Valerie said nothing (was it possible she agreed with him?), and Derek ignored the impeachment. He had the narcissist’s blockage to everything but praise. Leaning against a tree, full of little self-enchantments, he shifted his weight to his heels. His hips were shot forward, his legs spread wide, forming two sides of a triangle that pointed up to the apex of his jock. His thumbs were hooked in the belt-line, the fingers pointing down at the same target. I wondered if among his athletic accomplishments he might be a sprinter. I pictured him, spikes flashing down the stretch, legs pounding like pistons, digging, digging in an agony of triumph, and then the last eternal split second as he hit the tape with his cock.

Chatterton made no attempt to introduce me, and I was tongue-tied; it somehow seemed inappropriate, pushy, for me to introduce myself. The silence was growing oppressive. It was as if each of us were packed in his very own hermetically sealed container, and each container isolated from the others by cotton wadding. I—my presence—had erected the barriers, I was uncomfortably certain. I was the outsider who had altered their easy chemistry, inducing general asphyxia. I was the unassimilated child among adults, the impendent PhD, the oddity. Put it all together, and that one irreducible denominator rumbled painfully around my skull—freak.

And then Valerie floated toward me, her chaste little hand extended. I was tempted to kiss it, bite it, lick it like a fawning dog while Derek eyed me enviously.

“I’m Valerie Chatterton,” she said, and I thought, She’s an undiscovered municipal treasure. Tourists, if they only knew, would flock to Baltimore to see her.

“I’m Judd Breslau.”

“This is Derek Bronson…”

“How are you?”

He nodded with an extreme economy of motion, as if any warmth might raise his temperature and expose him to grave danger.

“…and Abdul al Sadr.”

“How do you do?” He shook my hand rhythmically, as if he were jacking up a car.

Silence again. Everyone frozen in place, like those mock-ups in the Museum of Natural History. Then Derek sauntered over to Abdul, who retreated to the background. It occurred to me that Derek enjoyed being in the same frame with him. All that swarthiness set off his lemon-colored hair.

“Well,” I said, with the air of a man who had important things to do, “I must go.”

No one made the least attempt to dissuade me.

“Thanks, thanks very much,” I said to Old Man Chatterton. He unleashed a joyless grunt, took his grandfather’s publication in his arms, and scuttled off. Abdul sprang forward to help him, and I was alone with Valerie and Derek. He seemed to think he was alone with her.

“Why don’t you come back to Washington with me?” he asked.

I tried to look invisible, turning away tactfully. “No,” she said. “I’ve got school tomorrow.”