Driver's Ed by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

shoulders for emphasis. “We gotta shut up about it.” Nickie gave him a light punch in the belly. “See ya,” he said.
    See you? thought Morgan. In my grave. I never want to see you again. I never want to think about you again. If it hadn’t been for you we wouldn’t have done that! It’s your fault. You chose that sign.
    He made it to the locker room and had to sit on the long, thin wooden bench that divided the lockers. His head wouldn’t stay up. It felt as if his neck had gotten thinner, or been severed. He kept tipping.
    The gym teacher was kneeling next to him. “Morgan?”
    Morgan was afraid of speech. What if confessionpopped out of him? What if, when the gym teacher only needed to know if Morgan was going to throw up, and if so, would Morgan please do it in the toilet, Morgan said, “I killed her”?
    He rehearsed. Then, carefully, “I’m okay, I think.” He had never been less okay.
    â€œYou sit out,” said the gym teacher. The gym teacher also punched him lightly.
    When Morgan finally managed to walk into the gym, and slid to the floor with his back against the wall, everybody else was doing a floor exercise. Basketballs sailed around like huge brown atoms in a science exhibit.
    If he blamed Nickie, he didn’t feel sick.
    L ark bounced from subject to subject like fizz in a soda. She must not let anybody bring up the sign thing. They might think she had taken it. She did have a stop sign, courtesy of long-gone Joel.
    The thing was, you couldn’t tell one stop sign from another. She could not risk having anybody look among her belongings.
    Lark did not want to get involved with some sort of murder thing. She was a junior. Time to think about colleges. She had a nice background. B average, high PSATs, lots of theater and dance.
    Lark eyed Remy. Her best friend was stumbling around, visibly upset, complexion pasty, hands cold, speech slow. Remy was not destined to become an actress.
    Lark would cool the friendship till things settled down.
    *  *  *
    â€œS way to the left!” cried Mr. Willit. “Sway to the right!”
    â€œThis is not cheerleading,” said Taft. “Try to be normal, Mr. Willit. We basses are compromising our masculinity by singing in chorus at all.”
    â€œThis isn’t cheerleading?” said Mr. Willit, his jaw dropping in shock. “Oh, no! Taft, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
    Concert Choir was happy. Another skit was under way. The only question was who the victim would be.
    â€œI’d like our normalcy representative up here, please,” said Mr. Willit.
    â€œHe means you, Queen Joanne,” said Chase.
    Morgan had not been able to eat in two days. A humming noise occupied his skull. He said, “Come on, Mr. Willit. I’m normal. Doesn’t that exempt me from being a cheerleader?”
    Everybody laughed. He must have delivered the line okay.
    Involuntarily his eyes flashed toward Remy. She was sitting very straight, back away from the chair, like a punishment. Behind her was a row of three tubas on stands, so she was displayed against curves of gleaming gold.
    Mr. Willit jerked dramatically to a halt. “Is that a blush of interest I behold upon your face, Morgan?” he said.
    The chorus loved it.
    Run with it, Morgan ordered himself, be the joke, laugh along. Don’t fight it, not now.
    Mr. Willit patted Morgan’s cheeks, testing for heat level in this blush. Everybody who could whistle did.
    Remy said, “Where, when we need him, is the God who Restrains Music Teachers?”
    Mr. Willit laughed with everybody else. “Remy,” he said, “I kind of like you.”
    â€œD o we tell?” said Morgan.
    That was their date. Remy wanted to be in his lap, in his arms, in his life, and instead she was in a mall, among shoppers and strangers and canned Christmas carols.
    They stood in the vast multistoried center, decorated now for