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just figured that she was going through stuff and that Mom and Dad’s divorce had taken its toll. Puberty could have also explained it. Everybody knew that puberty could cause all kinds of unexpected changes; it was just a matter of degree. For Deirdre, the degree had been extreme.
    â€œI think she needs a new look,” Leonard said, sipping his Diet Coke through a slim, red cocktail straw. “Something sassy. Something that says, ‘Hey, get a load of me.’”
    Even Mom rolled her eyes at that one.
    â€œAnd just for the record,” I interjected, “this was Leonard’s idea. The restaurant. Not Deirdre’s. Not mine. His.”
    A word about the Fin & Claw: The Fin & Claw is basically a summer business, but it serves the community throughout the year as a tragic backdrop for birthday parties, anniversary and reunion celebrations, dinners in honor of graduating seniors, newborns, bank presidents, and the Elks club. Every family within twenty miles has contributed to its success. We never had much choice, really. It was one of the few places in Neptune where you could celebrate Thanksgiving Day in public. The place was described on the front of the menu as “a Neptunian lair fit for a king,” but really it was just a lot of cheap souvenirs and seaside frippery designed to inspire the summer trade into believing that they had traveled far from home. Starfish, palm fronds, and life preservers were tangled in swags of fish netting, all of it draped dramatically from the rafters and crossbeams. Stuffed sea game and fishing tackle hung on the walls. Large seashells ( not native to the Jersey shore) were arranged along the ledges of the room. The salad bar had become a big draw long before they installed the see-through sneeze guard.
    But the décor was not the only reason I’d hated the Fin & Claw with such a deep and abiding passion. The problem was that no one in Neptune could set foot in there without suffering from a severe attack of remembering. My family was no exception. The last time I was there, I turned to Deirdre and whispered that from now on we were going to refer to the place as “the tomb of our passed youth.” It was as if everything that had ever happened to us as a family was dead and hanging up in the rafters. My seventh-, eighth-, and tenth-birthday celebrations, as well as Deirdre’s sweet sixteen. My dad was up there, too (though I tried not to look at him). Every prayer I ever directed toward that beamed ceiling of the Fin & Claw during those endless Sunday dinners was hanging alongside those horrid plastic lobsters and the splintered oars.
    Josh Mintern, who was posing as a busboy in a bloodred jacket that clashed with his bright-red hair, delivered a basket of dinner rolls to our table. No wonder he couldn’t look me in the eye—the rolls were so stale, they clicked against one another when he set them down in front of me. He had a golden trace of a mustache on his upper lip, and I thought, My God, we’re all growing up, and in about ten minutes we’ll be old people ordering the early bird special and complaining about lumps in the gravy.
    â€œHey, Josh,” said Leonard, and he flashed a bright smile up from the table.
    We were all stunned that Leonard was on a first-name basis with anyone in town, let alone someone a grade above him. Josh seemed surprised as well. He just stood there, looking as if he had just been hit on the head with one of his dinner rolls.
    Once Josh had loped across the room and disappeared into the kitchen, Leonard leaned over and looked toward the entrance as if he were expecting someone. A person would have to be blind not to notice that Leonard was acting weird, even for him. Mom shot a glance at him.
    â€œLeonard, I don’t know what’s up with you, but you’re acting very queer.”
    â€œMother!” I said, using my restaurant voice. “We have told you six trillion times that