--Back in Bay Head, Southern New Jersey (At the Johnson Brothers Marina Pool)--

Waddya want? my brother asked. It has been two days since I told him, and now that it is a weekend, he has work. At least it was poolside, at the snack bar. And I got all the ice cream I wanted. On Mike. Sweet.

Nothing now. Just a question.

he said, as he put more pretzels in the maker-thinghie (as if there is a name for that?).

Do you know who that guy was?

Who, the one you, er, I mean, we found knocked out? he asked, implying something slightly different. I never actually told him about Stop Sign that afternoon, but when my parents came home from work, he was still lying on the pavement, considering nobody ever comes down our street. Later that night, I explained it to my brother, but it took a little convincing before he would believe me. A demonstration, to be exact. My mom still doesn't know what kind of quick windstorm' could have knocked one tree over in our backyard.

I said, snapping out of my pensive moment. Ever seen the guy before?

My brother whirled around, checked to see if nobody wanted anything, then whispered close in my ear, Yes, Sara. I have seen him before. He's...

But my brother was cut off by the sound of the Flintstones theme song.

Eh-he. Sorry, Michael, I said, then ran off to go receive the call.

Hey, Mom, I said, looking at my cell's caller ID.

Hi, honey. I know we usually go out to eat on Saturdays, but we are having some guests over and I'd prefer to stay at home. Can you cook for eight? Make anything you want.

I paused. I usually cooked Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and sometimes on Fridays, pizza day was on Tuesdays, but eating at home on Saturdays was practically a sin in my family. A schedule change like that meant something was up. Even if we had guests on a Saturday, we still ate out.

I don't think we have anything in the freezer except burgers and ribs- and maybe a package of swordfish in the fridge. Do you mind if I grill?

That will be great. I think we have some corn, too. If you need anything else, just go to Curtis Market, honey. Michael carries some money on him and I'll pay him back. And, if you can, clean the porch table- the dining room only seats six. They should be at our house around seven. Oh, and you don't need to change your clothes.

Okay, bye.

Click. Must be somebody really important. The only one that I could think of was Mr. Clampe, a fat man with a fat wallet. He often gave donations- if he was in a good mood. He was a traditional American- burger- in- one- hand- and- corn- on- the- cob- in- the- other- hand kind of guy. He was bias towards the typical American family- happy parents with two loving children who were willing to help out around the house and always did well in school and took care of a pet responsibly. Which is why when he came walking in at seven I was in an ironed dress setting the table, my brother was wearing starched khakis finishing his homework in the kitchen. Probably also why my mom finally let us get two adorable guinea pigs (my dad's allergic to dogs or else we definitely would have had to have one).

Whic is why it surprised me that 1. We were eating outside. Even after being cleaned, the outside table was still a tiny bit lopsided, not perfect enough for Mr. Clampe. 2. We needed to eat outside. With Mr. Clampe, it would only have been five people. And 3. Mom didn't ask me to change.

I wasn't going to ask, either. I went by the strict policy of NOMB- none of my beeswax.

I yelled, then ran to the snack counter. We have a problem.



Mom says we're having company, I don't know who- but something is telling me Mr. Clampe is involved, though some evidence points away from it. But Mom does want me to grill. On a Saturday.

he repeated, somewhat bored. He knew what that meant.

Could you go to Curtis? I goota get my rear home to cook.

Sara, I got work! Seriously-

a loud voice boomed behind us- Michael's boss, Chris Kepler, was standing there.Though we both feared the worst, he continued with a, You're off the hook for the rest of the day. Your mom just called.

Michael was stunned. It had to be Mr. Clampe. Nothing else we could think of would make my mom call my brother's boss. Kay, Sara. I'll see you in an hour. I'll get some ice cream while I'm out, too. He slipped out the back door of the snack bar and walked to my mother's car that he borrowed.

Need a ride home, Sara?



Great. This is going to be the longest Saturday night in my lifetime.