"What are you doing here?" "Visiting Laurie," Helen called back. "I came over on the ferry." "Glad you told me that. I thought you swam!" "You nut!" Helen said, laughing. "How do you know him?" I asked her as we pedaled on. "I've never seem him act so friendly." "He sits in front of me in second period. Rankin Tuttle—you know, alphabetically. We kid around. Is that place over there a hotel?" "It's the Brighton Inn," I said. "Natalie's dad owns it. You've got to see the inside. The ocean water runs right through like a creek, and they've got a little bridge built over. That building across the street is the gallery. The painting in the window is one of Mother's." By the time I had finished giving Helen a guided tour of the village it was really late, and we headed back to Cliff House, pedaling as fast as we could to beat the descending dark. We put the bikes away and entered the house through the kitchen. Dad was seated at the table, getting ready to pour wine, and Mother was burning a chicken under the broiler. Both of them were in good work had gone well—and Mother had a painting of Neal's to show us. It was a strange, fantasy thing of rocks that were shaped like dragons. "It's good, isn't it?" she said with satisfaction. "He's our kid, all right," Dad acknowledged, "half artist, half sf nut." "Sf?" Helen asked, mystified. "That's short for science fiction," Mother told her. The other term is ‘sci-fi’ but don't use that unless you want a fight on your hands. It's a unless it's used by another writer." Dad came back at her with some reference to 59
"What are you doing here?" "Visiting Laurie," Helen called back. "I came over on the ferry." "Glad you told me that. I thought you swam!" "You nut!" Helen said, laughing. "How do you know him?" I asked her as we pedaled on. "I've never seem him act so friendly." "He sits in front of me in second period. Rankin Tuttle—you know, alphabetically. We kid around. Is that place over there a hotel?" "It's the Brighton Inn," I said. "Natalie's dad owns it. You've got to see the inside. The ocean water runs right through like a creek, and they've got a little bridge built over. That building across the street is the gallery. The painting in the window is one of Mother's." By the time I had finished giving Helen a guided tour of the village it was really late, and we headed back to Cliff House, pedaling as fast as we could to beat the descending dark. We put the bikes away and entered the house through the kitchen. Dad was seated at the table, getting ready to pour wine, and Mother was burning a chicken under the broiler. Both of them were in good work had gone well—and Mother had a painting of Neal's to show us. It was a strange, fantasy thing of rocks that were shaped like dragons. "It's good, isn't it?" she said with satisfaction. "He's our kid, all right," Dad acknowledged, "half artist, half sf nut." "Sf?" Helen asked, mystified. "That's short for science fiction," Mother told her. The other term is ‘sci-fi’ but don't use that unless you want a fight on your hands. It's a unless it's used by another writer." Dad came back at her with some reference to 59
Stranger%20with%20my%20face.docx