e air pump and fiddle
with my tires. A car pulls out after it gets gas, and there's Tom.

"Hi!" I say.

Tom half frowns and quick looks over his shoulder to see if his boss is
around, I guess, and then comes over to the air pump.

"How'd you get way out here?" he says.

"On the bike. I got your postcard, and I figured I could find the filling
station."

He relaxes and grins. I feel better. He says, "You're a crazy kid. How's
Cat?"

But just then the boss has to come steaming up. "What d'ya want, kid? No
bikes allowed on the parkway."

I start to say I'm just getting air, but Tom speaks up. "It's all right. I
know him."

"Yeah? I told you, keep kids out of here!" The guy manages to suggest that
kids Tom knows are probably worse than any other kind. He motions me off
like a stray dog. I don't want to get Tom in any trouble, so I get going.
At the edge of the parkway I wave. "So long. Write me another postcard."

Tom raises a hand briefly, but his face looks closed, like nothing was
going to get in or out.

I pedal slowly and hotly back through the tangle of Brooklyn and figure,
well, that's a week's research wasted. I still don't know where Tom lives,
so I don't know how I can get a hold of him again. Anyway, how do I know
he wants to be bothered with me? He looked pretty fed up with everything.

So long as I got nothing else to do, the next week I figure I'll get
public-spirited at home: I paint the kitchen for Mom, which isn't so bad,
but moving all those silly dishes and pots and scrumy little spice cans
can drive you wild. I only break one good vase and a bottle of salad oil.
Salad oil and broken glass are great. In the afternoons I go to the
swimming pool and learn to do a jackknife and a backflip, so Pop will
think I am growing up to be a Real American Boy. Also, you practically
have to learn to dive so you can use the diving pool, because the swimming
pool is so jam-packed with screaming sardines you can't move in it.

Evenings Cat and I play records, or we go to see Aunt Kate and drink iced
tea. One weekend my real aunt comes to visit and sleeps in my room, so I
go to stay with Aunt Kate, and I pretty near turn into cottage cheese.

I've about settled into this dull routine when Mom surprises me by handing
me a postcard one morning. It's from Tom: "Day off next Tuesday. If you
feel like it, meet me near the aquarium at Coney Island about nine in the
morning, before it's crowded."

So that week dra