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hoping I hadn't left any dirty underwear lying around. I needn't have worried, though. They did Mom and Dad's room before mine. Most people will just stand politely in the doorway to a bedroom and peer inside, but not these three. They made a thorough search, poking into the closet and under the bed, examining the windows, opening the dresser drawers. It didn't make sense; my room was the one with historical interest. Still, it gave me a chance to dash ahead of them and clean up.
    When they finally did reach my room, they didn't bother making even a token attempt to pay attention to me. It was I who waited politely in the doorway, sensing that it was important to keep out of their way. The banter stopped. Their faces hardened and withdrew. More like archeologists than ever, they examined the paneling and the windows in minutest detail, unblinking, their fingers stroking the wood with the reverent intensity of the blind. In the silence I became aware of the surf and the bird cries, and listened to the static bleat of a radio rise and fall in volume as some kids carried it partway up the road and then turned back.
    I felt shut out and restless, but I was afraid to make a sound. I began to wonder how I was ever going to get rid of them. Almost two hours now had gone by since I had left Mom and Dad at the Beach. I knew they weren't going to let themselves burn, and it was also lunchtime. Surreptitiously, I crept into the room and looked over their shoulders out the window.
    The view from upstairs was not obstructed by the one-story cottage next door.
    The ocean air was so clear that, even though Mom and Dad were about a hundred yards away, I could easily read Mom's expression as they passed the kids with the radio—she wondered why they were coming down our dead-end road. And she probably wouldn't like it if she knew how thoroughly the people from next door had gone through our belongings. She might think they were casing the place to see if there was anything to steal, and maybe she would be right. What else could they be doing? And if they did end up stealing anything, it would be my fault.
    There was no time to stand around berating myself. Even if the neighbors were perfectly innocent, I still didn't want Mom to find them in the house.
    But they hadn't even noticed Mom and Dad; they were behaving like zombies.
    "Uh, listen . . . uh, those are my parents coming back," I faltered, twisting my hands. "See?"
    They started, like people coming out of a trance, and froze for a moment. Then they turned slowly to look at me, their faces still dead.
    "They might not understand what you're doing in our house," I went on. "I think, maybe you should go now."
    It was as though they did not know who or what I was, as though they really couldn't see or even hear me. Their icy unresponsive stares cut me off like a solid wall; I had never felt so supremely unnecessary. But they were the ones who were acting like crazy people, not me. What was the matter with them? Wasn't there anything I could say to get them to respond?
    "I'm not kidding," I said. "It could be embarrassing. And . . . and then I might not be able to ask you back to see this house again."
    Then they woke up, like a freeze-frame melting back into action. Joe shook his head irritably and glanced out the window; Manny ran a hand through his hair. Zena frowned and moved toward me. "Don't worry, Barney," she said, "we won't get you in trouble."
    Suddenly they were moving fast. Before I knew it I was running after them into the kitchen. "Thanks for the tour, Barney," Zena said. "And I think you're accurate about your parents. It might be well if they didn't know we'd been here."
    "Can I come over, after lunch like you said?" I asked, before agreeing to keep their visit a secret.
    "Sure, sure, Barney. Come on over. We'll do something fun, perhaps play a round of the game," Zena said, pulling open the back door.
    "Yes, come for a visit," Manny echoed as though he meant it, and they