Maggie and her parents spoke to each other in language so spare, so cleansed of inflection, Green thought they might as well have transmitted their communications using semaphore flags.

One afternoon when Green accompanied Maggie home, she left him in the kitchen with her mother, who, without asking if he was hungry, fixed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Mrs. Harrison always fed Green, who was too unsettled in her presence to feel much of an appetite. Maggie reappeared a couple of minutes later carrying a compact vinyl suitcase, the type that was called a train case.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Green was standing in front of the dishwasher, attempting to swallow the sandwich, which was sticking in his throat.

Mrs. Harrison said, “Where?”

“Green’s for the weekend.”

“Well. Take care.”

The next thing Green knew he and Maggie were out of the house, spinning along Bord-du-Lac Road in her white sports car.

Green’s real name was Robert Greenaway Metternich. Maggie was the only one who called him “Green.” The nickname was a joke, of course, but because it was hers exclusively, it had the click of intimacy to it. She used “Green” all summer, in public, around the yacht club. Green had no pet names for her. “Maggie” felt private enough, intimate enough.

Green wondered if anyone knew what they were doing. The unusual thing about their romance was the difference in their ages. Maggie was twenty-one that summer. Green was fourteen.