Free Driver's Ed by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

“Accident happened ten-eighteen. Cut on the posts is fresh, you can see the contrast right here.” The camera zeroed in. The slice that Morgan had made with Nickie’s hacksaw glittered clean and metallic at the top of the grimy posts.
    No, thought Morgan. That didn’t happen. It was just a sign. We weren’t doing anything.
It was just a sign
.
    A weeping man, face so distorted by pain it was impossible to tell what he really looked like, swatted away the microphone. Even so, it picked up his screams. “My wife is dead!” he shouted. “We have a two-year-old! He’s lost his mother! All because some goddamn kid thought it was fun to take a stop sign.”
    Some goddamn kid
.
    Morgan’s mind burned. His heart seemed to catch fire. He was so hot and dry, he felt blistered. He wanted to look at his skin but could not take his eyes off the screen.
    Nobody died, he thought. Not because of me. I’m a nice person. It was only a sign.
    The husband was opening his wallet, ripping it apart, throwing useless things like credit cards andtwenty-dollar bills to the ground. He yanked out a photograph and held it up to the camera. His hand was shaking. The reporter steadied the picture for his crew.
    A pretty young woman, brown hair falling into her eyes, was stretching her hands out to a tottering child. Her smile was complete; you knew that at that moment, her world had been complete too: full of love and rejoicing and a perfect healthy baby.
    â€œDenise Thompson,” said Anne, “leaves her husband, Mark, and a two-year-old son, Bobby.”
    No
.
    â€œAnybody with information about this act of vandalism, which led to an innocent woman’s death,” said Anne invisibly, “should telephone police at the phone number seen on your screen.”
    Denise Thompson’s husband looked both wild and helpless. Out of control, yet too weak to move. Suddenly he wanted the microphone, and he seized it, paying no attention to reporter or cameraman.
    â€œIf I find the kid that took that sign …”
    He wiped his eyes with the hand that held the mike. “… If I find out who murdered my wife … who left our son without his mother …”
    Mark Thompson did not finish his threat. He stared past the cameras and into his future. He seemed to fold, and become smaller. After a while he let go of the mike and stumbled away.
    The camera followed him silently.
    The police phone number stayed on the screen.
    The number seemed to memorize itself; began playing in his head like lyrics to a song. Morgan looked away from the television, but of course the room was full of televisions: three more of them, their blank grayscreens like coffins. If he turned them on, they, too, would speak of stolen signs and dead mothers.
    It was just a sign! he thought. Everybody does it. It doesn’t count. It’s—
    â€œWhoever took that sign,” said Rafe Campbell, “should be shot.”

CHAPTER 5
    â€œMac,” said Remy, “you just told Daddy that was decaf.”
    Mac grinned. “So he won’t sleep well tonight.”
    â€œMac! Daddy believed you. He had two cups.”
    Remy’s brother laughed contentedly to himself.
    â€œMother, does anybody need a person like Mac? Don’t you think Mac should be in boarding school?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen why isn’t he?”
    â€œWe can’t afford it. Otherwise we would have shipped him away years ago.”
    Mac loved this kind of talk.
    â€œWhat if the baby turns out like Mac?” said Remy.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” said Mac. “You’re fifteen years older than he is. You’ll never know how Matthew turns out. By the time Matthew’s in second grade, you’ll have your own baby.”
    This was thought provoking, but not enough to take her mind off Morgan. He wouldn’t telephone this late. She might as well give up. At least she