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He stared at his plate, focusing on the giant molar of salmon in front of him. He wanted to wipe her smirk away with his napkin.

“So Kira tells me your music is really taking off,” Mrs. Shackney said, two fingers pressed to her neck. She was a marathon runner and constantly checked her pulse. “What's the name of your band?”

“Toxic Shock Syndrome,” Dustin said.

Taz laughed. “That's the name of your band?”

Kira looked at her. “So what?”

“Don't you get that from tampons?”

“It's a very serious disease,” Kira said. She smoothed the napkin in her lap. “People die from it. Don't they, Dust?”

Dustin nodded, staring at his salmon. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, but he did nothing to wipe it from his face. He'd decided the only way to survive the evening would be to talk—to move—as little as possible.

Mr. Shackney looked at him suspiciously. “So it's, like, a public service sort of thing? Raising awareness?”

“Well, I think it's terrific,” Mrs. Shackney said. “Everyone should know about these problems. Have you been playing at the public schools?”

“It's not really about that,” Dustin explained. “I mean, we're socially conscious—but it's more about conspicuous consumption. Stuff like that.”

“What's conspicuous consumption?” Brent asked with his mouth full.

“You know. How everything's about shopping and stuff you don't need.” Dustin happened to glance at the brightly lacquered didgeridoo balanced on a stand in the corner, a souvenir from one of the Shackneys' “little trips.” Hanging on the wall nearby was the branding iron that Mr. Shackney used to monogram his steaks. Dustin's eyes caught Taz's: her smirk widened, as though he had a blob of salmon stuck to his chin. “Not just shopping. Everything. Like, we have a song about Mandy Rogers.”

Mr. Shackney dropped his fork. “It disgusts me. These perverts. We should send them all to an island, castrate the bastards.”

“Mitch, please. Can we not be so graphic?”

“I just think if it was one of my own kids. That poor girl being raped.”

“You don't
know
that's what happened,” Taz said, picking at her food. “Anyway, what if she went off with some guy on purpose?”

“Oh please,” Kira said. “She's mentally retarded.”

“What? Retards don't like to get laid?”

“Taz! I swear, I'm about at my limit.” Mrs. Shackney checked her pulse. “Even if she weren't disabled. She's just a girl.”

Taz snorted. “She's the same age as me.”

“That's young enough!” Mr. Shackney said. He wiped his mouth. “If I ever got my hands on one of these sickos, I'd cut his balls off myself.”

“Mitch!”

“Could I help, Dad?” Brent asked.

“Sure. It'd teach you a thing about justice.”

“Are you okay?” Kira said, looking at Dustin. “Your face is all sweaty.”

“I'm just going to use the bathroom,” Dustin said.

He walked down the telepathically brightening hallway and locked the door behind him, inspecting himself in the mirror above the sink. His face was redder than usual. Slapping it with cold water, he closed his eyes and pictured Taz's sneering lips, the stupid smirk that seemed to accentuate the little mole on her lip. Why
did it piss him off so much? It made him feel like a loser. A
fraud
. But he wasn't a fraud. He was a talented guitarist who would one day make her extremely sorry, when Toxic Shock Syndrome—or maybe Viet-Nun, they could still change their name—became a household word. The Shackneys were right: she was a nutcase, mentally unstable. Probably she was tortured with jealousy over Kira's beauty. She wasn't worth wasting a second's thought over.

There were some bars of soap lined up in a dish on the sink, blue and speckled and identical except that each one was larger than the one before, as though laid out for the Three Bears. He thought of the lobster wandering through the party in San Pedro. He rearranged the soaps, putting the smallest one in the middle, but it didn't make him feel any better.

After a while, he gathered his courage again and opened the door. Taz was standing in the hallway in front of her room. She was frowning, her bangs covering her eyes. She saw Dustin and the smirk returned, as if of its own accord.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“They sent me to my room.”

“Why? Did you try to eat your glass?”

The smirk didn't change. “Actually, I told them I thought you were an alcoholic.”

You're completely insane, Dustin thought. Ignoring her, he brushed past and walked down the still-bright hall and took his place serenely at the table. Or rather, he did this in his mind. In reality, he grabbed Taz by the arms and mashed his lips into her smirk, leaning her against the wall in a noisy, unpleasant kiss. He could taste the lemony glaze of salmon on her tongue. He half-expected some witchy thing, sharp and hazardous, to end up in his mouth. The light down the hall flicked off. Before he could stop himself, they began to press together with their hips, a slow, Legolike push, his breath thinning to a shiver, the promised snap eluding them as they stumbled sideways and the light went on again, reminding them—or Dustin, at least—where they were.

He let go. She was no longer smirking. A dribble of blood rolled down her neck, seeping from her earlobe. She wasn't a witch, of course, but a miserably lost girl.

He rushed past her for real this time and returned to the dining room. The Shackneys were hunched over their plates, talking in low tones, involved in a conversation they'd clearly had before.
He could tell it was about Taz. When they saw him return to his seat, everyone straightened. Dustin realized he had no idea how he looked.

“
There
he is,” Mr. Shackney said, winking. “Better watch your drinks.”

“Feeling better?” Mrs. Shackney asked.

Dustin nodded, surprised to discover that he actually was. Kira put her hand on his leg. Her smile was so different from her sister's smirk, so affectionate and admiring and filled with love, that he felt indecent. He ate the rest of his salmon, trying to forget what had happened in the hall. Kira told her parents about some of his songs, gushing about how talented he was, but Dustin was having a hard time looking her in the eye. It was only partly out of guilt—there was something, too, about the way she sat there, all dressed up and polite and at home with the didgeridoo standing behind her.

“Why are you looking at my ears?” she asked, blushing.

“I'm not.”

“Ugh. They stick out, I know.”

Mrs. Shackney patted her hand. “You have beautiful ears, honey. They're perfect.”

Dustin agreed with her, forcing himself to smile. It was true. There was nothing wrong with them.

Warren sat in the driveway, studying his head in the rearview mirror. He'd taken his electric razor to it and shorn it to a military buzz. He'd had the same head for forty-four years but was only now getting to know it. There were little divots, worrisome black freckles, a tiny, trapezoidal window over his ear where no hair would grow. Dustin, approvingly, had told him he looked like a skinhead. Warren did not know what this was but suspected it was not a resemblance that would help him move houses.

Warren's throat was dry. An unquenchable thirst. It had been there a week, ever since the Flegel's men had emptied out his living room.

He went inside the house, unable to keep from glancing down the hall at the barren rug. His mouth turned to cotton. He walked to the kitchen and grabbed one of Dustin's Cokes from the fridge. Several pots burbled away on the stove, filling the house with a syrupy, dispiriting smell. The kids called their mother Pyrex, goddess of casseroles; Warren couldn't complain in the same way since she was generally the one who cooked. He used to justify this by their differences in income: he worked harder, supported the family, it made a certain amount of sense. Now, thinking of her rushing home from work to get dinner on, he felt guilty and obsolete.

Mr. Leonard limped through the back door followed by Camille, who was wearing what appeared to be a poncho, black and armless and fringed with little tassels. When she saw Warren, she blushed self-consciously and busied herself with Mr. Leonard's
leash. Lately she seemed perpetually angry and alert, as if she were waiting for him to say the wrong thing.

“New jacket?” he asked timidly.

“I bought it today, before picking up Lyle.” She glanced at him before hanging up the leash. “How does it look?”

“Fine. I mean, great.”

“You don't like it.”

“I do,” he said. “Just I've never seen you in black before. Or a, um, poncho.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It's not a poncho,” she said, walking to the sink.

“What is it?”

“It's a shawl. It's cashmere.”

The word alarmed him. “Did you put it on your American Express?”

“Why does it matter?” Her face and ears were pink: with anger or humiliation, Warren couldn't tell.

“No reason. Just wondering. I mean, we should be careful, with Christmas coming up.”

“It's July!”

Warren waited for her to ask about their finances, steeling himself for the third degree, but she seemed uninterested in pursuing the matter. Whether this was denial on her part or something more dangerous, he couldn't tell. He took a swig of Coke and the motion startled Mr. Leonard, who stiffened on his doggy mat as though he'd just seen a ghost. There was something oddly curatorial about him. Camille dropped something in the sink—perhaps on purpose—and he jerked his head back and forth, like a bird.

“What's up with Mr. Leonard?” Warren asked.

“He got into the chocolate-covered espresso beans.”

“What? How many did he eat?”

“The whole bag.”

“Jesus,” Warren muttered. “Why don't we just throw our groceries down the toilet?”

Camille studied him for a second, as though he'd lost his mind. While she was turning off the stove, Dustin came in from the yard, slamming the screen door behind him. Mr. Leonard shot up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Whoa,” Dustin said. “Those dog vitamins don't screw around.”

“He's heavily caffeinated,” Warren explained.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?”

Lyle stepped into the kitchen, joining Dustin by the counter. Camille regarded them angrily. “Which of you left the espresso beans out?”

“Mom,” Lyle said, staring at her shawl, “are you in a play or something?”

She turned a deeper shade of pink. “What do you mean?”

“It's cashmere,” Warren said, defending her.

“They make ponchos in cashmere?”

Jonas came in from the hall with one of his toy guns and immediately sprung it on his mother, twirling it Old West–style from his hip. She turned to Warren, as if the shawl's poncholike qualities were his fault. Her eyes seemed to fill with tears.

“You're wearing tennis shoes with your suit,” she whispered, staring at his ketchup-stained sneakers.

“My loafers were giving me blisters.”

She turned back to the sink, refusing to look at him. How could he tell her that he'd been trolling the neighborhoods of San Pedro on foot, handing out business cards to anyone who looked solvent? It had been hard enough to explain the living room: in the end he'd told her it was an early birthday present, that he'd wanted to surprise her with new furniture but that there'd been a mix-up with the order. The new stuff wouldn't get here for a month. She was skeptical at first, but he reminded her how long she'd been pining for a gray chenille couch to replace the leather one. He did not want to lie to her, but every time he considered telling her the truth—that he'd lost their 401(k) and 529 and every fund in between—his tongue dried up like paper and he couldn't speak. When he managed to get Auburn Fields off the ground, he reminded himself, he'd be able to put the money back in.

As for the kids, the fact that the living room furniture had disappeared hardly seemed to faze them. They'd accepted Warren's explanation as easily as they'd accepted his lie about the Chrysler. It was only Jonas who gave him looks, but even these were hard to interpret, more conspiratorial than accusatory.

“How's Kira Shackney?” Warren asked Dustin at dinner, trying to make conversation. His son seemed startled.

“Fine.”

“I ran into Mitch Shackney, while I was walking Mr. Leonard
yesterday. He had his other girl with him, the younger one. What's her name?”

Dustin fidgeted in his chair, perhaps out of boredom. “I don't know.”

“I guess she's been going to school up near Santa Cruz. Doesn't really know anyone here.” Warren poured himself some more water from the pitcher on the table. “I said it might be nice if all you kids got together sometime. Jonas, too. I mean—I know she's a bit older.”

“Oooh, Jone,” Lyle said. “Maybe you can score some action.”

“Okay,” Jonas said.

“She's fifteen!” Dustin said. “Anyway, she likes to eat glass.”

“What?”

“Did you know that lions sometimes get confused when they're licking their cubs and end up eating them instead?” Jonas said.

“What?” Lyle said. “By mistake?”

“Their brain circuits get crossed. I read it in
National Geographic.
”

“That's ridiculous,” Warren said.

Lyle turned to Camille, who'd walked in with a casserole, Mr. Leonard trembling at her heels. She was wearing oven mitts designed to look like cow heads. “Mom, did you ever feel like eating us?”

“No, honey,” she said quietly. “It never crossed my mind.”

Everyone passed their plates to Camille, who served them dinner. Warren looked at the night's offering, identifiable from past incarnations as Polynesian pork: chunks of meat and pineapple swimming in a brownish goop, topped with Chinese noodles, steaming next to a bowl of leftover Spanish rice. He tried to imagine what they'd be eating if they went truly broke. He guzzled the water in front of him. “I wonder if for once we could have a normal dinner conversation? One that doesn't involve cannibalism?”