Personal Touch by Caroline B. Cooney Page A

arrange something for me?”
    “Sure. What?”
    “Fix me up with Tim.”
    If Margaret had asked me to book her passage to Saturn’s rings, I could not have been more stunned. I was busy having a crush on Tim. Where did Margaret get off, feeling the same way? Besides, she’d had a boyfriend all year and I hadn’t. It was my turn.
    “Fix you up with Tim?” I repeated.
    “I’m crazy about him, Sunny. He was down here one day last week and we had such a good time. We laughed and laughed. I’m sure you think I’ve finally flipped out completely—falling for Tim. I know how you’ve always felt about him. Honestly, though, Sunny, I think he’s turned into something special.”
    “I guess I know what you mean,” I said. When the Margarets of the world wanted to sit on the beach and laugh with Tim, why would he ever feel any desire to hang around with the Sunny types?
    “I’m planning a beach party. I’ll invite Carol and Lisa and their boyfriends, and then Tim and me, and then a boy for you.”
    Lisa and Carol I didn’t know very well, but I did know they’d gone steady for ages. Obviously Margaret figured they’d be safe even with Tim’s newly visible charms on the loose. “Who are you thinking of asking for me?” I said. If it was Leland…
    “How about David?” she said brightly.
    “Margaret. I don’t want your rejects.”
    “David is a lovely person,” said Margaret defensively. “Just because he’s a little boring.”
    “No.”
    We flipped again, to get our sides tanned, and Margaret said to my back, “Well, who would you like me to ask for you?”
    Should I give her a list that read Tim, Tim, Tim, Tim?
    Or should I name some absolutely super boy I’d always yearned to date?
    The only absolutely super boy whose name came to me was Tim.
    I made a terrible face at the sand. Be grateful to Margaret, I said to the million grains of sand. I let them sift through my fingers. She’s going to help you get over this silly crush on Tim by taking him out of circulation. He’ll be happy, she’ll be happy, and I’ll be miserable. Sounds perfect.
    “Sunday afternoon?” said Margaret anxiously. “Could you round up Tim and meet us at the Point around one o’clock? I’ll provide the food and fixings. You just provide Tim.”
    It was not Tim I saw that afternoon, though. It was his father.
    Now, I have never known what to make of Mr. and Mrs. Lansberry. As far as I can tell they have no personalities. Beautiful clothes, perfect house, gleaming cars. All they ever said were things like Did you have a good school year, Sunny? How nice. Or at the bookstore, Yes, it is rather warm out. I’ll take these three please. And occasionally some witty remark that I always felt the Lansberry joke writer had handed Mr. Lansberry that morning, and he needed to use it to justify keeping a joke writer on the payroll.
    I tried to regard Mr. Lansberry in a new and favorable light. After all, he now ranked as the father of the boy I had a crush on. Those were his genes rolling around in Tim. Unlikely as it seemed. Maybe Tim was adopted.
    As usual, Mr. Lansberry looked and talked as if he had just fallen out of a slick magazine ad. Somebody had just poured his white wine or groomed his Russian wolfhounds or something. My mother says the Lansberrys are like fine furniture: glossy, expensive, and smelling of lemon polish, but not terribly interesting.
    How awful, when your whole life is built on keeping your personality smooth, sleek, and perspiration-free, to have a son whose personality is noisily splattered all over town.
    “Hello, Mr. Lansberry.” I looked at his beautiful trendy expensive clothes and I felt sort of sorry for him. He just was not the type to be a parent to Tim.
    Mr. Lansberry said good morning, made some amusing observations about the weather, and bought four paperbacks. The kind that start with the illegitimate son in France and end with his great-grandchildren stitching together mighty conglomerates