The Who is Arno’s all-time favorite band. When “Pinball Wizard” comes on, he puts down the mirror and begins to air-drum along with Keith Moon. Less than a month from now, Pete Townshend and company are scheduled to come all the way from England to perform at the music festival. Other than making himself rich selling acid and being part of our last hurrah before parting ways in the fall, seeing the Who is one of the chief reasons Arno wants to go.

Milton is cross-legged on the floor, reading Newsday. A thin wire connects a plug in his ear to the small black transistor radio in his shirt pocket. He’s the only person I know who can listen to music, read a newspaper, follow a ball game on his radio, and engage in a conversation all at once.

While Arno air-drums and Milton reads, I’m thinking about the drive up to Camp Juliette in five days. It’s been eleven days since Robin’s first and only letters arrived. The paterfamilias says he’ll “definitely” get down to Bay Shore sometime this week to pick up whatever’s been forwarded there. (I’ve been tempted to go myself in Odysseus, but I don’t have keys for the place, so how would I get my mail? And what if I went and there were no letters?)

Oh, how I ache for her. Only sometimes at night, Tinsley gets mixed into that wistful yearning. Not that I expect to ever see the pixie princess again. It’s been almost two weeks since she showed up at the factory and we went over to the Planting Fields. Haven’t heard from her since. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the way the afternoon ended. I tell myself it’s just as well. But in Robin’s absence, when the hormones start simmering, I do sometimes wonder if I was too quick to turn down Tinsley’s generous offer.

Arno Moon finishes drumming with a dramatic air trash-can flourish, flips his invisible sticks away, and comes over for a hit off the skinny joint. This close, I can smell his aftershave. He exhales through the gap in the window and asks if I’ve heard from Robin.

“Yeah, everything’s good.” What a lie. I might as well be General Abrams over in Nam, claiming we’re winning the war. Arno may be my closest friend, but sometimes I’m not comfortable talking to him about Robin. He’s always been jealous of me for dating her. Not because she’s taken up so much of the time I used to spend with him. And not because he, and many other guys, always considered her one of the most desirable females in our grade. But because she’s a constant reminder that the Semi-Miraculous Transformation happened to me, not him.

“You are such a lucky fuck,” he says for the thousandth time.