Andy Trainor was pissed at his dad. Okay, the old man had made VP at Albany Bank. The new position called for a new, more expensive, house. He could see that. But he couldn't see the rush for getting the new house. He had gone through three years at Gordon Tech. He would be a senior -- not a BMOC, but as socially prominent as he was ever going to get. Everybody knew him, were acquaintances if not friends. Now, they were moving to Evanston. He tried to explain that to his dad.

"But you'll be senior in Evanston, too. And Evanston Township High School will look more impressive on your record."

"Dad, I'll be 'the new kid.' As for college admissions departments, they ask for the entire transcript. You think they won't see that the first three years were at Gordon Tech? Which isn't, really, such a bad school. I'll never shine -- in class, sure, but not where it matters to kids. Still, at Gordon, I have an established place."

"Don't worry. You'll make new friends." Dad hadn't figured out yet that he hadn't made all that many old friends. Dad had been a leader in his small high school, a basketball star among other things. He'd not yet caught on that, while Andy had inherited his height, he'd inherited neither his athletic skill nor his skill with people. For that matter, 6' 1" was no longer tall enough for basketball.

The new house was a horrible commute from his summer job at the grocery store, too. He'd taken some weird hours and split shifts. He could walk home in five minutes, get something to eat, lie down and read, and get back to the store a few hours later. Now, he needed to take two ELs and a bus. Dad, who had insisted that he get the job instead of 'lazing around all summer,' offered as a compromise that he could quit it. He felt, however, that he owed Mr. Vincent, who'd been nice to him. Mr. Vincent rearranged his hours, making them somewhat shorter with only one shift -- if not necessarily an eight-hour shift -- in a single day. He worked until school began. He did get back at Dad by moving his savings account from his bank to Evanston Bank. Dad didn't even mention it.

High School was as frustrating as he'd expected it to be. Everybody knew some rule he didn't. Everybody knew most of their classmates. When he walked into AP Calculus, late since the classroom numbering had confused him, the other kids all looked at him as though he were in the wrong place. They'd all known each other before, and figured him for some klutz who shouldn't be taking the course. Mr. Egan, the teacher, found him on the roster and welcomed him, the other guys -- and the three girls -- remained dubious.

Dad found that Aldersgate UMC was the nearest Methodist church. Since he frowned on church-shopping, they both joined.

"Go to the MYF meeting," Dad said. "That's the place to meet friends." Since it was likely to be a place to make, at least, acquaintances, and since Dad would meet any later complaint with "Well, what did you expect? I told you how to make friends and you didn't go," he went. The first meeting was an election between people he couldn't have identified by name.

The girl, at least, he'd seen in church. She was distinctive enough to stand out. She was tiny, elfin you might say. Perhaps making a reference to that, she had her hair in a 'pixie cut.' It was shorter than his -- shorter than his would be after his next hair cut. Marilyn -- her name -- shown with beauty, and apparently was quite conscious of it. Her campaign speech was all about doing more for the church -- MYF projects, in fact, which she claimed to have invented. He was surprised that she didn't claim to have invented fire.

Edwin, the other candidate, made a better speech. He, at least, wasn't suffering from a Napoleon complex. When the ballots were passed around, he voted for Edwin. Marilyn won, however. She promptly nominated Edwin for vice president, Andy couldn't tell whether it was standard in this chapter, negotiated between the two of them, or her idea.

In the social time after the meeting, Marilyn did come around to meet him, but she seemed distracted. The adult counselor, Mr. Schmidt, introduced himself, too. Some of the others said hello, at least, but they all had other things to discuss.

Mr. Egan, sprang a pop-quiz in AP calc. Andy got the second-highest grade in the class. Suddenly, the others decided that he wasn't there by mistake. Still, that acceptance didn't spread as far as an invitation to sit with anybody at lunch.

MYF was something similar. Marilyn spoke with him, and spoke with him kindly if distractedly, after the next MYF meeting. He'd noticed, though, that she took the same bus home as he did, and she didn't bother to speak to him while waiting for that bus. It was the second trip that bus took, too, which meant that the wait was a long one. Still, she was a beauty, and he found himself watching her while waiting for the bus.

Physics was a fun course, although it was designed for people who didn't know calculus. Well, the AP calculus class wouldn't have filled the classroom if they all took the same course. The other subjects, English, History, Gym, were obstacle courses on his road to college. He navigated them with, at least, Bs.

In the November MYF meeting, Marilyn got up and asked for her first work project, and it was the next night.

"As many of you know, there was a problem when the UMW scheduled rummage sale set-up for tonight. They were persuaded to reschedule. On the other hand, they need help with the tables. If some strong boys would show up tomorrow night to work, I'd be very grateful. And they'd see that we are a group that they should cooperate with. Please, come tomorrow night -- as soon after six as possible."

He got the necessary homework done during study halls and in the late afternoon. He walked to the church that night. The turn-out was pitiful, himself and another boy. He could see Marilyn's frustration. On the other hand, his showing up got her interest for the first time. The work wasn't all that hard, and there were three older men there. One was much older, and didn't seem ready to move tables. The other two called themselves Dan and Bill. Dan took charge and paired himself with Doug. (Andy recognized Doug from MYF when he heard the name.) Andy was paired with Bill. Bill shifted a table from a group leaning against the wall. Andy got the legs unfolded while Bill held if up. Then Bill got it on the legs and they lifted it to transport it to where it was needed. Unless Doug knew the system, it would have taken more than twice as long to do the job with only two of them, but it would have been utterly doable. As it was, they were finished quite soon.

"It was so nice of you to come," Marilyn told him. There was real warmth in her voice, too. Dan and Doug had left as soon as the last table was down.

"Hey! It was an MYF project, right? And you got the meeting protected. It's the least we can do to support you." Actually, he didn't care about the meeting, but he wouldn't say that to Marilyn. She obviously did. Doug didn't know what he was missing -- personal attention from the prettiest girl in school.

"That was Mr. Pierce. He got the meeting protected, I mean. Anyway, thank you."

"Mr. Pierce," Marilyn said to Bill, "I can't say how grateful I am."

"Nothing. You guys on foot? Stick around until Carolyn gets out of choir practice, and I'll give you rides home." He didn't have far to walk, but he wasn't anxious to leave yet. Anyway, Bill -- Mr. Pierce walked out the door as if he assumed acceptance.

"New at school, aren't you?" she asked. She'd already established this in two previous conversations. Well, it wasn't as if he could think of anything to say. "Where're you from." That, at least, was new.

"Chicago. Dad got promoted and bought a new house. To be honest, I'd wanted to finish out my last year at Gordon Tech."

"Finding the classes harder?" Not really. These guys all thought that their school was on top of the heap. Well, Dad did, too, and it wasn't school pride on his part.

"Classes are the only thing about school I'm not finding hard. Is everybody as stuck up as they seem?" Which might not be the brightest question to ask a pretty girl with whom you want to continue a conversation. She didn't seem to take offense, though.

"Not really. But your old school, how easy was it for a new senior to fit in?" Which was really what he'd said to Dad.

"You have a point."

"We all know who is my friend. We all know who is my rival. And there are many groups. I don't know how talk to you until I know whether you're going to support me or Edwin for the MYF presidency." Damn. And now that he knew her, he wished that he had.

"Umm,"

"Don't worry. I know you voted for Edwin. So did all the other boys. I as just making an example. Everything is tight-woven, and you don't fit. That's not something about Andy. That's because you weren't there for the weaving."

"You see it, and Dad didn't. He told me..." And that was something he usually avoided. He was glad to tell Dad his faults -- after all, Dad was eager to tell him his. He tried not to air them with people outside the family. The woman in charge of the rummage sale saved him.

"Marilyn! We aren't here to be social. Take this pile over to Mrs. Davis." Nobody had a job for him, and he wasn't volunteering. Then Bill -- Mr. Pierce -- came back with a bag of rummage.

"Don't know who'd want that." Said the woman in charge, about one of the offerings.

"Mrs. Benton!" Marilyn said. "Those are wonderful." She shook out a pair of jeans and measured them against herself. Unsurprisingly, they were too large. Did anyone else in church have that trim a figure? "If they'd fit me, I'd take them in a minute."

"They look like you could get into them easily." The boss, Mrs. Benton, said. He should learn all these names being passed around.

"Too easily. This sort of jeans is supposed to take a shoe horn."

"If Mrs. Pierce's jeans don't fit me, I'm not even going to look at her top," Marilyn said of the next piece out of the bag. "Some of us have it, and some of us don't." The girl he'd thought stuck-up was trash-talking her own figure! And it was such a sexy figure, too.

"I think your shape looks great." Then he clamped his mouth shut. At least he hadn't said 'sexy.' Still, what right did he have to express an opinion about her? And Mr. Pierce clearly though he had none.

"Andy," he said, "you have to learn something of female rules. They want you to notice their shapes -- do you think her admiration of the blouse was because she thought it would keep her warm? But noticing doesn't mean mentioning. Anyway, let's go over here out of the way." And he grabbed three chair on his way to a corner. There he asked them about their goals and studies. Marilyn wanted to be an English teacher and would major in English to prepare for that. Her favorite course was English, naturally.

"Don't be afraid of making choices," Mr Pierce said. "If something is attractive, go for it. On the other hand, don't be afraid of changing your mind, either. You're in the class for a quarter -- high school is different -- so you probably shouldn't drop out in the middle. On the other hand, your taking that class doesn't guarantee your taking the next."

He didn't want to argue with Mr. Pierce. On the other hand, he didn't want to appear wishy-washy in front of Marilyn.

"I think I'm pretty-well decided," he said.

"Fine. There's nothing 'have-to' about changing your mind. There's nothing shameful about changing it either. The tragedy is to think you're committed when you aren't."

"Really," said Marilyn, "you can get a sound, liberal arts, education and it will prepare you for almost any career." Old story, and she'd swallowed it without thinking.

"Yeah, I've heard that claim. And I don't believe it." But he shouldn't be calling bullshit on the prettiest girl in the school just because she was repeating bullshit. "Sure, there are plenty of jobs which require somebody who looks middle class." And that might offend Mr. Pierce, too. "But if you need to know something to do a job, knowing something else won't help you. Now, teaching high school English -- while it does require knowing something -- luckily requires mostly knowing the subjects that they put into their 'fits-anyone' curriculum." That should smooth any feelings of Marilyn's that he'd ruffled. "If you want to design computers, you need to know about designing computers. Knowing lots and lots about the Thirty-Years War won't substitute."

"Whatever you do," Marilyn said, "you need to be able to read a book."

"Oh yes. Grade school is absolutely necessary. But I can read books. I've read a book on relativity. I bet most of my classmates haven't. I'll even bet that few of the history teachers in school even could. So, how come I'm an uneducated kid who needs more courses in college in order to know how to read a book? How come the guy who wrote the book a narrow-minded specialist? While the guys who couldn't read it are generally educated?"

"Because he is. I don't know that author, so don't come down on me for that answer. But a narrow-minded specialist could write a book on relativity. But the person who goes through a good liberal-arts education knows a wide spectrum of things."

"But not relativity."

"Not necessarily. But he or she knows books."

"So we've got two guys. One has a superior education because he knows books. The other has written a book the first one can't understand. But the guy who can't read the book is superior to the guy who wrote it because he knows more about books." And he, who was supposed to be so smart, was picking a quarrel with a lovely girl who'd been willing to talk to him, who'd been nice to him. There were various kinds of smart, and his would never get him a girl.

"Hah! Should have known, let you alone for a few minutes, and I find you talking with a pretty girl." He jumped with a guilty conscience, but he didn't know the voice. On second thought -- on first thought, actually -- it had to have been addressed to Mr. Pierce. The speaker must have been Mrs. Pierce, and looking at her explained Marilyn's "some of us have it" comment. Mrs. Pierce had large breasts. She didn't compete with Marilyn in the shape department. Indeed, she was either seriously overweight or pregnant.

"I think Dan's lurking in the car, Gladys. Andy's here too, dear. I'm not just talking to Marilyn." That was from Mr. Pierce, and confirmed his guess as to the woman's identity.

"Of course," she replied, "Marilyn wouldn't have stuck around if there weren't somebody interesting to talk to." Which was a nice compliment to him, if based on no evidence. They all gathered their coats and went out of the church.

"Marilyn, sometime when your education is over and you're out in the business world, you're likely to have a boss who tells you that his wife doesn't understand him. Don't give him the least sympathy. My wife understands me, and it's pure hell." He didn't like to think of some future boss telling Marilyn such a story. He also noted that Mr. Pierce seemed to forget that she wasn't going into the business world.

Mr. Pierce gestured to the left when they came to the main sidewalk. He hung back so that Mr. Pierce could lead them to his car.

"I'll have to ask you guys to sit in back," Mr. Pierce said when they got there. "Sorry." In the back of a car with the prettiest girl in the school? Even if it really wasn't what those words made it sound like, he thought he'd be able to bear it.

"I'm so grateful," Marilyn said to Mr. Pierce. She seemed to be spreading around a lot of gratitude tonight. "It's nice to have one adult in the church who doesn't think of us as a bunch of kids."

"You got the wrong person for that, Marilyn," Mrs Pierce replied. "Bill's objection was that they were pushing kids around. If they'd have shoved the kindergarten class of the Sunday School aside, he'd have dropped a stink bomb on the next UMW meeting.

"I'm just as glad that we're driving you back," she went on without pausing. "What's your address again?" Marilyn gave it, and he realized that he was almost directly on the way. "I know that nothing bad ever happens in the neighborhood, but there can be a first time. Andy, would you mind walking her to her door when we get there?" His murmur of agreement was overridden by her continuation. "I know. Just to keep an old woman from worrying." Well, Mrs, Pierce wasn't really all that old, but he'd be glad to walk Marilyn to the door. When Marilyn looked at him, he nodded.

"This is too much to ask of you," Marilyn said when they were on the walk up to her porch.

"It's nothing. I'm happy to walk you home." And he'd have been happier to walk her all the way home from the church.

"And thank you for coming out. I really hoped for a better turn-out." She was being extra nice, but she was also worrying too much.

"Well we got the job done. And, really, if you want the adults to think of us as other adults, my working with Mr. Pierce and Doug's working with that Dan guy..."

"Mr. Hagopian." She corrected him.

"Well, the only thing that anyone called him was 'Dan,' and no wonder. Anyway, that was more like being a couple of adults than a team from MYF would have been."

"Well, thanks and goodbye," she said as she unlocked the door.

He returned to the car, worrying that the Pierces might see that he was beginning to have an erection. When he got in, Mrs. Pierce asked him his address. Actually, he'd had all the pleasure that the ride could give him. He'd be happy to walk home from there -- on air. He gave his address, though.

"Sorry. I could have got out sooner." He wasn't sorry at all, apologies were worded oddly.

"That's fine," Mrs. Pierce said. "Ladies first is the rule."

"She was nice," he replied. "Much nicer than she is at meetings." Which was what he'd been thinking, but not something he should be blurting out to near strangers -- nice though these near strangers had been.

"Well, she needs to run those meetings. She can't give you her full attention, not even half her attention." Mrs. Pierce was still being nice. "You go to the same school, don't you?"

"Yeah." They rode the same bus, too. He couldn't think why he'd ever thought her stuck-up. The stuck up kids drove their own cars.

"Try talking with her at school. Can't hurt."

"I will," he told her. Somehow, the car had stopped. He got out. "Thanks. Thanks to both of you." And he meant it. The ride, aside from his company for the first part, had been nothing. The advice had opened possibilities.

Well, Marilyn had a problem, or thought she did. He was a problem solver -- which was really what "engineer" meant except for the special training. He should solve her problem. If she talked to him 'cause he'd helped move a few tables, that might get her willing to date him. Well...

Rummage set up was really a solved problem. The total number of workers there was really overkill. On the other hand, it was only a once-solved problem. If she got a couple of juniors to work, too, it would be solved next year. That depended of course, on how often they held rummage sales. Didn't the old hag say "winter rummage sale"? Maybe he was imagining it.

She'd mentioned the pre-Easter work day in her first speech. How did you recruit for that? Her request at the last meeting had really been too general. If you asked "you people" to come to an event, the hearer would hope that the others would come. She could get the girls, probably, if she asked one-by-one. Hadn't she said they'd all voted for her? Could she get the boys? He couldn't; they'd shrug him off. How about that Edwin guy? He was vice president.

With the problems solved, or -- at least -- the solutions looking possible, he was ready for bed. He'd had something near an erection since he'd sat beside her in the car seat. He didn't even dig into his stack of magazines. Instead, with one hand holding a Kleenex where it was needed and the other stroking his cock, he imagined Marilyn stripping in front of him, lying down and turning on her stomach. He didn't even get in her before he erupted. He tossed the Kleenex in the waste basket and turned over. He was soon asleep.

It turned out that Marilyn's problems were easier to solve than his were. He approached her Friday in the hall, but shied off after exchanging hellos. Sunday, he worked up his nerve during service to talk with her during coffee hour. She was talking with some of her girlfriends, though, and he didn't want to present his advice with an audience.

Finally, he caught her waiting for the bus on Monday. They were in public, but she didn't have anyone particular around.

"Look," he greeted her, "do you have a minute?"

"Sure."

"About what you wanted for Thursday. I get the picture that you'd hoped for an entire work crew."

"Yes, and I'm awful grateful to you." She was being nice, which was fine, but he wanted to get information across to her, not have a friendly exchange.

"Well, really, that wasn't a job for a larger crew. Look how long Mr. Pierce and Mr. Hagopian sat around afterwards. But you want a larger crew for the Easter clean up. Does the UMW hold another rummage sale this year?" He might have thought this through, but he hadn't organized his presentation decently.

"No, The next one is in spring." Well, he'd meant the school year and she'd taken it to be the calendar year. Still, that meant that his idea would work.

"Okay. You know your members. You say that you've all known each other since kindergarten.... Well, pick out two Junior boys. The ones who wouldn't mind carrying tables, and the ones who'd do it if you asked them particularly. Ask them close to the time to help. Make clear, that they will be doing men's work -- moving tables.

"That Mr. Hagopian is some kind of executive?" he continued.

"He's a professor."

"Even better. I'll show up. Maybe Doug will show up. Anyway, Mr. Hagopian can tell us how to do the job right. A professor ought to enjoy teaching like that -- enjoy it more than actually moving the tables, anyway. Then you'll have accomplished two things. The MYF will have set up the tables for the rummage sale during your term. The next year's MYF will have people who know how to do it. If those guys have the brains God gave little grasshoppers, they'll recruit sophomores -- well juniors next year -- to continue the tradition. If not, you'll have done what you could in your term. And, really, Mr. Hagopian might well prefer to ask the MYF for help than to set up the tables himself. Anyway, that's the smaller part." She was still listening, which was an example of her kindness rather than a result of his presentation.

"What's Edwin good for?" It took her an awfully long time to answer such a simple question. These guys had known each other forever?

"He's the ultimate party animal. That was his vision of the MYF, if you listened to his speech." Cool! That meant that his tactic would work easily.

"So ask him to handle a celebration for the next meeting. Then assign him -- you're the president, who says you can't assign the vice president a task? -- to handle a celebration for a later meeting, but one long before Easter. Then when the Holy-Week cleanup day approaches, assign him to recruit and organize the boys who'll be working outside."

"You're sneaky." Her tone was, if anything, admiring.

"I'm going to be an engineer. I told you. I'm interested in solving problems. People problems are only another sort of problem, and they don't require the extra knowledge. After all, I've been around people all my life." And he was going on and on about Andy. That subject might fascinate him; it couldn't interest her.

"Anyway, you should be able to recruit enough girls. And, too, whenever Edwin can recruit a boy, his girlfriend is likelier to come, and whenever you can recruit a boy, his girlfriend will be likelier to come. I think you could have your work crew." She seemed to think about that.

"Well, thank you very much." She could, of course, have invited him to sit with her on the bus and asked him to walk her home. She didn't. He hadn't really expected her to. He hadn't even dreamed of that. The clear thanks, although Marilyn seemed awfully generous with those thank yous, was a more than fair reward for the thinking he'd done. For that matter, he'd trade another problem solved for another conversation of the same length.

The December MYF meeting was a special event during Christmas break. Unfortunately, he had to miss it. He was in San Diego with his mother. When his parents had divorced, Dad got the boy and Mom got the girls. They visited Dad (and him) during the summer, and he visited Mom (and them) over Christmas break.

At the airport, April got to him first. He dropped his bag as she came running through the crowd. Some bastard behind him cursed because he had to walk around, but Andy wouldn't curse back with April within hearing distance.

"Andy."

"Elbows," he reminded her She dropped her upper arms to her sides and held her hands at about shoulder level. He lifted her by the elbows until her head was a little above his. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a smacking kiss on his forehead. He grabbed her more securely.

"I love you, Moppet." Once, the parting from Molly and April had been the worst aspect of the divorce. (He didn't miss the overheard arguments -- sometimes vicious screams, other times more vicious whispers -- one little bit.) Now, April was the only good thing about visiting California.

"We're glad to see you, Andrew."

"Hi, Mom." He loved her, really he did. He didn't particularly like her.

"Molly wanted to come, but there was this meeting she had to go to."

"I understand completely, Mom." When 11-year-old Molly was torn from him, he'd planned to track her down -- he had the return addresses on Mom's letter -- free her and April, and hide out just the three of them. Now, Molly was 15. He still loved her; he suspected that she loved him, too, way down deep. He just preferred to do that loving from a distance. That preference, he knew, was reciprocated. He'd like to blame the change on Mom and her new husband, but he knew enough 15-year-old girls to suspect that he and Molly would feel the same way had Mom and Dad stayed together.

"Hi, Andrew."

"Hello, Mr. Brewster." Andy understood, vaguely, that when Elliot Brewster had married his Mom, he'd gained all sorts of rights. That did not include the right to call him Andrew.

"C'mon," he said. He shifted April so that she was entirely supported by his right arm, turned around, and stooped to grab his bag. He stood and started towards the exit.

"She can walk by herself," Mom said. Not hugging his neck like this, she couldn't. He kept walking and Mom fell in with him.

"Do what your mother says, boy." The woman's current husband blustered.

"I do."

"Now, Elliot." Mom didn't like fights. Which was strange, considering how many she participated in. "April, get down." April moved to obey, and he set her down on the floor. He shifted his bag back into his right hand and walked on. The Moppet danced ahead, and then turned to see whether he was following her. He always was.

"This way," Mom said. The two of them followed her out an exit. "Would you get the car, Elliot?" When he was out of earshot, she spoke again. "I don't want the two of you to fight."

"You're talking to the wrong guy. He crossed two lines. Point them out to him. I don't claim to like him, but I'm prepared to treat him respectfully."

"Now, Andrew, he is your stepfather."

"Half a continent is a long step. Now, you wanted me to put April down. I can't see why, but you did. You accomplished that. Why does he have to blunder in expressing an authority he feels but doesn't have?"

"How was the weather in Chicago?"

"Cold. It's Chicago." Was she pretending to have forgotten?

"I wish you could come in the summer, too."

"I have a summer job."

"I think your father planned that." Andy was certain he hadn't consciously done so.

"Now, Mom!" On the other hand, was one reason for Dad's insistence on his working over the summer a subconscious realization of the interference that would cause in Andy's visits to Mom? Quite possibly.

The car came back. When the trunk opened, he lifted his case inside. Mom got in the front seat and he and April in the back. When Molly got back from her meeting, they all had dinner. Stiffly, trying to get a conversation going, Mom asked what he'd read in the past year.

"Got a book on special relativity. Tough read, but it made some things clear for the first time."

Mom's husband, who could have kept his mouth shut, asked a question, or said that was heavy reading for a high-school senior, said instead, "Those scientists try to make everything complicated so they look important." Obviously, he hadn't seen many pictures of Einstein -- probably the least important-looking adult in history. "Now, in my business..." He was in advertising. "... we make things clear so any ordinary guy can understand them. I don't know if scientists can't do that, or they don't want to."

"Perhaps, sir, your quarrel is not with physicists but with God. Perhaps, the reason the physicists don't explain the universe in a way you can understand is not that they haven't made a simple enough explanation but that Gad hasn't made a universe simple enough that you can understand it." That got him a grin from Molly. She might dislike him, but she despised the turd.

"Now, Andrew," said Mom.

"Well, we were talking science. I was just posing an alternative hypothesis. It fits all the data." Including the datum that the man she'd left Dad for didn't know his ass from his elbow.

"Really. It's simple and they complicate it." The idiot not only couldn't understand the universe, he couldn't see an insult that had been clear to Molly.

"Okay. It's simple. Y is traveling three quarters of the speed of light north from X. Z is traveling three quarters of the speed of light north from Y. How fast is Z traveling from X? The directions are the same."

"That is simple. One and a half times the speed of light. I know they way that you can't travel faster than the speed of light, but your problem has them doing so."

"Except that your answer is wrong. Velocities don't add that simply when they are an appreciable fraction of light. I'll admit that the simple thought experiment I posed hasn't been carried out, but they've accelerated and accelerated electrons, and they can't get them faster than light. They can't even get them as fast as light relative to the accelerator."

"Speed adds up. You'd know if you drove."

"So it does at low velocities. Velocities of cars relative to the ground -- even of planes relative to the air."

"Where do you get this 'relative to' crap."

"That's what you measure when you measure speed. You have two bodies, and one has a velocity relative to the other. Velocity is simply a speed in a direction."

"Well, cars have a speed, and it's only the speed of the car."

"That's the speed relative to the ground. It's nothing absolute."

"Lose control when you're going fast and you'll learn how absolute it is."

"So you reject those new-fangled scientists like Einstein and Copernicus."

"Who is Copernicus."

"Polish guy. Claimed the earth went around the sun."

"Everybody knows that." Which, of course, dismissed Copernicus. He only said what the turd already knew. Except, sometimes, the turd didn't.

"Not quite everybody. There was a guy at this table minutes ago claiming that the ground was still."

"Well, it goes around the sun."

"And rotates on its axis once a day?"

"Sure, everybody knows that."

"Then it's not quite still. At the equator that's a thousand miles an hour. In San Diego, it must be 700 or 800 miles an hour. And that's just the rotation. The revolving around the sun is much greater velocity."

"How great a velocity, Andy?" Molly was trying to fuel the fire. But he'd treat her question seriously.

"I don't know off-hand, but I should be able to calculate." He shut up and started to work. Eight light-minutes for radius. That's about a quarter of a thousand light-seconds -- quarter of 186,000 thousand miles. Say 45 -- or maybe 40 since 240 isn't quite a quarter of a thousand -- million miles. Times 2 pi -- call it six. 240, must be at least 250, million miles a year. 365 is about a third of a thousand. So, it's about 750,000 miles a day. 24 hours per day -- call it... "Thirty thousand miles an hour. That's the right order of magnitude, but I did a lot of approximation. Between 20,000 and 40,000 for certain."

"Hell of a conversation for a supper table," said Mom's choice for a man. She'd never any taste in book presents, either.

"Really, April," Mom said. "We let you stay up late because of Andy, but it's time for bed, now." Mom didn't like fights, but -- apparently -- she preferred open ones to the guerilla warfare that she'd just witnessed. April, for a wonder, didn't throw a tantrum.

"Molly says I can't sleep in her room. But we both can sleep in mine, Andy."

"That's all right, Moppet. A lady deserves her privacy." And so does a man. Used only three weeks a year, Dad provided each of them with a room in his house. The only male child didn't get one in this house. And Dad paid child support for the two while Mom didn't pay any for him. Well, that was between the two of them, and he wasn't going to step in it.

The problem was that a man, a growing man with growing needs, deserves his privacy, too. And his couch in the living room was close to right underneath his Mom's bed in their bedroom. He didn't hear much, but he heard the slight rhythm that must have been the motion of their bed. He'd already brought some toilet paper to bed -- the living-room couch -- from the downstairs john. He held it against the tip as he stroked himself in time to the bed's motions. This was his second trip in which he slept down here, and he knew enough to start after they did so he wouldn't finish before they did.

His suitcase -- Dad's suitcase, really -- was large. He didn't bring many clothes. Mom no longer went to church, so he didn't need a suit. The bag was stuffed, though, with presents. Dad's several to each of his daughters, his own to his sisters, his mother, and even her husband. He got presents from each of them, too. Molly knew him well enough, and was tight enough, to get him a paperback. The copyright was years out of date, but it was an SF book he hadn't read. She'd bought it used, by the look -- and smell -- of it, but he'd read it with pleasure. He doubted that he'd wear the shirt Mom gave him except in San Diego. The tie her husband gave him would go in the back of his closets with the others. April's gift hadn't been home-made for years. It looked like she'd taken Mom's advice, but he'd wear the UCLA sweat shirt anyway. The coffee can she'd wrapped with yarn to hold pencils many years ago still held pencils on his desk.

They all managed to survive this visit. Molly, either because she was leaning towards forgiving him for being her sibling, or because Mom put the screws in her quite hard, or -- just possibly -- because she was so glad to see him go, was in the car to the airport on Friday. Mom drove 'cause her husband had business. He rode in the front with Mom.

"After all, Andrew, your legs." Well it was more comfortable, especially before the cramped airplane. He'd still have preferred to share the back seat with April.

She gave him a hug-and-a-kiss goodbye. Mom gave him a warm hug. Even Molly gave him a sort of hug.

Dad met the plane. They had their Christmas back home the next day. Dad, for all his faults, gave him books. One was a bio of Grant. Dad had been a History major, and he was happy that his son was deeply interested in a sliver of history. He was also smart enough to enjoy that without crying over all the other parts of the past that Andy learned only on the threat of an exam. The other book was a bio of Schroedinger.

"I really wanted to give you a bio of his cat, but the only copy was only half there." The old man might be dull as dishwater and full of odd demands. He did, however, have a sense of humor. The other presents -- hardly surprises -- were renewals of his subscriptions to Analog, Scientific American, and Technology Review.

"You know," Dad said, "I greatly fear that I'm raising a bookworm."

"Well, Analog is pure escape reading."

"Yeah. Sure. Look, kid, you want to be an engineer, be a happy engineer. I just can't imagine one."

"Want to take a poll on what people think of bankers?" Dad might be dull, but he was nowhere as dull as the reputation of his profession.

"Well, we get to deal with all that money. Everyone envies us that."

"Sure. And my work will be electrifying." That got him a grin.

Dad was pleased with his gift of a history of Greater Syria.

Sunday, he saw Marilyn again. Damn! That girl was pretty, a sexy miniature. They were friends, why not be something more? Because she was way beyond him in status, that's why. Well, he dithered and dreamed. the school was having a dance Saturday. Wednesday, he invited her. She not only turned him down, she wasn't available. She was going steady. Why not, if she'd been his girl, he'd have tried to tie her up -- that was for sure.

The last gifts given, days late because of development time, were the snapshots he'd taken of his sisters. Dad, who'd thanked him for the hard-back book he'd paid good money for quite sincerely but dry-eyed, teared up over these. He thought of April's pencil holder. Things are much less important than relationships. If someone else had wrapped a coffee can in yarn and tried to sell it to him, he wouldn't have paid a penny.

He went to the Saturday dance as a stag. The available girls weren't the stars, but some of them were pretty, and others were nice. He kept half an eye on Marilyn and she seemed to dance only with one guy. It couldn't be because others didn't want to, but he nerved himself up to ask on the next Wednesday.

"Clarify something for me," he asked her. "When you say 'steady' you mean you don't date anybody else. Do you mean you don't dance with anybody else?"

"Really, it does." Well, that was clear enough, if not what he wanted to hear.

"Thanks." He would, however, keep going stag to dances. Dancing was fun, and he didn't want to be any lower on the totem pole than he was already. He just wasn't ready for a serious relationship, at least not one that was possible to him.

He shone in class, if not in his social life. And he sent his college apps off in good time. Dad, who had insisted that Andy work, seemed to expect that his father would provide the checks for the apps. Andy was perfectly happy. It wasn't that he was greedy. He didn't push the old man for an allowance, but he didn't offer to pay his own money for anything, either. It wasn't as if Dad were starving. He no longer wore the same suit two days in a row.

One Sunday after service, Mr. Schmidt came up to him.

"Can we talk?"

"Sure."

"Jim, I'll drive Andy home." This was going to be a serious talk, and Mr. Schmidt didn't move the car when they were in it.

"You don't have a girl, do you?"

"No?" Did he think he was gay?

"What do you think of Brittany?" He must mean the Junior girl and not the French province. At least, he'd seen the girl.

"Nice girl. Pretty enough." She was no Marilyn, but she was no hag either.

"What I'm going to tell you, you can't repeat to a living soul, ever."

"Okay."

"She just broke up with her boyfriend. She feels dumped, and in the dumps. If somebody asked her to the next dance, she'd feel much better. You do dance, don't you?" Of course, Mr, Schmidt dealt with the kids on an MYF basis. The dance chaperones were an entirely different group of adults.

"Sure. I've been going to the school dances stag." Well, he'd gone to two dances stag, but details weren't necessary. "But you don't know who you're talking to. I'm low man on the school totem pole."

"You're a senior. Don't sell yourself short. If you wanted to ask her, I've got her phone number. But you can't tell a soul."

"Okay." And he got a slip of paper with his ride home. He dithered, The phone call wasn't as easy as Mr. Schmidt thought it was. But Brittany had the same lunch period as he did. He waited until she left the line and went to a table of girls.

"Brittany?"

"Yes." She set down her tray and started unloading it. She was one of those girls that were too fussy to eat off the dishes on the tray.

"I know this is late, and I'm sorry, but would you be my date for the dance Saturday?"

"Why, thank you, Andy. I would be honored." That was a lot more formal than he'd expected. But he could match that.

"The honor is mine, but I'd better get my lunch and eat it before they drive us out to classes." That night, he checked with Dad that he could borrow the car. He phoned Brittany for her address, one detail that he'd neglected.

When he picked her up on Saturday, her dad grilled him and insisted that they get back by a time that would be one hour after the dance let out -- maybe a little less, because of delays, but the clock time, not the period after the dance, was what mattered.

She danced well. Nobody else tried to dance with her, and he didn't know how to tell her to make herself available. He didn't even know how girls did that, except by standing against the wall, which was what he'd looked for. He excused himself after one dance to go to the men's room -- prominently labeled "boys" to tell what the school administration thought of the students -- but she went to the ladies' at the same time.

After the dance, he pulled into a decent parking spot and felt her freeze up. He put his hands on ten and two on the wheel.

"Look where my hands are." She looked. "They stay there, but your parents were so insistent about the curfew that they'd flip if I drove you home now. Look, you're a lovely girl, and I'd enjoy making out with your body. But you don't feel for me. What would it make you if you made out in return for a dance invitation? What would it make me if I demanded that you do?" She looked at him. Then, slowly, she relaxed.

"Want to tell me about it?" If not, they could gossip about school. they could even gossip about MYF.

"Well..." She took a deep breath. "Well, Jack..." She began to tear up. "I loved him, really I did. And I thought he loved me, too." She burst into sobs. The Kleenex box was on the rear ledge. He reached back but it was impossible.

"Wait here." He got out of the car and opened the rear door. He got the Kleenex box and put it on the dashboard before getting back in. "Here." She cried a little longer, then bent forward to get the Kleenex. He patted her back. In another situation, he could hug her and let her cry it all out. He'd done that for April -- even for Molly, long ago. If he did it in a car after a dance, he'd break his promise. Well, he'd broken his promise to keep his hands on the wheel, but as long as they stayed on her back she wouldn't object.

"He said if I really loved him, I would. I said if he really loved me, he wouldn't. Well, he didn't really love me." She burst back into tears, and he wondered briefly what the debated act was. Going all the way? Touching her breasts? It couldn't be the last -- he remembered his own junior year. Something really perverse? And, of course, Jack's version would be that she didn't love him -- didn't love him because either she hadn't -- and Brittany's description was far from clear on that, on anything -- or she hadn't been really willing when she had.

After a while, the spasm passed. You can be gloomy for a long time, but you can't cry a flood very long -- even if you can get a drink, which they couldn't. He checked his watch -- less than half an hour to go. She looked at him.

"Can't be the most fun you've ever had on a date."

"Well, you needed to cry." Girls need to cry, something his dad had said many times to his sisters. Sometimes, he'd said that Andy needed to cry, too, but not for years. They sat like that without talking at all. when he checked his watch again, they had ten minutes.

"Why don't you get your face in shape?" When she got her stuff -- including mirror and lipstick -- out of her purse, he warned her, "I still expect a good-night kiss on your front porch." He didn't particularly want to scrub lipstick off his face. It was a cheap price for a long session of passion, but a lot to give for an instant of gratitude. On the other hand, using that mirror was thoughtful of Brittany; he'd seen girls twist the rear-view mirror around for their convenience. When she put the stuff back in her purse, he started the car and drove her home.

"Wait here," he said when he'd parked in her driveway. He got out of the car and walked around to open her door. It was, after all, a date. He stopped her while he was one step below the porch. This was much more convenient kissing range. She turned around, and he lifted her chin with his finger. He bent down to give her a closed-mouth kiss. Surprisingly, she threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, Andy, you're the nicest guy!" Her kiss was thorough and enthusiastic, if still closed-mouth. "Good night, and thank you."

"Thank you." He watched her into her door, returned to the car, and drove home.

"How was your date?" Dad asked when he returned the car keys.

"Interesting."

"Um. Do you remember what I told you in that long talk a couple of years ago?"

"It wasn't interesting in that way, but yeah." He'd been embarrassed enough, but not as embarrassed as Dad had been. He didn't want the talk repeated. What he wanted to learn about the factual side of sex and contraception -- which was plenty, if he spent less time on it than on the fictional and imaginary side -- he could get from books.

On their second date, he told her that he wouldn't object to her accepting dances from other guys. She did. They had a couple more dates, and he started dancing with other girls occasionally. She always was his first dance, his last dance, and a few other dances. They sometimes sat out while he bought them pop or Kool-Aid. The pre-Easter clean-up was coming up.

"I think I'll go. do you want me to pick you up?" He'd walk to the church otherwise. She lived much further away, but boyfriends picked up their girlfriends for such events, sensible driving or not.

"I wasn't thinking of going. We never have before."

"Well, MYF is doing it this year. I really think that we should." And, since couples either both participated or neither did, they participated. The turn-out wasn't what Marilyn wanted, but there were definite MYF contingents inside and out. He was beginning to see that Marilyn would never be satisfied with the turn-out.

Dad and he visited the U of I campus at Champaign-Urbana. It looked nice, although looks were low on his priority list. The whole weekend was focused on the school experience. He wanted to learn about electrical engineering; he wanted a degree that would tell future employers that he had learned that. U of I would give him both, but he'd known that before he went.

Brittany came to him in school one day not too long afterwards.

"Um, Andy, Carl asked me to the dance Saturday." Well, so had he, but...

"I hope you accepted."

"Not quite. I said I had to do something first. Oh, Andy, you're the nicest guy." And he went to that dance stag. By that time, though, there were girls who were interested in dancing with him. They'd seen him with Brittany, after all. They weren't the prettiest or most popular girls. They were girls who didn't have a date, and most of the girls who had broken up recently stayed home. Still, some of them could dance quite well, and he didn't ask the real dogs.

MIT didn't come through. He hadn't expected it to, though he'd hoped enough to apply. IIT came through, but he did not want to go to school in Chicago. U of I came through, and he accepted. Well, September was taken care of, now for the summer. Dad didn't need to nag, but he nagged anyway.

"Look, I worked my way through college." Dad had said that before, but they were a family. If they didn't repeat things, they wouldn't talk.

"There are scholarships for kids whose parents can't afford tuition; there are none for kids whose parents want to duck tuition." He had said that before, but...

"Well, I'll pay tuition, room, and board. But there are a lot more costs to college than that." How much more? he wondered. He had thousands in the bank from the last two summers. And, to be fair to Dad, what he worried about was Andy's working. He wasn't tight with him.

Every Tuesday, Andy took a shopping list from Mrs. Bryant. He bought groceries -- except for the meat and fish she didn't trust him to select -- after dinner. He gave the bill to Dad and got back the amount the next day. Dad never questioned extra pop, snacks, or the occasional frozen pizza. Anything that Andy wanted to eat at home, unless it was a quite sudden desire, he bought and Dad paid for. He knew from his friends the fights they had with their parents about spending and chores. While he'd never say so, not to them and certainly not to Dad, he had it easy.

Dad's rules on drinking were: (1) Andy had to be cold stone sober before he got behind the wheel of a car, and (2) if he barfed, he cleaned it up. He'd also said once, "If you're after the taste, I don't mind your drinking the good stuff; if all you're out for is getting a buzz, why not stick to the cheap stuff?" but he'd been very clear that this was a request, not a rule. The truth was that Andy enjoyed his head. He could factor a four or five-digit number in his head. He didn't enjoy losing that power, that cool control. This preference limited his drinking more than Dad's rules did.

On the other hand, he also knew that some of the school parents would think that Dad had it easy, too. He'd had detention twice in four years. His grades seldom dipped as low as C, even in Gym. The police wouldn't recognize him. He bathed and shaved with some regularity. His clothes were not garish and were -- even if Mrs. Bryant did the laundry -- clean when he went out in the morning.

Really, they -- partly from mutual accommodation, partly from natural inclination -- made it easy on each other most of the time. And, since he'd get to spend the money, he should probably go along with Dad on this one. On the other hand, he did not want to go back to working for Mr. Vincent. The man was nice; the job was bearable; the commute was nowhere near bearable. On problem was that the ELs and buses were unreliable. The commute could average a little over an hour each way, but he'd learned that he needed to start almost two hours before his work-time began to make sure he got there in time. That meant that if he got a job, he should get another job. He could start with somebody who knew him.

"Mr. Schmidt," he said after church one warm Sunday, "could I speak to you?"

"Certainly Andy. Walk me to my car." Mrs. Schmidt was waiting in the doorway.

"I was wondering whether your hardware store ever hired summer workers. Really, I was wondering whether I'd have a chance."

"Well, we have."

"I can't claim any consideration for my need. This won't put food on the Trainor table or, even, buy me textbooks next year. Dad worked his way through college, and thinks I need to work when I'm not studying. On the other hand, I've worked earlier summers, if not in any hardware store. I can give references -- well a reference."

"You're not planning to work your way through college. Did you ever ask him whether he worked high-school summers?"

"Working your way through college isn't practical today. And, of course, I'm not eligible for any need-based scholarships. My Grandfather owned a dairy farm. Dad may not have seen a paycheck before he went away to school, but he did work. His dad told me so." And, sweeping out a grocery store was better job than "mucking out the barn" sounded. Mr. Schmidt smiled.

"Yeah. Life is easier today for us. How much easier should it be for our kids? Well, we have actual applications. Come down to the store some weekday after school and fill one out. It's not my store, by the way. I'm the manager, not the owner."

"Thank you very much." And he walked home, walking being pleasant in the weather, while Mr. Schmidt drove back to pick up his wife. Monday, he went down and filled out the application. What he really wanted was an early response, but he didn't know how to ask for one. He figured that he would wait a bit and then go around to grocery stores.

Meanwhile, he was still a high-school student. A lot of his fellow students slacked off when they'd sent in the transcripts with their college applications. They figured that, as long as they passed, nobody would see their grades. Maybe, but Andy was looking for a strong finish.

Mr. Schmidt agreed to hire him.

He heard that Marilyn was going to the U of I, as well. She was prominent enough that people like him heard such news. Nobody was going to gossip about where he was going. Now, if he had got into MIT, that might have been different. He decided to build one more bridge with her.

"You're going to Champaign-Urbana?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Me too. Maybe we'll meet there." Then he thought of what he'd seen on the campus visit. "And maybe, considering the size of the campus, we won't." Still, there had to be a way of finding students by name, and he had her name.

Graduation was a formal occasion. The principal said, in the midst of a much-too-long speech, "Now you are adults." It was nice of him to recognize it, just when they'd never see him again. Dad took a bunch of snapshots, he'd send prints of any that looked at all decent to Mom.

"She doesn't send you pictures."

"Well, maybe she will. If not, why be nasty? They're important to me. Why should I deny them to her?"

"She left you for that turd."

"Not quite. Your mother has horrible taste in men. You should have seen the two before me. On the other hand, I'm no longer going to pretend that I was the exception. Anyway, spouses are like jobs and houses. If you don't like the job you have, you look for another one. If you don't like the house you have, you look for another one. If you don't see anything you like, you may stick to the old one. Although, of course, people live without any husband or wife all the time.

"But if you're satisfied, you don't move on because you think the alternative is even better. Why did you ask at the hardware store instead of going back to the grocery?"

"Dad! The commute was back-breaking. You ever try to get to the bank on public transit?"

"My point exactly. Craig didn't lure you away with better pay or more attractive hours. You rejected one job before you considered the other. In the same way, your mother may have been mistaken when she decided that the choice she made was an improvement. And, really, you and I can't judge whether she jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. But she definitely thought she was in the frying pan long before she chose that particular fire."

Well, he couldn't argue with that. He'd heard their fights as long as he could remember.

His first job in the hardware store was at the cash register. He'd worked in the grocery for a year before he touched the cash register. Soon, he figured out why this was different. He didn't know anything, and the guys on the floor were there to tell customers -- customers who knew the store better than Andy did -- where things were. Occasionally, they told them more than that.

"You're not going to know those answers," one of the salesmen told him. "Don't, for the love of God, try to fake it. What you should learn is who to send them to -- who knows what best."

"Okay. What do you know best?" The guy laughed.

"Electricity. We all know the stuff that sits on the ceiling or the wall, but I know stuff like junction boxes and what to do about circuit breakers that trip too often." So, if the question was on electricity, he'd send them to Jeff.

The store was huge. It didn't look all that large from the outside when one was used to supermarkets. The inside, though, had aisles and aisles of particular kinds of things. After his first day was over, he wandered around trying to get a grasp of how it was arranged.

The second day, he brought pencil and paper. He sketched out the rough outline of the store walls while no customers were waiting to pay. After work, he counted the aisles, and got a rough picture of where they were onto his paper. He went home and redrew the map with ballpoint and straight edge. After work the rest of the week, he labeled the sections. The aisles had letters on the racks, but the daytime customers he saw didn't seem to need them.

The third week, he was put on restocking. He needed his map, but he learned the inventory much more intimately. They carried regular light bulbs, on shelves inconveniently low. (After all, people could -- and did -- buy those from grocery stores.) The fancy bulbs were above them where they would catch the eye. So were dimmers and fixtures and all sorts of similar stuff. He, and another guy, were there to substitute times -- if not activities -- for people on vacation. He got a week off, without pay, because only one employee was taking vacation that week.

"You understand, Andy, that Bill has first call. It's his second year in the store."

"Yes, Mr. Schmidt. I understand completely." And he spent his first morning at the library getting stuff to read. After lunch, he sent into the back yard, took his shirt off, and prepared to absorb both rays and stories. His first choice was a collection of Jack Vance short stories. Mrs. Bryant found him there.

"I'm about to do the wash."

"Okay. I'll check my room for anything almost ready for the washer." Theoretically, he put clothes in the hamper when they were dirty. As a practical matter, there were always a few items which he'd thought might be good for another day.

"Not this time, Andy. Your dad says you'll be going away and will need to know how to do laundry." So, he learned how to do laundry. It was one hell of a lot less interesting than Vance. On the other hand, they were right -- he'd need to know that. And he did the entire task under her supervision. Mrs. Bryant's teaching method was to tell him how to do it and then watch him do it. He figured that he would be a trained hardware clerk and a trained laundress by the end of the summer. Neither was high on his occupational-choice list, but he had no respect for people who took pride in their ignorance.

When he went back to work, it was back on the cash register, with extensive evening and Saturday hours. These customers were do-it-yourselfers who knew considerably less than the average daytime customer. Of course, there was considerable overlap. Some people repaired their own homes on their vacation. Plumbers were happy to fix your pipes at night on time-and-a-half or more.

A man came in the door and straight to him with a faucet in his hand. He started to explain his problem.

"I think you'd better speak to Gus. Gus," he shouted. "Plumbing problem at the counter. This gentleman," he explained when Gus showed up, "has a problem beyond my competence." Gus took care of him, and then came back when nobody was waiting in line.

"Beyond your competence, schoolboy, what do you think your competent at?"

"Now, Gus. I handled him competently. Guy comes in with a faucet -- I call Gus. That's what I know about plumbing; I know to ask Gus." Gus laughed and walked away.

He was still working evenings when April and Molly flew in. He got back from work to find April prepared for bed, but up.

"Andy!"

"Moppet!" She flew into his arms and he carried her up the stairs towards her bedroom. "Brush your teeth already?" She nodded.

"Read me a story?" Of course he would and did. She lay quietly, if with eyes open, as he turned on her night light and closed the door.

"Hi, Molly," he said when he was downstairs. "Have a nice trip?"

"Well, I see that I still take second place."

"Go to bed now, and I'll read you a story, too." He kept his voice low. He'd lain in bed hearing his parents quarreling. April's hearing her siblings quarreling might not be so bad, but he wasn't about to risk it.

"That's not what I mean."

"On the other hand, you've been cramped on a plane for far too long. Want to take a walk around the block?"

"I have my shoes off."

"Suit yourself." He sank into a chair. She'd been cramped into an airplane half across the country. He'd been on his feet for eight hours with only a lunch break.

"Well..." She put on her sneakers. They went out the door and turned right.

"He says that April's not Dad's daughter." There was no need to ask whom she meant.

"Well, when did you start believing him?" Andy, on the other hand, could remember things Mom had said. "You claim her, and I'll ask for a blood test." And, really, Dad, too. "If she ever hears that she's not mine, I'll sue you for all the support payments. I'll throw in a fraud charge, too. She's mine. I walked the floor with her when she had colic; that makes her mine. And if you pull biology, you'll rue the day for the rest of your life." Neither statement had been too clear at the time -- and neither had identified 'she.' Still, this claim from her current husband sounded like Mom had said something similar -- and maybe more specific -- again.

"Well, she doesn't look like him."

"She looks more like him than you do, on top." He nodded at her new, rather small, breasts.

"Oh, sure."

"Look, first, why believe him? Second, so what? Dad loves her; he loves

you, too. How much pain do you want to bring to people who love you? A lying turd says something. You can repeat it, but you can't prove it. So why repeat it?"

"It worries me."

"Well, living with him should damn-well worry you."

"He tries to get too close to me." Did he? Molly was neither the most truthful nor the most attractive girl he knew. She had pimples nearly as large as her breasts. The turd could have Mom, and he knew that he not only could, but did. Why would he want Molly.

"Well, if he tries something really physical, contact Dad. He'll get airfare to you and prosecute."

"You really think he would?"

"You're his daughter. He loves the Moppet, but he loves you, too. Y'know what was his favorite Christmas gift from me?"

"You're going to tell me he liked it better than mine."

"I'm going to tell you that it was the snapshots I took of you two."

"He brought his camera with him to the airport."

"Have any left-over class photos? Send one to him when you get back."

"You're his favorite, Mom's too."

"Couldn't tell it at the last visit." He suspected that April was really Dad's favorite. If so, he couldn't blame him. "Mom wants to own me, and doesn't. Dad maybe wants to, but he knows it's a bad idea."

"You're grinding away at this summer job."

"Sure. And when I get out of college, I'll tell possible employers, 'Well, now I know how to do the job I'm applying for. When I was young, I didn't know diddley-squat, but I worked.' They'll respect a work record, however coolie the jobs."

"Are you trying to shit me? ... Or trying to shit yourself?"

"Y'know, Molly, every time I decide that you're an idiot, you come up with an insight."

"Which means that you're trying to shit yourself."

"Not quite. I'm working summers to please Dad. After all, I get most of what I want. I don't want to get all confrontational with him, when I get loads without the confrontation. It's just that I also see the advantages of working summers, too. Then, too, you and I are too young. If I get into a screaming confrontation with Dad, people will just say, 'Andy is a crybaby.' They won't consider that I might be right; I'm too young. And, when I really want something from Dad, I think I have a better chance if I'm not in his face about every little thing."

"You think I'm playing it stupid, but you don't know."

"Well, you figure out what you have to do with Mom. Maybe you're right. But I tell you that -- from outside -- you look more like you're being bratty."

"You don't know what I have to put up with."

"Yeah, Except I do, sort of. You're between a rock and a hard place. As I said, she wants to own me -- hut not half as much as she wants to own you."

"She made me take my jeans out of my bag."

"Why?"

"Because Dad lives so luxuriously that I won't have any place to wear jeans."

"Um?"

"I'm quoting. She made me take them out. I didn't decide not to bring them 'cause I'd be spending all my time at cocktail parties." Molly had to be exaggerating on that last. Not even Mom would think straight-laced Dad would take a 15-year-old girl to cocktail parties. But he could picture her imagining that Dad's summer was a whirl of social events. Actually, Dad took vacation when his daughters were in town. He kept Andy in the picture, but he wanted to see the girls, not entertain others. Molly and he finished their walk in silence -- a silence more companionable than he would have imagined having with Molly a week before.

He worked Saturday. When he got home to dinner, Dad had taken the girls shopping and bought them each two pairs of jeans and appropriate tops.

"You'll keep them here," Dad said at dinner. "You should have a life here and a life there. You'll have to move back and forth, but your clothes don't need to." That was too much for Andy.

"Dad," he asked, "how big was April on her last visit -- even Molly?"

"You don't think..."

"That they would fit into the clothes in a year? No I don't. Let them take them back. Even I outgrow my clothes. I don't wear them out."

"Well, that used to be true, but you're starting to wear out some of your present ones. How long since you bought new clothes."

"Hey! I bought new shorts before school started." T-shirts were a more frequent purchase, but Dad probably wouldn't count those. He bought them for the messages on the front. And, really, you don't outgrow a t-shirt.

"Well, okay. Take them back with you. But, here, you can wear them. Now, the clothes your mother sent include some which are appropriate for church. Molly, you can choose your own. Can you help your sister with what's appropriate in the morning?" Andy held his breath. Dad, who looked absolutely unfazed, was probably just a better poker player than he was. This was Molly's opportunity to rebel and refuse to go.

She didn't take that opportunity. Maybe she was growing up. Maybe she figured that it was a place to be seen in a favorable light. Maybe, and even this would be a step towards maturity, she figured that Dad deserved something for buying her two new outfits that didn't come out of her allowance. And, just maybe, she was already rehearsing the report to Mom that she went to church when Dad asked her to.

Anyway, they went. After the service, they shook hands with the new pastor, Reverend Lawrence. Then they stood around outside introducing Molly and April to the rest of the congregation. They ate Sunday dinner out, and then went back to change into more comfortable clothes. He got to see Molly's new jeans, and was glad he'd spoken up. They didn't look like they fit now. He tried to think back to when he was 15. Had he considered any girls in his class sexy? Not really, he decided. He wasn't even that interested in the seniors back then. 'Sexy' had been the women in the Playboys.

The girls went back in mid-August. He had that day off, and rode to O'Hare with them.

"Don't you drive, Andy?" Molly asked suddenly.

"Sure. But you don't expect Dad to trust both his precious daughters in car with me behind the wheel, do you?" She laughed.

"I trust your driving, Andy," the sweet Moppet said.

"Actually, so do I," Dad said. He didn't offer to exchange places, though. "I'm just used to being the driver when I'm in the car."

"Mom says I have to take Driver's Ed," Molly complained. She'd already said that before, and she'd told him that the idea had originated in the turd. They didn't mention him to Dad when they could avoid it.

"Well, dear, turning 16 doesn't mean that you know how to drive. It means that you are old enough to learn. And you have to learn somewhere." Molly shut up. It must be disconcerting to raise an issue that two people who couldn't agree on anything agreed on. He'd sound stuffy and cause a fight if he chimed in, but he worried about heedless Molly with her foot on the accelerator.

He expected to go back to laundry lessons when the girls were gone, but Mrs. Bryant must have decided that he knew more than he was going to use. The hardware store kept him from falling into a state of sloth, but Dad didn't put any demands on him at home. Dad took another vacation day when he had a day off.

"You really need a new suit." Well his suit was just a little short in the arms and legs. Dad took him downtown to Marshall Field's. "You need an adult suit if you're going to college. I thought of taking you to my tailor, but you don't need anything like that yet." After the suit was fitted, Dad bought him a new dress shirt and three pair of khakis. "Jeans are all very well for high school, but you'll find khakis are more appropriate for college." As usual, Dad used his own credit card. After all, he had made the clothes decisions. (Andy chose, and paid for, his own t-shirts, except for the rare birthday gift Dad thought might appeal to him.)

Still, he wondered where Dad expected him to spend the money he'd been earning all summer. Maybe that was part of it. Dad wanted him to be sweating. (The hardware store work really involved remarkably little sweat -- and, except for restocking the shelves, remarkably little exercise.) He might not want Andy to think he put him to work so Dad could avoid a few expenses.

Dad drove him down to campus the first day they would let him into the dorm room. He had a single -- very small -- room in a suite of four. In the living room he could be social; in his bedroom, he could escape sociability. He guessed he would spend lots of time in the bedroom, but he hadn't met his roommates yet.