James was so surprised, he lost his balance and almost fell backwards off the trunk. By the time he recovered and righted himself, the face was gone. Had he imagined it? Was it just one of the Sports Family brothers home early from school? Kids got sick, like Dad said, or they decided to play hooky.

James tried to remember every detail of the face he'd seen, or thought he'd seen. It had been younger than either of the Sports Family brothers'. Softer. Hadn't it?

Maybe it was a thief. Or a maid, come early. No. It had been a child. A—He didn't even let himself think what another child in that house would be. He stared for hours at the Sports Family's house, but no

face reappeared. Nothing happened until six, when the two Sports Family boys came back home in a carriage, unloaded their football gear, and carried it into the house. They didn't run out screaming about being robbed.

And he'd seen no thief leave. He'd seen no maid leave. At six-thirty, James reluctantly climbed down from his perch when he heard his mother's knock on the door. He sat down on his bed and muttered a distracted, "Come in." She rushed to hug him.

"James—I'm sorry. I know you were just trying to help. And everything is amazingly clean. I'd love it if you could do every day. But your Father thinks—I mean, you can't—"

James was so busy thinking about the face in the window that at first he couldn't figure out what she was talking about. Oh. The bread. The housecleaning. The radio.

"That's okay," James mumbled.

But it wasn't, and it never would be. His anger came back. Why did his parents have to be so careful? Why didn't they just lock him in one of the trunks in the attic and be done with it?

"Can't you talk to him?" James asked. "Can't you convince him—"

Mother pushed James's hair back from his face. "I'll try," she said. "But you know he's just trying to protect you. We can't take any chances."

Even if the face in the window of the Sports Family house was another third child, so what? James and the other kid could live right next door all their lives and never meet James might never see the other kid again. And he'd certainly never see James.

James lowered his head.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked. "There's nothing for me to do. Am I supposed to just sit in this room the rest of my life?"

Mother was stroking his hair now. It made him feel itchy and irritable.

"Oh, James," she said. "You can do so much. Read and play and sleep whenever you want.... Believe me, I'd like to live a day of your life right about now."

"No you wouldn't," James muttered, but he said it so softly, he was sure Mother couldn't hear. He knew she wouldn't understand.

If there was a third child in the Sports Family, would he understand? Did he feel the way James?

………………

When James went down to supper, he saw that Mother had set his two loaves of bread out on the china plate she used for holidays and special occasions. She was showing off the bread the way she used to tape up the crooked drawings Billy and Mark brought home from school when they were little.

But something had gone wrong—maybe James hadn't used enough yeast, or he'd kneaded the dough too much or too little—and the loaves had turned out flat. They looked lopsided and pathetic in the center of the table.

James wished Mother had just thrown them away.

"It's cold out now. Nobody'd notice if you pulled the shades. Why can't I sit at the table with all of you?" he asked when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh, James—" Mother started.

"Someone might see your shadow through the shade," Dad said.

"They wouldn't know it was mine," James said.

"But there'd be five. Someone might get suspicious,"

Mother said patiently. "James, we're just trying to protect you. How about a big slice of your bread? There's cold beef and canned beans, too."

Resignedly, James sat down on the stairs. Billy asked about the auction Dad had gone to.

"I drove all that way for nothing," Dad said disgustedly. "I waited four hours for the tractors to come up, and then I couldn't even afford the first bid."

"At least you got home in time to fix that back fence before dark," Mother said, cutting the bread.

And yell at me, James thought bitterly. What was wrong with him? Nothing had changed. Except he'd maybe seen a face that maybe belonged to someone like him—Billy and Mark suddenly noticed the bread Mother was doling out.

"What's wrong with that?" Mark asked.

"I'm sure it will taste fine," Mother said. "It's James's first try."

James muttered, "And my last," too softly for anyone to hear. There were advantages to sitting on the other side of the room from everyone else.

"James made bread?" Mark said incredulously. "Yuck."

"Yeah. And I put special poison in one of the loaves, that only affects fourteen-year-olds," James said.

He pantomimed death, clutching his hands around his own neck, letting his tongue hang out of his mouth, and lolling his head to the side.

"If you're nice to me, I'll tell you which loaf is safe."

That shut Mark up but earned James a frown from Mother. James felt strange about the joke, anyway. Of course he'd never poison anyone, but—if something happened to Billy or Mark, would James have to hide anymore? Would he become the public second son, free to go to town and to school and everywhere else that Billy and Mark went? Could his parents find some way to explain a "new" child already twelve years old?

It wasn't something James could ask. He felt guilty just thinking about it.

Mark was making a big ceremony out of bringing the bread to his mouth.

"I'm not scared of you," he taunted, and took a big bite. He swallowed with great difficulty and pretended to gag. "Water, water—quick!" He gulped down half his glass and glared at James.

"Tastes like poison, all right".

James bit into his bread. It was dry and crumbly and tasteless, not like Mother's at all. And everybody knew it. Even Dad and Mother had pained expressions on their faces as they chewed. Dad finally pushed his slice away.

"That's okay, James," he said. "I'm not sure I'd want any son of mine getting too good at baking, anyhow. That's what a man gets married for."

Billy and Mark guffawed.

"Getting married soon, James?" Mark teased.

"Sure," James said, struggling to sound as devil-may-care as Mark. "But don't think I'd invite you to the wedding."

He felt a cold, hard lump in his stomach that wasn't the bread. Of course he'd never get married. Or do anything. He'd never leave the house.

Mark switched to teasing Billy, who evidently did have a girlfriend. James watched the rest of his family laughing.

"May I be excused?" James asked.

Everyone turned to him in surprise. Usually he was the last one to make that request. Mother often begged Billy and Mark, "Can't you wait, and talk to James a little bit longer?"

"Done already?" Mother asked.

"I'm not very hungry," James said.

Mother gave him a worried look but nodded, anyway. James went to his room and climbed onto the stool by the back vents. In the dark, it was easier than ever to see into the houses of the new neighborhood. Their windows were lit up against the night. Some families were eating, like his. He

could see one set of four people around a dining room table, and one set of three. Some families had their curtains or shades drawn, but sometimes the material was thin and he could still see shadows of the people inside.

Only the Sports Family had all their windows totally blocked, covered by heavy blinds.