"You went how far?" Laura Hardy demanded of her eldest son, putting her hands on her hips and frowning down at the eleven-year-old.

"We, well...we walked maybe a mile."  Frank looked up at her, his expression a mixture of wariness and bafflement.  "Then Mr. Prito came by and picked us up, like I told you.  While we were resting. He-"

"I don't believe it," Laura muttered, lifting one hand to her forehead.  "Your father missing, your brother nearly kidnapped from the middle of a shopping mall, the two of you avowing that you'll stay close- and what do you do?  You go wandering off through town, go a mile down Shore Road- and then you stop for a breather and get picked up.  Thank heaven it was Mr. Prito- what if it had been those criminals?  Don't you two realize," she went on, her voice raising in spite of herself, "the danger you put yourselves in by doing that?" Her eyes swept from wary Frank to sullen Joe; the younger boy refused to meet her gaze.

"You're the one who told us to leave the house," the ten-year-old said crossly. He was glowering at the floor, his arms folded on his chest.  "So we did."

"I thought you'd go to the playground or up to your treehouse!" Laura replied, exasperated. "I really thought you'd have the sense to stick close after everything that was happening.  Seems I was mistaken!"

"It's a good thing we did, though!" Joe shot back, raising his eyes to glare at her.  Laura started to retort angrily, then closed her mouth and stifled a sigh. The child was right.  If he and Frank hadn't gone so far out of town, been picked up by Carlo Prito, explored the woods near the Shore Cliffs and taken refuge from a summer storm in the abandoned Pollitt place, they would never have brought back word of where their father was being held prisoner.  Fenton Hardy might have been killed- or taken with the three espionage agents when they left- or simply abandoned to die of hunger and dehydration in the old house. 

Fenton had been home for four days now, and was more or less back to his old self.  He did still have some tender spots and bruises, and his sleep was not as calm as it usually was, but his energy was restored and the gaunt, exhausted look was a thing of memory. Vivid memory, Laura corrected herself with a shiver. Frank and Joe were taking the whole thing better than she was; they had been subdued for a day or so, but Fenton had shielded them as well as he could from the full impact of his kidnapping. He hadn't allowed them to see the bruises marring his body and had hidden much of his pain and weariness from them. And when he sat them down to explain more fully what had happened, he had glossed over his imprisonment and focused on the spies and their plans for the Vice-President.

In the process of satisfying the boys' curiosity, he had learned that Carlo and Tony Prito and Chet Morton had been instrumental in his rescue as well, and on Wednesday afternoon, he had left the house for the first time to thank them for their help. When he returned home, Laura had asked if he told them the whole story or not, since it was all supposed to be Top Secret.

"No, I didn't. Partly because it is top secret and partly because there's no more need to traumatize Tony and Chet than there is to frighten our boys. And not only do they not need to be concerned about it, they don't need the temptation to tell anyone else about it. I did go into a bit more detail with Carlo- just enough to make him understand that the boys weren't making it all up. He wasn't sure whether to believe them or not, since there'd been nothing about it in the paper, but he said they seemed so serious and agitated that he figured he'd take it at face value and sort it all out later. But I don't think we need to tell the kids that."

"Oh, no, definitely not," Laura had agreed quickly. "Frank and Joe would be very indignant if they knew he thought they were making it all up."

Today was Thursday and Fenton had gone to his office to see what sort of messages and work had piled up in his absence. He'd warned her not to be surprised if he worked late, but Laura was rather hoping he wouldn't. She still felt uneasy letting him out of her sight. He seemed to understand her anxiety and had tried to reassure her, both with affection and with his usual light-hearted attitude. When she mentioned at breakfast that she planned to take the boys clothes-shopping for back to school outfits, he had commiserated with the boys' groans and made her laugh when he pretended to 'console' them with the notion of wearing uniforms instead of picking out a new outfit each day. On being informed that Jefferson Elementary school didn't use uniforms, he had slyly suggested, "Well, you could get five of the same pairs of pants and five of the same shirt; that way you'd have your own uniforms," making the boys groan again, this time about being 'uncool', and resignedly admit that there was some good to getting a variety of new clothes, after all.

It was as Laura was cleaning up from breakfast, and brooding over her husband's departure, that she'd suddenly wondered what Carlo Prito had to do with Fenton's rescue.  She'd heard bits and pieces of the 'adventure' from Frank and Joe, and knew Fenton had been in 'an old house on Shore Road' that the four boys had taken refuge in during the storm- but 'an old house on Shore Road' encompassed a lot of territory. Curious and a bit disturbed, she'd called the boys downstairs and asked them to explain that part more thoroughly. Now, having just heard the whole story, she wasn't sure whether to feel more proud of her sons or more appalled by their recklessness.  The worst part was that neither of them seemed to feel that they'd done anything even remotely dangerous!

"I'm not saying it was a bad thing to do," she said at last, realizing Joe's angry blue eyes were still fixed on her.  "I'm saying, it was a dangerous thing and you're very lucky you didn't get into a lot of trouble. Besides that, you should have let me know where you were going."

"Mom, we didn't know where we were going!  We didn't feel like playing, there wasn't anything interesting to do, so we just walked.  And we weren't in any danger, not with all those jerks hiding in the house and the last one already in prison," Frank said irritably.

'Of course they didn't feel like playing,' the woman admitted to herself.  'Not when they were so worried.'

"And Frank had fifty cents so we could make a phone call or two if we needed to," Joe put in.  "We weren't stupid about it, and it's not like we walked all the way there.  We wouldn't've gotten into anybody else's truck except someone we knew."

Laura wondered briefly why, whenever Joe was called on some action of his or Frank's, he invariably twisted in some remark about it not being 'stupid'.  "I never suggested it was stupid, Joe.  Thoughtless, maybe, since I had no idea where you were, if you were in danger or not, if you'd been hit by lightning or not-" 'Oh, that was unfair,' she rebuked herself as Joe paled.  "I didn't know, all I could do was worry- just like I was worrying about your father.  Bad enough having him missing without wondering what had happened to you two."

"Yeah, well, you're the one who made us leave," Frank muttered. "We didn't want to."

"I asked myself at the time if I was making a mistake. If you could nearly be kidnapped once, it might just happen again," his mother agreed, reining in a sense of frustration and speaking calmly. "But as I said, I thought you'd have enough common sense to stay nearby- close enough to hear if I called you." She paused and sighed for the blend of sullenness and anxiety on the children’s faces.  Evidently she'd made her point.  "Boys, I'm not trying to scare you or make you feel bad, I just want you to understand that even when something seems perfectly safe and reasonable to you, there might be some danger in it that you're not seeing. And one of those things is going where no one knows where to find you. You know you're safe, but no one else does. Or worse, you aren't safe, but no one knows you need help or how to find you- just like when your father was missing. So in the future, I want to know where you're going, okay? Just so I don't have to wonder and worry."

"Okay," came two dispirited mutters.

"All right, we're done with that, then. Now, if you'll go get your shoes on, we can hurry over to the Mall and get your back-to-school shopping done before it's too crowded." Laura expected more complaining from at least one quarter- Joe despised both the back-to-school shopping and the inevitable return to the classroom and tended to make his feelings well known as the summer ended- but now, as he followed his brother docilely up the stairs, he was silent.  Either he was feeling subdued because of the lecture or he was getting to dislike school less, his mother concluded. She hoped it was the latter, though it seemed unlikely.

Then again, maybe it was another headache.  He'd had a few of those since his sight returned, not as bad as Dr. Rosa had predicted, but bad enough to require several aspirins and a cool cloth on his eyes for a while.  They had all been reading-induced, which was no surprise; both the boys were bookworms.  Frank, seeing Joe's frustration at having to limit his reading, had returned to his recent habit of reading aloud to his brother.  Laura only hoped that the headaches wouldn't make it too hard for Joe to study.  She'd have to remember to write a note to his teacher...or perhaps call the principal. Maybe both. Some of the teachers were quite reasonable about parental 'involvement', but others could get snitty about it.

The sound of feet patting quietly down the steps interrupted Laura's musings and made her turn to the key-rack to collect her purse and keys, smiling.  Fenton had been teaching the boys to walk silently lately, and it had the benefit of making the house not sound as if a herd of elephants was in residence.  "You two are really getting good at this quiet walking," she remarked as they came into the kitchen.  Brief but proud smiles were the response.  "Joe, how's your head?"

"It's fine- oh!  I better get my sunglasses!"

Frank shook his head as the blond boy raced out of the kitchen and thundered up the stairs.  "I never noticed how loud it was on the stairs before," he remarked ruefully. 

"I'm raising two fine young elephants," his mother agreed, and laughed at the look on his face.  Some corner of her mind noted that it was just as well Gertrude had departed that morning for a week-long visit to some friends; the older woman would doubtless have some complaint to make about the noise if she were here. Laura hid her frown at the thought, not wanting Frank to see it, but she made another mental note to talk to her husband about his sister. Gertrude was showing a renewed penchant for scolding the boys more harshly than Laura could tolerate, and her litany of 'don'ts' was getting longer every day. 'Here we go again,' the young mother mused sourly. 'It's not the boys who need to change their attitudes or behavior; it's her!'

Laura shook off the irritable thought and smiled as Joe trotted back into the kitchen, blue-and-purple sunglasses perched on his nose.  Frank grinned and waved at his reflection in the mirrored glasses.

"Don't do that," Joe complained.  "You get in my way.  Besides, you look silly."

"Not nearly as silly as you. You've got on yellow and green and now you're adding purple and blue...you clash!" Frank retorted, leading the way out the kitchen door.

"Hmmm," was Joe's noncommittal response as Laura locked the door.  "Race you to the car!"

Laura settled her purse comfortably over her shoulder and followed her sons as they tore down the driveway to the curb, hoping they would burn off a little energy before they got to the mall.  Not too much, for she didn't want them getting tired out and cranky, but the mall was not the place for races and horseplay.

***

"Now remember- you two stay close to me."

Joe Hardy grimaced at the glance Mom gave him when she said that, but didn't answer as he followed her and Frank into the Mall. The last time he'd been here, some man had tried to kidnap him; when Joe resisted, the man had stuck a nasty-smelling cloth in his face that made him nearly fall asleep and started to haul him away. Only Frank's quick action had kept the jerk from taking Joe and using him as a hostage to make Dad stop solving his last mystery. Joe could understand why his mother was a little anxious about being back in the Mall, but he wasn't too worried, himself. After all, the bad guys were in jail now; they couldn't get him. Unless, of course, there were other bad guys... Joe quickened his pace and walked alongside his brother, who glanced over and gave him a little pat. "Don't worry," Frank said softly.

"I'm not, much."

"They can't do anything now, you know."

"They can't," Joe agreed, pushing his sunglasses up to perch on the top of his head. It was never very bright in the Mall, unless you were in a store with lots of windows, and he didn't want to run into anything. Or anyone. "But other people..."

"Oh." His brother frowned, looking around with a suddenly wary expression. "I don't think they'd try it, though. There's too many people around. 'Sides, they mostly want little kids who they can carry, not big kids that they have to drag."

That was a reassuring thought, but Joe made sure to stay close to his mother and Frank anyway. Mom was still nervous about it- he could tell by the way she kept turning to check on him- and he had a feeling that if he got too far away, he'd get scolded. Again. One scold was bad enough; he didn't want another one.

The shopping trip was even more boring than Joe had expected, and school-shopping always was awfully tedious. Mom insisted on having them both try on shirts and sweaters, pants and shoes, until the only way Joe could tell his clothes from the store clothes was to check for the price tags; if it had a tag hanging down from it, it was store clothes. He'd never understood the need to go buy a whole bunch of perfectly good clothes, just to wear them to school. School didn't deserve new clothes; it deserved plain old ordinary stuff. "Or better than that, those clothes they make prisoners wear, black-and-white-stripes," he remarked to Frank as he came out of the dressing room. Frank looked at him as if he was crazy.

"What?"

"To wear to school," Joe explained, realizing he'd left out the first half of his observation. His brother blinked, then laughed.

"Oh! So you want a uniform like Dad said?"

"Well..."

"Silly," Frank concluded, and tousled Joe's hair, nearly dislodging the sunglasses propped on Joe's head. Then he canted his own dark head and grinned. "You're not complaining very much, today. Feel okay?"

"That's not funny, Frank." Joe grabbed his sunglasses before they could fall and shoved them into his pocket. Then he pulled them out again, remembering that he was wearing store pants.

"You're being quiet," his brother explained more seriously. "That means something's bothering you or you don't feel good."

"Or, I don't feel like talking," the ten-year-old retorted snippily, and trudged over to where his mother was standing, by the jeans rack. He held out his sunglasses to his mother without a word. Mom took them and put them in her purse, then regarded him critically.

"A bit long, but I can take up the cuffs, and let them out when you get taller...give them to the saleslady, honey, and try on these jeans. Frank, what do you think of this sweater?"

Seven years later- or so it seemed to Joe- Mom finally decided they had enough new clothes and it was time to go home. He heaved a big sigh of relief and didn't even ask for a cookie as they were passing the Mrs. Fields cart on the way out. The walk back to the car seemed to take longer than it should, because they were all carrying bags and that meant they had to go slower. The car radio-clock read nearly three in the afternoon; on seeing that, Joe's stomach growled loudly, but he didn't say anything about missing a chance to eat in the food court as Mom drove home.

"Well, I'm impressed, you were both very well behaved today." Mom's eyes met Joe's in the rearview mirror. "Are you starting to get used to the thought of school, Joey?"

"Joe," the boy reminded her. "And I hate school."

Mom sighed. "Well, I'm sorry you hate it. I think you'd feel better about it if you could see it as an opportunity to learn. But I am glad you didn't fuss the way you did last year."

An opportunity. Joe knew what that meant: it meant he was supposed to be glad to be stuck in classroom when he'd rather be home or outside, and to feel lucky that his teachers always made him feel stupid, because somewhere there were kids who wanted to learn, and couldn't. He didn't agree at all, and he'd often wished he could trade places with one of those kids. Then the kid could learn whatever they wanted, and Joe wouldn't have to. And the only reason he hadn't 'fussed' today was because he knew it wouldn't change anything, and it'd just make Mom mad again. He didn't answer her, just wedged himself into the corner between the door and his seat, feeling sullen at Mom and Frank and school and the mall and all those awful clothes he'd had to put on and take off and... 'At least I can see,' he consoled himself, staring out the window. 'I can see everything...I can see what colors those clothes are and don't have to wonder...and I can read, even if it does make my head hurt sometimes, and-'

"-Sending a note with you to warn your teacher about your headaches," Mom was saying, and Joe blinked, realizing he'd missed part of what she'd said. Then the part he had heard sank in and he felt his eyes widen in shock. Warn the teacher- that he got headaches when he read- that he'd need to wear his sunglasses at recess- because he wasn't blind anymore. And that meant he was going to the regular school, Jefferson Elementary, with Frank and his friends. He wouldn't have to go to the blind school! How could he have forgotten that? He was lucky!

Joe almost blurted it out, almost turned to his brother to remind him that they'd be in the same school after all. And then he stopped himself, remembering that Mom and Dad didn't know he'd heard them planning to send him away. They'd never told him what they were going to do; they hadn't needed to tell him, since his sight had come back. But if it hadn't, they would have been telling him soon- tonight, maybe- about how he'd be going to a strange school, with strange teachers and students, and not coming home till the Winter Break. And he wouldn't have been able to argue, because they would just have told him that he had to do it. He had to go to school and he wouldn't've been able to learn right in a regular school. They would have taken him there, and left him there, and been glad that he wasn't a problem for them anymore, something they didn't have to worry about or take care of...

A brilliant ray of sunlight glanced off a passing car; Joe winced and shut his eyes. "You still have my sunglasses, right, Mom?"

"They're in my purse. Your eyes hurt, honey?"

"Too much sunlight bouncing off things," the boy muttered, not sure whether the pain really was from the sun or from the dangerous tears he could feel forming.

"I'll get 'em for you," Frank offered.

"In the side pocket, Frank."

There were scrambling sounds and a moment later, Joe's sunglasses touched his hand. "Thanks," he murmured, sliding them on. There was an immediate dimming of the brightly-lit world around him, but he kept his eyes closed until the car came to a stop and the engine shut off. Then he helped carry the bags inside, hauled one of his up the stairs and into his room, and collapsed on his bed with a sigh, feeling tired, hungry and blue.

"I'm going to get some lunch together- why don't you two put everything away? Don't forget to cut the tags off so they don't itch you- oh, and leave out the pants that are too long; I can sew those up tonight," Mom's voice came from the doorway.

"I'd rather sleep," Joe muttered, but there was no reply; when he turned to look, Mom was gone.

***

Frank stood in his brother's doorway, looking at Joe as he lay on the bed and feeling a little concerned. The younger boy was being so quiet, and now he seemed so tired. And he'd been grumpy, too, though he didn't seem mad at Frank. Maybe at their mother, for scolding them- or at Auntie for her nasty remark before she left. 'Or maybe 'cause he's hungry,' the dark-haired youngster mused, but that didn't seem quite right. If he was that hungry, he would've said so in the Mall, or at least asked for a cookie. "What's the matter?" he asked at last, softly. Joe shrugged, then reached up to take off his sunglasses and laid them on the windowsill next to the bed. "How come you're so quiet, and being all grouchy?"

Joe sighed. "I was kinda mad at Mom for yelling at us, but mostly I didn't want her to start scolding again. And..." He stopped talking and stared at the ceiling, making Frank even more certain that something was quite wrong.

"Auntie?"

"Well, I was, but she left, so that made me feel better."

Frank nodded, frowning. "Got another headache?" If the headaches were making Joe worry about losing his sight again-

"Not really. The sun was awful bright in the car, but I kept my eyes shut and they feel okay."

"That's good." Frank stepped into the room and paused beside the bed. "And what, then?"

The blond boy hesitated, glancing at him and then looking away. "We're gonna be in the same school," he said very quietly.

"Well, yeah, we-" Frank brightened, suddenly realizing why his brother was reminding him of this. "Yeah!" he burst out, beaming. "I almost forgot about that they were gonna-" And suddenly the words weren't there anymore and he only stood with his mouth open, his excitement popping like a bubble. He'd also forgotten how upset and frightened Joe had been after overhearing their parents' plans to send him to a school for the blind.

"Right. Now that I can see again, they won't get rid of me."

Frank frowned at the mix of weariness, anger and sorrow in Joe's voice, then sat down on the side of the bed and heaved a sigh, not quite sure what to say. There wasn't much that you could say to somebody who felt like their parents didn't want them! "Maybe you should tell them that you heard when they were talking."

"Why?" Joe looked over, sounding more curious than anything.

"Well..." 'So they can tell you they weren't getting rid of you,' Frank thought. 'But...were they?' And how could he say that without making it seem like he was on Mom and Dad's side, instead of Joe's? He wasn't, not one bit.

Frank sighed, remembering the day with vivid clarity. Joe had come into Frank's room, very upset, and told him that Mom and Dad were talking about sending him to a blind school. Frank had expected the subject to come up at supper, but it hadn't; it had never come up at all and neither boy knew quite what to make of that. Obviously Mom and Dad were keeping it a secret, but why? After almost a week, Joe had come to a conclusion and shared it with Frank. "They're not telling me because they don't want me to know how much they want to get rid of me. They know it'd hurt my feelings, so they're keeping it secret that they don't want me now I can't see. They'll just say I have to go to a special school and won't say anything about being glad they don't have to take care of me anymore."

Frank had protested that no one was trying to 'get rid' of Joe, had tried to remind his miserable brother that Mom and Dad loved them both, had pointed out that kids who couldn't see did need to go to special schools. "And you know Mom wants to take care of you," had been his last and strongest argument. "She wants to help you with everything, you're the one who keeps saying you don't need help."

"Then why're they sending me to one of those schools where you have to live there?" Joe had whispered, striking Frank silent. Up until then, they had both assumed Joe would just go to a different Elementary school each day and come home every afternoon. "I heard them again, they were saying something about all the places they were thinking about had to be boarding schools," the younger boy had explained before Frank quite got over his shock.

"Maybe they were saying that the only places they could find are boarding schools," Frank had replied swiftly, grabbing for whatever faint hope he could. But Joe had remained unconvinced, and as the days passed, his gloom had grown deeper and deeper. Frank hadn't known what to think or do about it all; he had no idea whether his parents actually didn't want a blind son or not. He'd been tempted to ask them about it, but had held back, afraid of what the answer might be. Sure, Mom and Dad had been concerned that Joe was so unhappy, but had they been concerned enough? Had they really cared? Or were they just pretending? Frank found it hard to believe that his parents wouldn't want Joe just because he couldn't see, and they hadn't seemed to be pretending, but then why would they send him away?

And then Joe's sight had come back and the questions had been banished in the happiness. Frank had almost laughed at his uncertainties when he saw how thrilled his parents were, how much they had laughed and smiled and hugged Joe- you couldn't pretend something like that. Then Dad had gone missing and Frank had forgotten the matter entirely in his fears for their father. Obviously, Joe hadn't forgotten any of it.

"There's no reason to talk about it," the ten-year-old went on, shrugging. "They'll just say, 'well, we had to, you couldn't learn in a real school- but now you don't have to go, so just be glad about it.' They wouldn't care if I wanted to or not, you know."

"Of course they'd care!" Frank protested, but the words came out sounding unconvincing.

"Maybe. But not enough to change their minds," Joe retorted with some accuracy.

Frank sighed again and nodded. Joe was right: even if their parents hadn't really been getting rid of Joe, they still would have sent him away. They were grown-ups; they thought what you were supposed to do was more important than how you felt about doing it. They would have said there was no choice: blind kids couldn't read regular books, or see what the teacher wrote on the chalkboard, or write out spelling words. They had to learn different ways, in schools that were specially meant for them. Maybe they really wouldn't have liked it, maybe they would have missed Joe and been sorry he was unhappy- but they would have made him go anyway. And if you didn't want to go, there wasn't much difference between being sent and being gotten rid of. Either way, it wasn't fair.

"I bet they would have been glad I was gone," the ten-year-old continued crossly. "Then Dad wouldn't have had to keep trying to teach me detective stuff and see me mess it all up."

Frank considered that, frowning. When Joe had regretted that he couldn't do detective things anymore, Dad had promised to try and teach him anyway. He'd said he wouldn't give up until Joe decided it was too hard, and he'd been very patient...but there had been something missing in the lessons. "You think he was waiting for you to figure out that it was too hard for you?"

"You thought so too, huh?"

"Well, not till right now...but he didn't seem to- to enjoy teaching us, as much," Frank confessed. He'd noticed Dad's serious, troubled looks at his brother and been glad Joe couldn't see them- but probably Joe had heard the difference in Dad's voice. The older boy had wondered why their father seemed unhappy about Joe somehow. He'd thought then that it was because Dad didn't like it that Joe was blind, but this explanation made as much sense as that one.

"Yeah. He was trying to be nice about it, 'specially since he made such a fuss about how I really could do it if I wanted to." Joe scowled, then sat up.

"Well, I dunno, I just thought he was sad that you couldn't see. But even if you couldn't be a detective, Joe, I don't think they would have been glad to send you away. They would've missed you."

"Maybe at first, but they'd get used to it. And they'd tell me I'd get used to it, too- but I wouldn't."

Frank couldn't argue with that. "I wouldn't, either," he murmured, touching his brother's slender arm. Joe shot him a grateful look, then leaned his head against Frank's shoulder and sighed.

"Oh well. At least I can see, anyway."

"Yeah." Frank was silent for a moment, suddenly wishing Stupid Sean were here so he could hit the rotten kid a few times with a baseball bat. Sean deserved it, for playing with firecrackers and throwing one at Joe so he went blind and making their parents talk about sending him away. Then he remembered that Sean was in a place that was almost a prison for kids, and that made him feel a lot better. He gave himself a shake to get the jerk out of his mind and patted the arm under his hand. "And you'll be in our school, and no one's gonna send you away. Maybe we'll even be in the same class," he offered.

"That'd be cool," Joe remarked, sounding a bit more enthusiastic. "We could eat lunch together."

"Well, we can do that anyway, all we have to do is sit at next-door tables. If the sections are next to each other, I mean."

"I bet you'll be on one side and I'll be on the other," Joe predicted gloomily. Frank put his arm around his brother and gave him a crossbreed of squeeze and shake.

"Don't be so blue. At least we'll walk there and home, and have recess, even if we don't have class or lunch," the eleven-year-old admonished.

"Oh. I forgot about recess," Joe mused, and Frank reacted with exaggerated shock.

"Forgot? Recess? You?"

"Aw, shush," Joe grumped, a slight smile playing around his lips.

"Your favorite subject and you forgot. You've been on vacation too long!" Frank declaimed, and then squeaked as Joe pinched him in the side. "Hey, crabby, cut it out!"

"I'm not crabby!"

"You were. And crabs pinch, you know."

"Oh, that was clever." Joe's comment was half-admiring and half-disgusted at the play on words.

"Thank you, sir," Frank replied rather pompously. A moment later he added, changing the subject completely: "If you don't want her to scold again, you better start putting some of this stuff away; and I better, too."

"I guess," Joe agreed with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. "I think we'll need scissors, too. For the tags."

"Right, I'll go get some." Frank released his brother, stood up and walked into the hallway, trying to remember where he'd last seen his scissors. He finally found them in his middle desk drawer, which was not where he recalled seeing them. After putting his too-long pants in one pile, his right-size pants in another, shirts in a third and sweaters in a fourth, he busily snipped the little plastic tag-holders. When he finished, he had a large pile of bits that he scooped up and dropped into his trash can. Then he picked up the scissors again and carried them down to Joe's room. In complete contrast to Frank's careful piling, Joe had spread everything on his bed and was taking hangers out of his closet. He accepted the scissors with a thank-you and started cutting, pausing after each snip to throw out the little tag and plastic bits. Frank watched for a moment, amused, then went back to his own room to put his stuff away. He was almost finished when Mom called them down for lunch.

After lunch- small hamburgers topped with American cheese, lettuce and tomato- Mom asked them to bring down the too-long pants. Having done that, Frank hung up the last few sweaters and went down to his brother's room. Joe had finished, too, and was sitting on the side of his bed, cleaning his mirrored sunglasses. "Want to go work on the treehouse?" the older boy suggested.

"Sure!" Joe hopped up at once and Frank smiled, glad to see his little brother acting more like himself.

"Let's just make sure it's okay with Mom," the older boy cautioned, remembering the lecture of that morning.

"She worries a lot, doesn't she?" Joe remarked thoughtfully.

Frank decided not to answer that question right then, as they were almost at the bottom of the steps. "Mom, can we go to our treehouse?" he called, not quite sure where his mother was.

"Certainly, just be back in time for supper," Mom replied from inside the kitchen.

"I think I'm going to take my canteen," Joe said suddenly, and ran back upstairs to get it. While he was doing that, Frank slipped into the kitchen and found Mom looking over the mail.

"Your class supply lists just arrived," she told him, holding up the letters. Frank took one and looked at it. Four Number 2 pencils, four black ball-point pens, one red pen, a composition book, five small spiral binders OR one large spiral with five dividers, five portfolios, wide-ruled paper, a compass, 3 by 5 index cards, assignment notebook... He sighed, suddenly feeling that Joe was right. School sucked! "Kleenex?" he said in surprise, staring at the last item.

"I imagine that's for when the colds start going around," Mom said dryly. "We should go and get this as soon as possible-"

"Not tonight!" Frank half-groaned.

"No, tomorrow should be soon enough, but we do have to do it before the drugstore runs out of red pens and binders- like it did last year."

"I remember. Mr. Lynch was annoyed because we had to keep trading red pens to make corrections." Frank grimaced at the memory, then put the paper down on the counter. "Anyway- can we take a cookie or two with us, to eat at the treehouse?" he asked hopefully. "Since we didn't ask for any at the Mall?"

"Wellll..." Mom tilted her head, thinking. "I guess one each would be all right."

"One what?" Joe inquired from behind them. Frank turned.

"One Oreo."

Joe looked up from fastening his canteen to his belt loop and grinned. "Not two- one in each hand? Please Mom?" he begged as Laura shook her head. "Pretty please? With-"

"Joe," Mom said warningly.

"One is good," the blond boy hastily retreated. "I can hold it in both hands, I guess." Frank and Laura both laughed at that.

"Do keep an eye on the time, I know you prefer a hot dinner, and so do your father and I," Mom told them, taking the lid off the cookie jar. She handed each of them a cookie; Joe sniffed his, started to drop it into his pocket, then stopped and fetched a plastic sandwich bag from the pantry instead.

"That's a good idea- no crumbs in your pocket and no fuzz on your cookie," Frank remarked, and went to get a bag of his own. He almost got the freezer-size bag by mistake, but corrected himself and found the snack-sizes.

"You coulda put it in here." Joe patted his pocket, where the plastic was sticking out.

"Then there might be a mistake," the eleven-year-old retorted, tucking his plastic-enclosed cookie safely into his pocket. "It might disappear when I wasn't looking!"

"Not unless it was a magic cookie!"

"Out, out," Mom told them, making shooing motions. "No arguing in my kitchen."

"Were we arguing?" Joe asked as he stepped out the door and walked through the garage. Frank followed, closing the door behind him.

"I didn't think so. C'mon- race you to the woods!"

***

"I'm glad I brought water," Joe remarked, sinking down on the wooden floor of the tree-house and unscrewing the lid of his canteen. Taking a long swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the canteen to his brother. Frank, standing beside him and leaning against the completed wall, accepted it. Joe heard him gulp a few swallows, and then the older boy sat down with a sigh.

"We're almost done, we just need to do the roof."

"And the next room."

"Yeah, but we'll need more wood for that. We used most of it making the walkway."

Joe nodded; their second 'room' had only two half-built walls, due to the lack of planks. He'd suggested using tree branches, but there were two problems with that. One, the branches came in too many different sizes and wouldn't fit tight against each other, and two, there wouldn't be enough big ones anyway. There were plenty of big branches, themselves, Joe thought, frowning upwards; it was just that they were still on the trees. "Where d'you think we can get some more wood?" he asked uncertainly. They'd found the first batch near a construction dumpster and made many trips on their bikes to salvage them all. Dad had looked them over to make sure they really were throw-aways; they didn't want to use somebody's building lumber for a treehouse.

"I dunno. Maybe along the beaches. You know, like driftwood washing up."

"Hey, maybe. Maybe somebody's old raft will float up. Or pieces off a shipwreck. An old one," Joe amended quickly.

"It'd have to be old, most ships are metal or that, whatcha call it, fiber stuff. Not wood anymore. They're just made to look like wood, I think," Frank explained.

"And we don't want anyone's boat to wreck and maybe spill oil," agreed Joe, who had a foggy notion that all boats carried a lot of oil; if not in their cabins, then in their engines.

"Only tankers would do that, and they're made of metal. So they don't burn easy," his brother corrected. "Or blow up or whatever."

"Oh." Joe pondered for a few minutes, brooding about wood. "Maybe if someone throws away a- hey!"

"What?"

"The dump! We can go to the dump and see if people threw something wooden away, and break it in pieces!"

Frank turned to him with a look of surprise shifting to respect. "Joe, that's a great idea!"

The blond boy flushed, beaming at the praise. "Thanks," he said a little shyly, looking down as Frank's hand ruffled his hair. "Hey, and maybe we could get other stuff, too," he elaborated. "Like chairs, and something for a table."

"Awesome! And then the other room can be our treasure room-"

"Oh, yeah, cool! A chest, and weapons, and-"

"Boys?" a man's voice called out, and both the youngsters started in surprise.

"It's Dad," Frank said excitedly, pulling himself to his feet. Joe got up more slowly, picking up his canteen and making sure the lid was on tightly. Then he followed Frank onto the narrow 'porch' between the steps up and the outer wall. "Hi, Dad!"

"Ah, there you two are." Dad was a few feet away from their tree, looking up at them with a smile. "How's it going up there?"

"Everything's done except the roof," Joe replied, pointing at the wide chunk of plywood leaning against the neighboring tree. "And then we'll need some more wood for the second room, and I thought maybe we could go to the dump and look for some."

Dad walked closer to the tree, not smiling anymore. "I'm not so sure about that," he said doubtfully. "I don't like the thought of you going all the way out there by yourselves, for one thing, and two, it's a dirty, dangerous place. There's an awful lot of broken glass and rusty metal, and I wouldn't want you climbing around in it all. Besides that, there are rats and raccoons living in and under things, and some of them might be rabid."

Joe felt his eyes widen as he looked at Frank, who had paled a little. "I didn't think about that," Frank murmured.

"I didn't either. I guess it's not such a great idea," Joe sighed glumly.

"Well, if you're looking for wood, it's a good idea, but if you want to be safe, then it needs some work," Dad explained. "Okay if I come up?" he added, laying his hand on the rung above him.

"Oh, sure." The boys stepped back as their father climbed up and sat down on the edge of the platform.

"You picked a good spot; you have a great view from up here," the detective remarked. "You can see anyone who comes from in the forest and anyone who comes up over the hill. Old castles were usually built on top of hills like this one, and close to woods so they'd have a good source of fuel for their fires."

"Castles?" Joe perked up. "Like knights and everything? I thought they had- had those ditches with water in them."

"A moat. Well, some did, some didn't, but all of them were built with the thought of being able to see far and wide," Dad explained. "The only drawback was, people could see them, too. If they wanted to be hidden, they had to build in forests- or live in caves."

"A cave would be cool," Frank said thoughtfully.

"Yes, but it would take a long time to chip one out with a hammer and chisel, wouldn't it?"

"Geez, we'd be like fifty before we were done," Joe groaned. "A tree-castle's good enough, it's taking all summer anyway."

Dad chuckled. "You two have done a lot of good work out here. What say we make it final and put the roof on?"

"Yeah!" Joe yelled at the same time as Frank. Dad made a face and put his hands on his ears.

"When you two quiet down, that is!"

"Okay, we're quiet," Joe whispered, and grinned when Dad mussed his hair. Then Dad climbed back down, lifted the heavy plywood easily, and began maneuvering it up over the edge of the 'porch'. Ten minutes and some puffing and heaving and scrambling later, the trio edged the board over the top of the walls and settled it flat.

"We better nail it on," Frank panted. "So the wind doesn't blow it away."

"How're we gonna do that?" Joe demanded, suddenly realizing the aspect they'd overlooked. The walls were higher than the boys' heads, so that they could stand up inside the structure. But it meant the roof was out of their reach.

"Maybe if we climb up higher," Frank suggested, eyeing the limbs above them.

"I'll boost you up," their father broke in, and Joe suddenly found himself lifted up and onto the surface of the roof. A moment later, Frank joined him, looking a bit startled, and then Dad handed up some nails and their hammers. The boys set to work and didn't notice when Dad climbed down the ladder and strode back over the hill towards home. It wasn't until they had finished hammering, with three nails to spare, and thought about getting down that they realized they were alone.

"Where'd he go?" Joe wondered.

"I dunno," Frank replied blankly.

"So how do we get down? Jump?"

Frank peered over the edge, then shook his head. "We might miss the porch, there's not a lot of room." Joe peered over as well, and drew back with a frown. Frank was right; the plywood stuck out a bit on all sides and nearly covered all the porch. It was great for making a roof, but not so great for climbing down!

"He shouldn't've left," the blond boy said with a frown, a dark suspicion darting into his mind. Was this a detective test? Was Dad waiting to see if they were smart enough to get down by themselves? Or had he just decided he wasn't interested anymore? After all-

"Oh, there he is!" Frank sounded relieved; Joe turned quickly to look and saw the tall, familiar figure approaching with something on its shoulder. "Dad, we can't get down!" he called, and Joe frowned again.

"Well, we could," he amended Frank's statement. "Only it'd probably hurt a lot. Unless we climbed down the branches, like you thought we could climb up..."

"I hope you weren't thinking of jumping," Dad said, putting down the white flappy thing he was carrying. "Because you're right, you would get very badly hurt. It would be like jumping off our roof."

"Not if we landed on the porch. What's that?" Joe inquired, pointing at the white bundle.

"I seemed to remember hearing you talk about putting some plastic over the roof so it wouldn't get wet and leak around the edges," Dad explained. "So I went to get that old leaf-tarp."

"Cool!" Frank scrambled to the edge of the roof, then paused. "I guess we have to get down before we can spread it-"

"No, stay up there for the moment." Dad picked up the tarp again and climbed up, passed them the plastic, and told them how to unroll it so it would be even all around. The tarp was even bigger than the plywood, so it hung down over the edges. Dad passed up a few more nails and Frank and Joe pounded them in; then he lifted them down one by one. "Looks good," he said approvingly. "And having it hang down like that means the wind won't blow rain up underneath it."

Joe regarded the finished tree-house with a smile. "Now all we need is the fire-escape," the blond boy remarked. "A rope," he explained as Dad looked at him sort of funny. "So we can slide down instead of climbing the ladder."

"Just make sure it's strong rope; you don't want it to break and land you on your rump," Dad cautioned. "And maybe bring some sand from the beach, to make the landing a little softer, hm?"

"That's a good idea," Joe began, then winced and scowled at his finger, shifting his grip on the hammer he was holding. "Ow! I have a splinter. Again."

"Plywood is fairly splintery," Dad murmured, looking at his own hands. "So tell me," he went on, ducking inside, "have you decided on a name yet?"

"No, we have to think of one. Us and Chet," Frank told him, following.

"Castle Hill, maybe," Joe offered from outside. He was enjoying the breeze that was drifting past. Then, remembering, he pulled the little plastic bag from his pocket and opened it, munching on his Oreo and feeling very content. The cookie made him thirsty, though, so when he finished the last crumb, he went in and picked up his canteen.

"We need a shelf," Frank remarked.

"When we have some wood," Joe replied. "I guess we can put some nails in to hang stuff on, and then when we get a shelf we can lay it across the nails..."

"It'd have to be a short shelf, if we did that, though. It'd fall over if it was too wide."

"Oh, yeah." Joe sighed, wondering why his smart ideas always sounded so dumb when Dad was around, then gulped down some water.

"Is that chocolate cookie crumbs I'm seeing?" Dad asked, smiling.

"Yeah, Mom gave us each an Oreo," Frank answered after a pause. "After lunch, since we didn't get a cookie at the Mall."

"Ah, yes, the Mall. Did that go well?"

"Back to school clothes are so boring," Joe grumbled. "I hate school! I wish I didn't have to go." Frowning, he gave Frank the canteen and went to where they'd hung the tweezers. A moment later Frank came over, wiping his lips, took the tweezers out of Joe's hand, and started trying to get Joe's splinter out.

"I'm sorry you don't like it, son, but there's not much anyone can do about it. The law in the U.S. is that all kids have to go to school."

"Oh, so you and Mom would get in trouble if you didn't send us?" Startled, Joe swivelled his head around and regarded his father. Dad nodded.

"That's right. They'd order us to make you go. And if we kept refusing to do it, they'd probably start trying to have us declared incompetant- that is, bad- parents and send you to a foster home or child-care center."

"And- ow! Frank, not so rough," Joe complained.

"Sorry. It's almost out."

"And how do you feel about school, Frank?" Dad asked, sounding more curious than anything.

Frank paused, looking up and rubbing the dark hair off his forehead. "I don't hate it, but I'd rather not go," he said after a pause to think.

 

"He likes studying," Joe muttered, wondering again why anyone in the world would enjoy anything so boring and confusing. Especially math!

"You don't need to make it sound like I'm a freak," Frank observed mildly.

"What's wrong with studying, Joe? I thought you liked learning things, and you've certainly learned a lot about detecting this summer. Very quickly, in fact."

Joe glanced over again; Dad was sitting cross-legged, elbows on his knees and fingers laced, still looking curious. That was good; he wasn't unhappy about it, and he wasn't talking about 'opportunities' the way Mom had. "That was different; that was fun," he replied. "It wasn't boring and it wasn't confusing- at least, not when I could see again- and it didn't make me feel like an idiot."

Dad's eyes widened and he lowered his hands. "Joe-"

"Mostly, anyway," the ten-year-old added thoughtfully. "Ow!! Frank-!"

"There, it's out, and it didn't even bleed," the older boy declared, wiping the tweezers with a piece of tissue.

"Feels like you used a hole-puncher on it," Joe grumbled, and accepted a gentle punch on his shoulder without a protest. "Thanks," he added more kindly after a moment.

"Don't worry, you'll get a chance to dig a hole in one of my fingers, eventually."

"It's not fair, you never, ever get splinters."

"Except four times," Frank reminded him dryly.

"Boys-"

Joe looked over at Dad again and felt surprise tingle through him. Now Dad looked...odd. Worried? "Yeah?" he said warily.

"Come sit by me, I think we need to talk a little."

***

Fenton waited as his sons sat down beside him, noticing immediately that while Frank sat down on his left, Joe didn't come to sit on Fenton's right. Instead, he sat down on the other side of Frank and turned slightly towards the detective. Fenton decided not to make an issue of it- not right now- but the move troubled him a little. Had the boys become so close that Joe preferred his brother's company to his father's? Or was he making Frank the buffer for a potential lecture or scolding? For a moment he studied them as they settled: Joe's cheeks were pink from the heat and his light hair was disheveled, as always. There was a slightly wary look on his face, and Fenton found himself musing that his blue-eyed son was going to be very attractive when he got older; he could already be described in the unfailing teenage term, 'cute'. Frank was no less so, though; and no wonder, for despite the superficial differences of skin, eye and hair, the boys did resemble each other. The older boy, with his nearly-black hair, dark eyes, deeper skin-tone and more slender build, would doubtless find himself described in the inevitable phrase, 'tall dark and handsome'. He always managed to look a little tidier than Joe, since his straight hair didn't tousle as easily, and he tended to wear more conservative colors. Like today: his dark blue shorts and lighter shirt were much less eye-catching than Joe's yellow-and-green-zig-zag shirt and shorts.

"I'm a little bothered by what I'm hearing," Fenton began slowly, trying to ease into his concern. As Joe's eyes narrowed and Frank's brows knitted, the investigator added quickly, "Not angry-bothered; worried."

The boys glanced at each other. "About the treehouse?" Frank ventured.

"No, no, not at all." Fenton paused and sighed inwardly. "What I'm troubled about is what I just heard you saying, Joe, about school. I know you don't like it, but you've never said that it makes you feel stupid before."

"Well, it does," his younger son said decisively.

"In what way? I mean, what happens to make you feel like that?"

Joe frowned and was silent for a few moments. "Sometimes it's interesting," he admitted slowly. "But a lot of time it's boring, and a lot of times it's confusing, too. The teacher tells us stuff and I don't get it, but everyone else does. So I get confused, and then when I'm too confused to think about it any more, I stop thinking about it and just get bored."

"Did you ask the teacher to explain, when you didn't understand?"

"I asked a few times, but she didn't explain; she just said the same thing again. And- and everybody else knew, then, that I was the only one who didn't get it and it felt like they were laughing at me," Joe replied sourly. "If I have to be stupid, I wish everyone didn't know about it."

"Oh, Joe," Fenton said encouragingly, touching the boy's slim shoulder. "You're not stupid- you're my son!"

Bright, angry blue eyes snapped up and stared into Fenton's. "Just 'cause you're my Dad doesn't mean you can make me be smart!" the boy declared, scowling.

"What?" Fenton let his hand drop, taken aback.

"You're my Dad, but that doesn't mean I'm smart- and you can't make it true just by saying it!"

"Joe..." Fenton struggled to get his mind around the boy's peculiar protest. "Joe, I'm not saying that at all. I'm not trying to say that my sons must be smart just because they're my sons. I'm saying, for ten years I've watched you grow up, listened to you, answered your questions...I know you, Joey, and because I know you, I know you're smart. If I wasn't your father, I wouldn't know you well enough to say, but I am, and I can say very plainly that I have two very intelligent boys. That's all."

The angry look passed from Joe's face, replaced by a half-wary, half-relieved expression. Then he shrugged. "I don't know what smart feels like, so I don't know... but I don't think I am. I get confused too much; I wouldn't get confused if I was really smart. Like you," he added wistfully to his brother. "You never get confused with math..."

"I do with spelling, though," Frank pointed out, speaking for the first time in a while.

"That's different, spelling has too many crazy rules."

"But you follow all the rules. You're smart in spelling, Joe, and I'm smart in math. So we help each other."

"But I need more help than you do." Joe sighed and leaned against Frank's arm. Fenton took a breath, feeling a mixture of emotions: relief that Joe's anger had passed, guilty regret that no one had noticed the boy was struggling with his schoolwork, gratitude to Frank for helping his brother, and a vague resentment that Joe never seemed to come to his parents when he needed assistance.

"Joe, did you consider telling your mother or I that you were having trouble?"

"You knew it anyway, you saw my report card and said I had to work harder!" the child flared again.

"And that would have been a fine time to say, 'I am working hard, but it's not helping; I get too confused and the teacher doesn't explain enough'. You didn't, son; you didn't say anything, just stomped out. How can we help you if we don't know what's wrong? I know I, personally, had to remind you many times to finish your schoolwork before you did other things. And your mother did more often than I did, because she was with you more," Fenton replied, kindly but firmly.

"Oh, so you just thought he was playing too much," Frank said in a tone that bordered on defiant. "You never thought to ask him why he hated school and homework so much- so why should he tell you, when you didn't act like you cared?" The dark-haired boy deliberately put his arm around his brother, his face almost expressionless, but his eyes narrow with emotions.

Fenton struggled with his temper for a moment, put aside his astonishment at having to justify himself to an eleven-year-old, and finally replied in a calm voice: "When the two of you started school last year, you both complained for several weeks. And then you both stopped complaining- you first, Frank, and then Joe. It seemed to us that you'd gotten over your feelings about leaving vacation behind and settled in. Joe, particularly, stopped saying he hated school and calling his teacher names, so we had no idea that he was still disliking it, much less why he did. And we did see him spending more time with what he wanted to do than the homework he needed to do. I did the same thing myself when I was in school; I didn't hate it, but I did find many things more interesting and fun than homework, and my parents had to remind me a lot, too."

Frank's steady gaze faltered and then dropped, but he hugged Joe closer. "Coulda asked," Fenton heard him mumble.

"Perhaps. And perhaps Joe could have told us, or his teacher," he answered. "Or someone. And it really hurts me to hear you saying we acted like we didn't care. We do care about you both, more than we care about almost anything else." He waited for a reply, but for long moments, the only sound was the soft flapping noise as the wind in the trees made the roof-tarp flutter. "I hope you believe me," he added at last.

"More than you care about Auntie?" Joe asked hesitantly. Fenton frowned, not expecting that response, then sighed inwardly, wondering if his sister and son had had another run-in. The one the night before had been bad enough! Joe had accidentally bumped into the table when he was taking his seat at dinner, and Gertrude's response had shocked both the parents.

"Really, Joseph, you are the most thoughtless and careless child- the only time you ever seem to pay attention to what you're doing is when you can't actually see where you're going! Maybe we should make you wear a blindfold all the time-"

Fenton had cut her off with a furious shout, startling her into silence even as both boys ran from the dining room. It had taken nearly half an hour to calm the upset children and Joe had utterly refused to eat dinner or dessert, stating, "She made it; I don't want any!" Frank had followed his brother's lead, so eventually Laura had made them soup and sandwiches, muttering that she hardly blamed them. Gertrude had, to give her some slight credit, had apologized for her cruel remark, then diluted her sincerity by grumbling about Laura 'spoiling' the boys and 'wasting' perfectly good food.