Driver's Ed by Caroline B. Cooney

pageant.”
    â€œMorgan, darling, how wonderful!” exclaimed his mother. “I’m so proud. You’ll do such a lovely job. I adore the pageant.”
    Do they let killers run Christmas pageants? thought Morgan. The thing is not to think about it. If I think about it, somebody might see it in my eyes. Be able to tell what I did. So I won’t think about it.
    Starr was the blackmailer of the century.
    I am not thinking about the stop sign, he thought, and faced her. His hands had gotten thick; the swelling was noticeable. If he’d been wearing his class ring, it would have hurt. Did guilt puff you up?
    â€œI’m your sister,” said Starr, “and that means I get first dibs on costumes.”
    â€œWill you let the Marland baby be Jesus again this year?” said Mom.
    A woman who pretends her kid is Jesus, thought Morgan. What happens when she finds out her other kid helped kill somebody?
    He had known the truth for five minutes. Already he was trying to spread the blame. Remy had never gone near the stop sign. Even Nickie—all he’d done was to choose it. But Nickie was a weakling. Morgan was the only one who had actually used the hacksaw.
    â€œCan’t you wait for the ads to talk?” said Dad. Even though it was only weather, he hated distractions when he was receiving information.
    Mom, however, talked when she felt like it. “I recommend against it,” said Mom. “He’s a toddler now. You can’t predict what a one-year-old will do. He might scream or run away or throw up.”
    â€œNeat,” said Starr. “Jesus the vomiter.”
    â€œLeave the room if you have to babble!” shouted Dad.
    Whoever did that should be shot
.
    Dad would shoot me. But he doesn’t know. But he could. Easily. The signs are in the garage! I have to get rid of them.
    What if Dad caught him?
    His father was a big voice for Law and Order. Would he stick with that? Would Morgan go to prison? Or would he and his father destroy the evidence? Just a little father-son activity on a rainy weekend.
    That’s right, he thought, think about yourself. A woman is dead, her little kid doesn’t have a mother. But don’t think about that. Hey. Put yourself first.
    He took his father’s advice and left the room. He made it upstairs. He didn’t fall down or scream or puthis fist through the wall or anything. He shut the door neatly behind him.
    They were very privacy minded, the Campbells. Nobody would dream of coming in anybody else’s room without permission. They met only in the kitchen, in front of the television, or inside the car.
    I’m safe in here, thought Morgan.
    And Denise Thompson. She was safe where she was too.
    Safe in a drawer at the morgue.
    R emy did not sleep.
    It was an event that had never happened in her sixteen years. Total insomnia. Her eyes never seemed to blink, let alone close. She lay in the dark thinking: Don’t let it be ruined. Don’t let Morgan hate me for being there. For seeing him. For saying yes to the whole thing. I want to have Morgan still!
    Nice, Remy.
    You kill a woman and all you’re worried about is whether Morgan kisses you again.
    If Mom finds out …
    So tell her first. Face the music.
    But it would not be music. It was not music you faced when you killed somebody.
    What did you face? Remy did not know.
    How could it be me? I don’t do bad things. I don’t think bad things or say bad things. I can’t be part of this!
    She tilted the ankle and the foot that had such fun driving. She imagined Denise Thompson’s foot on the gas pedal as she followed Cherry Road; Denise Thompson’s confusion as she found herself in the middle of—
a truck—where did ? that ? come from?—rip foot off gas—slam brake—slew to the side—try to avoid—try!—no!—too late—too—
    But Remy could follow Denise Thompson no further.
    M idnight passed and