at his father and they exchanged a smile.
“You okay so far?” his dad asked.
“I’m good.”
A small hesitation. “Mom’ll call tomorrow.”
“I know.”
They looked at the others in the water. “Veracook will have decided they are insane,” Edward Marriner said.
“She’d have figured it out eventually,” said Ned.
They left it at that. They didn’t talk a whole lot these days. Ned had overheard a couple of his parents’ conversations at night about “ fifteen years old ” and “ mood swings .” It had made him think about being totally affectionate for a couple of weeks, just to mess with their heads, but it felt like too much work.
Ned didn’t mind his father, though. It got old after a while watching people go drop-jawed, the way Kate Wenger had, when they learned who he was, but that wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. Mountains and Gods was one of the best-selling photography books of the past ten years, and Passageways , though less flashy (it didn’t have the Himalayas, his dad used to say), had won awards all over the place. His father was one of the few people who took pictures for both Vanity Fair and National Geographic . You had to admit that was cool, if only to yourself.
When the others came shivering out of the pool to dry off, Melanie said, “Hold it a sec. Forgot something.”
“What? You? Forget?” Steve said. His yellow hair was standing up in all directions. “No possible way!”
She stuck out her tongue at him, and disappeared inside. Her room was the only bedroom on the main floor. She came dripping back out, still wrapped in her towel, with another one around her hair now. She washolding a bag that said “France Telecom.” She dropped it on the table in front of Ned.
“In case Ground Control needs to reach Major Tom,” she said.
She’d gotten him a cellphone. It was, Ned decided, easy to be irritated with tiny Melanie and her hyperefficiency, but it was kind of hard not to appreciate her.
“Thanks,” he said. “Really.”
Melanie handed him another of her index cards, with his new phone number written out in green on it, above another smiley face. “It has a camera, too. The package is open,” she added, as he pulled out the box and the fliptop phone. “I programmed all our numbers for you.”
Ned sighed. It was too easy to be irritated with her, he amended, inwardly. “I could have done that,” he said mildly. “I actually passed cellphone programming last year.”
“I did it in the cab coming back up here,” she said. “I have fast fingers.” She winked.
“Oh, ho!” said Greg, chortling.
“Be silent, baggy suit,” Melanie said to him. “Unless you are going to tell me that Arles is up and running.”
“Up and run your fast fingers over my baggy suit and I’ll tell you.”
Ned’s father shook his head and sipped his drink. “You’re making me feel old,” he said. “Stop it.”
“The house line is 1, your dad’s 2, I’m 3, Steven’s 4. Greg is star-pound key-star-865-star-pound-7,” Melanie said sweetly.
Ned had to laugh. Even Greg did. Melanie grinned triumphantly, and went back in to shower and change. Greg and Steve stayed out for a beer, drying off in the mild evening light. Greg said it was warmer on the terrace than in the pool.
It wasn’t even May yet, Ned’s father pointed out. The French didn’t start swimming until June, usually. There was water in the villa’s pool only as a courtesy to their idiocy. The sun was west, over the city. There was a shining to the air; the trees were brilliant.
A moment later, the serenity of that Provençal sunset was shattered by a startling sound. Then it came again. After a brain-cramp moment, Ned recognized it: the tune from Disneyland’s kiddie ride, “It’s a Small World.”
The four of them looked around. Their gazes fell, collectively, upon Ned’s new phone on the table. Warily, he picked it up, flipped it open, held it to his ear.
“Forgot to mention,” Melanie
“You okay so far?” his dad asked.
“I’m good.”
A small hesitation. “Mom’ll call tomorrow.”
“I know.”
They looked at the others in the water. “Veracook will have decided they are insane,” Edward Marriner said.
“She’d have figured it out eventually,” said Ned.
They left it at that. They didn’t talk a whole lot these days. Ned had overheard a couple of his parents’ conversations at night about “ fifteen years old ” and “ mood swings .” It had made him think about being totally affectionate for a couple of weeks, just to mess with their heads, but it felt like too much work.
Ned didn’t mind his father, though. It got old after a while watching people go drop-jawed, the way Kate Wenger had, when they learned who he was, but that wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. Mountains and Gods was one of the best-selling photography books of the past ten years, and Passageways , though less flashy (it didn’t have the Himalayas, his dad used to say), had won awards all over the place. His father was one of the few people who took pictures for both Vanity Fair and National Geographic . You had to admit that was cool, if only to yourself.
When the others came shivering out of the pool to dry off, Melanie said, “Hold it a sec. Forgot something.”
“What? You? Forget?” Steve said. His yellow hair was standing up in all directions. “No possible way!”
She stuck out her tongue at him, and disappeared inside. Her room was the only bedroom on the main floor. She came dripping back out, still wrapped in her towel, with another one around her hair now. She washolding a bag that said “France Telecom.” She dropped it on the table in front of Ned.
“In case Ground Control needs to reach Major Tom,” she said.
She’d gotten him a cellphone. It was, Ned decided, easy to be irritated with tiny Melanie and her hyperefficiency, but it was kind of hard not to appreciate her.
“Thanks,” he said. “Really.”
Melanie handed him another of her index cards, with his new phone number written out in green on it, above another smiley face. “It has a camera, too. The package is open,” she added, as he pulled out the box and the fliptop phone. “I programmed all our numbers for you.”
Ned sighed. It was too easy to be irritated with her, he amended, inwardly. “I could have done that,” he said mildly. “I actually passed cellphone programming last year.”
“I did it in the cab coming back up here,” she said. “I have fast fingers.” She winked.
“Oh, ho!” said Greg, chortling.
“Be silent, baggy suit,” Melanie said to him. “Unless you are going to tell me that Arles is up and running.”
“Up and run your fast fingers over my baggy suit and I’ll tell you.”
Ned’s father shook his head and sipped his drink. “You’re making me feel old,” he said. “Stop it.”
“The house line is 1, your dad’s 2, I’m 3, Steven’s 4. Greg is star-pound key-star-865-star-pound-7,” Melanie said sweetly.
Ned had to laugh. Even Greg did. Melanie grinned triumphantly, and went back in to shower and change. Greg and Steve stayed out for a beer, drying off in the mild evening light. Greg said it was warmer on the terrace than in the pool.
It wasn’t even May yet, Ned’s father pointed out. The French didn’t start swimming until June, usually. There was water in the villa’s pool only as a courtesy to their idiocy. The sun was west, over the city. There was a shining to the air; the trees were brilliant.
A moment later, the serenity of that Provençal sunset was shattered by a startling sound. Then it came again. After a brain-cramp moment, Ned recognized it: the tune from Disneyland’s kiddie ride, “It’s a Small World.”
The four of them looked around. Their gazes fell, collectively, upon Ned’s new phone on the table. Warily, he picked it up, flipped it open, held it to his ear.
“Forgot to mention,” Melanie
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