adoration.
“You drive, Remy,” said Mr. Fielding, checking her off on his clipboard.
Remy exulted. It would have been wonderful to sit in back with Morgan, but it was more wonderful to drive. She slid behind the wheel, surveying her instrument panel like a bomber pilot heading to the battlefield.
Remy did not know where she was going, but one thing for sure.
She was going to get there fast.
Driver’s Ed was like so many things about school.
If the parents only knew …
Mr. Fielding would take three kids: two in the backseat observing while one drove; he himself the front passenger.
Off they’d go, straight onto the turnpike, at that terrifying cloverleaf where both interstates merge. Mr. Fielding explained that since fear was a problem for new drivers, the first thing student drivers must do on the road was conquer fear.
He himself didn’t even have interest, let alone fear. Mr. Fielding would listen to his Walkman. His favorite talk station specialized in money discussions. Now and then Mr. Fielding would tell everybody how to invest their pensions.
A fifteen- or sixteen-year-old who’d never before held a steering wheel in his two shaking hands had one hundred yards in which to accelerate to sixty-five miles per hour. Then, either there was a space between the trucks and cars whipping past on their way to distant states … or there wasn’t.
Either the student merged … or he plowed along the shoulder, metal barriers sickeningly close to the right fenders and unforgiving traffic sickeningly close to the left fenders.
The two backseat drivers, sweaty with panic, would be sticking their fingers down the filthy seat cracks, trying to buckle their seat belts prior to collision. Once they realized Mr. Fielding was not going to get involved, they would scream hints of their own.
“Get in! Get in!”
“There’s a space!”
“Quick! You’re gonna kill us!”
The student driver would jerk the poor old battered Driver’s Ed car into the correct lane.
Mr. Fielding would continue gazing out the right window instead of the left, watching the landscape and not the traffic.
Nobody had died yet, or even had an accident, mainly because oncoming traffic didn’t want to die or have an accident either.
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.
“Have 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.”
Mr. 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?
* * *
Of 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.
Lark 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.”
* * *
Of 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.
Class, food, parents, television, music, wheels—some days he could hardly even see this stuff. The world was redolent of the possibilities that were out there, that he was not getting; that he had no idea how to get; that he was sure to mess up when he did get them.
Being so close to both Lark and Remy confused him.
Lark was a bubblehead who laughed at everything from surprise quizzes to field-trip buses that broke down five miles from a bathroom. You couldn’t be with Lark without having a great time.
Lark was very slight, however, and gave off an aura of being breakable that did not appeal to Morgan.
Remy, now. Her figure had matured in seventh grade and Morgan had been studying it ever since. Remy was given to wearing sweatshirts over jeans, and her figure beneath the sweatshirt was pronounced and unmistakable. When they talked, Morgan had to discipline himself to meet her eyes instead of her curves.
Now, sitting behind her, he thought about her hair. It was absolutely straight, cut one hair at a time, each golden strand fractionally shorter than the one beneath. If he touched the shorn edge he would feel the soft back of her neck at the same time as the bristles of her cut hair.
What if he went out with Remy?
First he would have to ask her. A problem as hard to get over as cement road dividers.
Whoever he went out with, he would drive. Period. There would be no discussion on that one. Morgan didn’t care one bit about equality when it came to driving.
He was grateful to Remy for being a jerk back at that intersection. He could hold it over her. Probably stretch it out for years. Now if Lark would just screw up, too, he could really wallow in his masculine superiority.
Remy’s eyes filmed over, blurring the road so badly it was just a matter of moments before she drove over a second, probably pedestrian-occupied, cement divider.
“Remy, pull into that parking lot,” said Mr. Fielding. “The one in front of that strip mall.”
There were hundreds of strip malls. The entire world was a strip mall. Remy was too rattled to study buildings by the side of the road. “Which one?”
“That one,” said Mr. Fielding helpfully.
“Put on your right turn signal,” said Morgan loudly.
“Put on your left turn signal,” said Lark, louder.
Remy continued straight ahead, which involved fewer choices.
I can’t even choose left or right! she thought. My pulse is blowing up like fireworks over left or right. How am I going to pick a college if I can’t even pick left or right?
“Calm down,” said Mr. Fielding. “It’s no big deal. Nobody’s dead.”
That was the dividing line between big deal and little deal? Death?
Remy could not transfer her foot to the brake, choose a turn signal, and pick out a mall. Like Christine she just gave up, hauled the car off the road, and sat panting on the shoulder.
“Your turn to drive … Christine,” said Mr. Fielding.
It was a good thing Lark opened both doors for Remy. Close-callness peeled off her poise like skin from a sunburn. She got into the back with Morgan and forced herself to look over, see how big of a deal he was going to make of her pathetic driving.
Morgan was smiling his distant sweet smile. He must have learned the smile from a father in politics. It made you feel loved, but just generic love, not you in particular. Remy wanted to be loved in particular. She especially wanted kisses. She kissed her baby brother continually for practice, but a one-year-old’s forehead did not count.
“You okay?” said Morgan. His voice was his father’s too: warm and reassuring. Don’t worry about the economy or global nightmares: just elect me and all will be well.
Don’t worry about Driver’s Ed and popularity: just look into my eyes and I’ll make everything better.
“Oh, Morgan. You just saw me. I’m okay but I’m stupid.” She wanted to cry so Morgan would comfort her, but she wanted not to cry so Morgan would think she was strong.
Morgan took her hand and tightened his muscles against her cold palm. “Calm down,” he said softly. “Mr. Fielding’s right. No big deal, nobody’s dead.”
She didn’t let go of Morgan’s hand. It was remarkably larger than hers. His thumb was immense. Even his hand had muscles. He had more muscle in his hand than she did in her whole arm.
She drifted into dreams of Morgan. She was now acquainted with his thumb. This would be a meaningful experience for Morgan and he would ask her out. She let herself be thrown against Morgan when Lark miscalculated cornering speed.
Morgan responded by shoving her back in place and finding her seat belt for her. “You want to die?” he said disapprovingly.
No, I just want to sit in your lap.
Their faces were very close. Morgan’s smile turned into a wicked grin. A junior-high-boy, worthless-younger-brother-Mac, I’ve-got-you-now grin. “How’s Jesus?” he said.
Remy laughed.
When Remy’s mother had become pregnant again at forty-four, the family had been both horrified and thrilled. Thrilled won. Medical tests assured them the baby would be a girl, so they spent months deciding on a girl’s name. It had to be romantic and unusual and melodious. It had to please all four of them, since they all would have to live with it and change its diapers.
They settled on Andressa, only to have a boy. They had not spent a nanosecond on boys’ names. The baby went into hospital records as Baby Boy Marland. Of course, during the Name Decision Period, they still had to call the baby something.
Remy called the baby Sweet Prince, because he was so adorable.
Mac, nauseated by what a kid would go through with a name like Sweet Prince, called him Matthew, since all the Matthews Mac knew were good athletes and fit in socially.
Remy’s mother called the baby Jamie, which Dad wouldn’t accept because it could also be a girl’s name, while Dad held out for Jason, which Mom wouldn’t accept because there were too many Jasons in the world already.
So there they were, calling this eight pounds of person Matthew or Jamie or Jason or Sweet Prince, when Mr. and Mrs. Marland came to a decision out of nowhere and decided on Henry.
Henry? everybody complained. You call that a name? That outdated, out-of-fashion pair of syllables?
When the baby was a few months old, Christmas arrived.
Naturally a real live baby was more desirable for the Christmas pageant than somebody’s old doll. Baby Boy Marland, who that week of life slept well, took the starring role and lay placidly in a manger. Remy’s mother was maybe a little too proud of Baby Boy Marland’s role.
The pageant came and went. The name Jesus did not. “Night-night, Jesus,” Mom would croon over the crib. “Sleep tight, Jesus.”
The rest of the family certainly hoped this was a habit Mom would get rid of before they had to have her committed.
Shortly after Christmas the baby stopped sleeping, as if sleep were a vice he did not intend to have. If he ever got to sleep, he certainly didn’t sleep tightly; this was the loosest-sleeping baby in America.
Now he was over a year old, and nobody had surrendered on the name front.
“Henry’s pretty good,” she told Morgan, “but we’re name-training Mom now. Jesus is out.”
“That’s too bad,” said Morgan. “I thought it added a little to Sunday school to have Jesus attending.”
Remy thought it would add even more to have Morgan attending.
Lark went through a red light.
Brakes screamed.
Horns blared.
Single middle fingers pointed upward.
Swear words were heard.
Lark drove quickly on. For the next intersection she began stopping several hundred feet early. They didn’t get rear-ended only because there was no car behind them to do it.
Mr. Fielding said to her, “I know you saw that red light back there. You stopped.”
“I know, but I forgot to stay stopped.”
Morgan was delirious with pleasure. What a quote. He couldn’t wait to tell the other boys. I forgot to stay stopped.
Masculine superiority. Nothing like it.
“My turn, Lark,” he said. “Get out. Switch. We’re practically back at school and I haven’t had my chance.”
“We’re in the middle of the street, Morgan. I can’t get out here.”
“Nobody’s behind us.” Morgan leaped out of the backseat, raced around the car, ripped open the driver’s door, and unlatched Lark’s seat belt. In case she had not realized that he was serious, he uncurled her fingers from the steering wheel and yanked her by the elbow.
“Well! Really!” said Lark. “Just because you’re afraid for your life.”