Driver's Ed by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

THICKLY SETTLED and STOP to his cellar. He thought the signs would disappear into the dim corners, but they did not. They shouted their color and size and words even with their backs turned.
    Sunday they went to church, as Starr had predicted.
    Morgan, who considered Not Listening to Sermons one of his more polished skills, listened. Hoping forclues. Wanting Mrs. Willit to give him—what? An excuse? A way out?
    â€œThere’s an interesting passage in the New Testament,” said Mrs. Willit. She was given to fatuous remarks. Morgan would never know why Mr. Willit stayed with her. In this era of divorce it often seemed the wrong marriages lasted.
    â€œJesus hasn’t begun his ministry yet. He’s still living at home. Hasn’t done a thing. Hasn’t told a parable, hasn’t got a single follower, hasn’t pulled off any miracles. He gets baptized in the River Jordan and from the heavens comes the voice of God.”
    Morgan detested this kind of story. Nobody heard the voice of God, except schizophrenics in padded rooms.
    â€œAnd God says,
‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.’ 
”
    Come on, thought Morgan. How pleased can you be with a thirty-year-old son who hasn’t held a job yet?
    â€œGod is pleased even before His Son has done anything. His Son has no accomplishments, and still, God is pleased.”
    Morgan was sitting between his parents. His beautiful mother, wearing her long black cashmere coat, was on his right. His brilliant father, in charcoal gray, perfect tie, perfect crease, was on his left. They were one up on God. Their son and daughter had already been impressive. By age thirty Morgan and Starr would have done a lot more than a little carpentry in some backwater village. Jesus could get away with that, but not Starr and Morgan.
    His father spindled the Sunday bulletin and then flattened it out and made a paper airplane. Mom laid a stern hand on the airplane, even though Dad was theleast likely person in the church actually to fly it. They gave each other secret grins. People-in-love-in-spite-of-everything grins.
    â€œUnconditional love. That’s what parents give their children,” said Mrs. Willit.
    But surely every parent had some conditions. Like: I will love you as long as you’re not a murderer.
    Whoever took that sign should be shot
.
    Oh, Dad! thought Morgan, and he actually splinted himself against the pain in his soul, bending at the waist.
    R emy and Morgan had been in Sunday school together for years. Their Sunday school was deeply into arts and crafts, so they’d turned out cotton-ball Christmas sheep, folded-box Noah’s arks, and vividly colored Joseph’s coats. Together they had memorized commandments, received attendance ribbons, and sung in Junior Choir.
    In eighth grade, just when boys ought to start thinking how much they liked this girl they knew so well, the Campbells had faded, to be seen only on holidays.
    This was sensible, because church was best on holidays. At Christmas you were starry eyed and believed in babies without birth defects, presents with perfect ribbons, and snow without pollution. Remy approved of the Campbells coming only on holidays.
    But here they were on a dull ordinary November Sunday, not even Thanksgiving.
    Morgan told, she thought. He told, and they’re here to ask God’s help. Tell Mrs. Willit, because she’s the minister. Then she’ll tell Mr. Willit, who thinks I’m nice, and in a minute the world will know.
    Suddenly Concert Choir seemed like the most important forty-five minutes of any day, with Mr. Willit laughing and teasing and leading and loving. He would never look her way again; he would write her off, one of the dirtbags. Because nobody played favorites as much as Mr. Willit, not even the basketball coach.
I don’t want him to know
, she prayed.
    Dad was laughing in Mr. Campbell’s direction. “Guess he’s running,” said