The only times my mother bothers with makeup anymore are the two days a week she drives Alan to his special school in the city. She spends the day shopping and going to museums, picks up Alan after school, puts him on the train home, and then has dinner with a friend and goes to the theater. (Once Alan is on the train, he knows which station to get off at and walks home.)

The rest of the school week, a short bus picks Alan up at seven a.m. and doesn’t return until around six p.m. On those days, Mom barely manages to get dressed.

Arno, Milton, and I settle on the floor. The Exleys’ new color TV is astonishing. Walter Cronkite is wearing a gray jacket and gold-colored tie. His skin is slightly pink.

Mr. Exley sips his martini. “So, what’s happenin’, boys?”

“Not now, Dad,” Arno grumbles. On the screen, they’ve cut to Mission Control. A bunch of crew-cut men sitting at long tables with little screens. Almost all of them wearing white short-sleeve shirts and skinny dark ties.

“Come on, son, it’s so rare that I get to rap with your friends. What’s your bag this summer, boys?”

Arno’s father has a satirical way of talking to us. He pretends to speak “youth culture” language while making fun of it. I tell him that once again this summer my “bag” is operating a mail inserter. Milton’s teaching himself a computer language called COBOL. Mr. Exley smiles benignly. None of us has a clue what Milton is talking about.

“So Arno’s the only one who works outdoors,” says Mr. Exley.

“Lay off, Dad,” Arno says. “We want to watch.”

“I’m hip to that, son, but I’m also trying to understand how these fine young lads can spend their summers more or less indoors and still have more color in their faces than the only one among you who’s outside caddying all day. . . . At least until last week when you suddenly turned a shade of roasted tomato.”

“You used to like the sun,” Mrs. Exley chimes in. “When you were little, you’d turn the color of molasses every summer.”

“And your arms?” asks Mr. Exley, whose favorite summer activity is reclining on a lounge beside friends’ pools and turning the color of molasses.

“I wear long sleeves. Jeez, Dad, what’s with the fifth degree?”

Arno’s parents still treat him like a kid. It ticks Arno off, but sometimes I feel a little envious. When was the last time my parents treated me like a kid? True, I’ve adamantly demanded that they not. But do they always have to take me at my word?