“Very nice girls,” Mira pronounced. “Although Isabel, like Bea Williamson, can be somewhat of a pill. But she’s good at heart.”

“Yeah.” Norman scuffed his bare foot against the floor. “She’s got nothing on Bea Williamson.”

“Everyone is good at heart,” Mira said simply, fixing me with a look that made me feel strange. “It’s true,” she added, as if she thought I wouldn’t quite believe her, and I looked into her bright eyes and wondered what she meant.

“I’m going to the library,” Norman said. “You got anything that needs to be returned?”

“Oh, Norman, you are my saint,” Mira said cheerfully, swiveling to point to a stack of books by the far window. To me she added, “Without him I would flail about, lost and bewildered.”

“That’s not true,” Norman said.

“Oh, Norman,” Mira said with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you leave me.” Then she added, “It’s a long bike ride to the library. Lots of potholes.”

“It’s no problem,” Norman said. “So, Colie. You want to come?”

Mira was already back at work, humming softly under her breath. Under the drafting table she had one leg crossed over the other, one blue slipper bouncing up and down, up and down.

“I guess,” I said. “I mean, I need to change.”

“Take your time,” he told me, picking up the books and starting that slow amble toward the door. “I’ll be outside.”

I went upstairs and washed my face, then pulled my hair back in a ponytail and put on a different shirt. From my window I could see Norman; he was wearing the red sunglasses and stretched out across the hood of the car, his feet hanging off the edge. He was kind of cute, if you liked that Deadhead type. Which I didn’t.

I looked at myself in the mirror; with my hair up I looked twelve. I took it down. Put it up again. Then changed my shirt and checked on Norman, who appeared to have fallen asleep, baking in the sun.

I changed my shirt again, put on my Walkman and went downstairs.

“Ready?” he said as soon as I stepped outside, startling me. He hadn’t been sleeping, after all.

“Sure,” I said, and got in. The seat was hot on the back of my legs. Norman opened the glove compartment, and about six pairs of sunglasses fell out, all different kinds: Ray•Bans, purple-framed old-lady glasses, wraparound seventies styles.

“Oops,” he said, reaching over and collecting them. “Sorry.” He traded the pair he’d been wearing for some green ones and put them on, shoving the rest back into the glove compartment, which he slammed shut. It immediately fell open.

“Damn,” he said, pushing it shut again.

“Are all those yours?” I asked, as it opened and another pair fell out.

“Yeah,” he said, finally closing it with a good whack. “I collect them.” He started up the car. “You need a pair?”

“No,” I said.

“Okay,” he said simply, shrugging. “Whatever.”

We backed out of the driveway.

“Whatcha listening to?” he asked, pointing to the headphones around my neck.

“Fierces of Fuquay,” I said.

“Who?”

“Fierces of Fuquay,” I repeated.

“Never heard of them,” he announced. Now he pointed to the tape deck. “Pop it in.”

So I did. It wasn’t really fair, because it came on in the middle of this song called “Bite,” where the lead singer was just screaming over the drums. Norman’s face looked pained, as if someone was stepping on his foot.

When the song ended, he said, “You like that?”

“Yes,” I said, popping it out and back into my Walkman.

“Why?”

“Why?” I repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Because I just do,” I said.

“Shit,” he said loudly, and I was about to tell him I thought the same thing of whatever hippie music he listened to when I realized he was staring, mouth open, across the street at the Last Chance Bar and Grill. Two big buses, each with Family Beach Getaways painted on the sides, were pulling into the tiny parking lot.

“What is it?” I said.

“Gotta take a detour,” he told me. He hit the gas and we lurched forward, pulling up just as the bus door wheezed open and people started filing off, all in visors and bathing suits with children clinging to various parts of them. Norman got out of the wagon and went around to the back, letting down the tailgate to pull out a pair of shoes. He started toward the front entrance, dodging the bus passengers.

“Come on,” he said, dropping the shoes on the ground and stepping into them. “We might need you.”

I followed him up the steps, where a line was already forming; bodies shifting, voices irritated. Norman pushed through, yelling, “Excuse me! We work here!” and people let him pass, with me trying to keep up behind him.

The first thing I saw was a stunned Morgan standing behind the counter watching the line form.

“Help us!” she yelled at Norman, who waved her off and went back into the kitchen. Through the food window I could see another cook, an older man with bushy red hair.

Isabel walked up, carrying a stack of menus. “There are at least seventy total,” she said to Morgan.

“Seventy?” Morgan shrieked. “Are they kidding?”