Disclaimer: I think it goes without saying, doesn't it?

"I found something really interesting on the Internet last night," said Buster conversationally as he walked alongside Francine. The sunny summer's day was winding down as they walked along the sidewalk.

"Yeah?" Francine said, surreptitiously checking her watch.

"Yeah," he said. "Turns out, not only are aliens responsible for the disappearance of the Mayans and the Lindbergh Baby, but they also kidnapped Tupac Shakur. There was a conspiracy to cover it all up, just like with Elvis. That's why Tupac comes out with new music videos every now and then. They film them in space, then they beam them to MTV."

Francine gave a derisive snicker. "And—let me guess—the aliens use Nazi gold or something to pay MTV to keep quiet about the whole thing?"

"Exactly!" he said. "Did you visit the Web site too?"

She tilted her head and gave him an uncertain stare. It was only a moment later when he cracked a huge grin.

"Just kidding!" he cried. "Oh man, you really thought I was serious?"

Francine rolled her eyes as they continued down the sidewalk.

"Sorry," he said through stifled laughter. "It's just so much fun with you, Francine; the looks on your face sometimes…"

"Glad I could amuse you," she said dryly. She checked her watch again. "I'm thirsty. I think I'll drop by The Sugar Bowl and get a soda before the game. You in?"

"Sure," Buster said. "That is, if you think all the guests will have arrived by the time we get there."

Francine stopped cold. "Guests?" she said nervously. "What guests?"

"The guests for my surprise birthday party, of course." He was clearly enjoying this.

Francine spluttered. "Surprise party? What-- Why would you think that?" she asked. Rather than look straight at Buster, she looked past him and focused on two young girls riding their bikes along the opposite side of the street. "Your birthday's not even until Tuesday," she said defensively.

"Yeah, but I'll be at my dad's for my birthday, so you're having my party tonight instead of when I get back. It was cool of you guys to want to surprise me; telling me it was going to be on a different day was a nice touch." he added sweetly.

This time Francine did look at him. It was clear from the expression on her face that she knew what Buster was talking about, yet she stood in silence as if refusing to admit it.

"Oh come on, Francine, I know we're not going to the park for a pick-up basketball game with Arthur and Jenna. Arthur made you do his dirty work: calling me up, asking if I wanted to go to the park… He knows he's a bad liar."

Francine abandoned pretense. Her stance of defiance was replaced with a look of amazement. "How did you—"

"Figure it out?" supplied Buster. "Please, Francine. For one thing, you always bring the ball to games, but you don't have one with you." He began counting the rest on his fingers. "Two, you're wearing flip-flops. I've never known Francine Frensky to ever wear flip-flops during a basketball game—not even just for fun. Three, the sun's going down; there's not enough time left for a decent game. And four, we're taking the long route to the park, which just happens to pass The Sugar Bowl first. How convenient," he added using his best Church Lady impression.

Francine stood in silence for a moment, mouth agape, and then a smirk played across her face. "Okay, you win. We're throwing you a surprise party. You need to stop watching so many detective shows, you know," she said finally. "So what, I guess you want me to hand you a wipe now, Columbo?"

Buster laughed. "Columbo doesn't use wipes," he said as they picked up pace again.

As they walked on, Francine began an animated description of how she and Arthur had been planning together for the past week.

"I hope you appreciate all we've done for you, Buster, 'cause it wasn't easy, especially with you hanging around. And we almost didn't have a cake; Mr. Read has two big gigs this weekend, but Arthur begged him to fit it into his schedule. It's supposed to look like your head or something. Arthur said you'd remember it," she finished breathlessly.

"Yeah." Buster smiled at the memory.

"Anyway, as soon as Muffy heard what we were up to, she wanted to take over everything," Francine continued. "She insisted that we have your party in some hotel ballroom, hire a DJ and have crudités platters—whatever those are—catered. But I told her those kind of things are really more for a girl's sweet sixteenth party, not a guy's fourteenth. And—"

"Hey, they're selling my house!" Buster blurted.

"What? Hey! Where are you going?"

Francine saw a blur of white as her companion ran past her. Buster was now several yards ahead. She gave chase, flip-flops slapping against her heels. Moments later, she was standing beside Buster. He had come to a stop in front of a short, white picket fence. Beyond the fence lay a stretch of land, upon which grew several shady trees. A smallish cottage stood in the middle.

Buster seemed to be mesmerized by the structure as he looked on unblinkingly.

"What are we staring at?" Francine asked.

"My house," said Buster. "This is where I used to live, remember?"

She thought for a moment. "Vaguely," she answered. "Back when you were really little? I think I remember coming here once for your birthday."

"Yeah, it was my fourth birthday." He paused. "It was the last birthday I had before my parents… you know, before they split up."

There was tension in his voice. He placed a hand upon the "FOR SALE" sign edging the sidewalk and fell quiet. Francine watched as he gazed at the house, whose stark-white features were lined with colorful splashes of asters and lilacs. It was a lovely home, she thought.

"An old couple bought it," he broke the silence, "after Mom and I moved into the condo. I used to ride my bike past here sometimes, and I'd see them out gardening or playing with some kids. I bet they were their grandkids. I wonder where they are now if they don't live here anymore…"

"Buster," Francine began tentatively, "why did your parents divorce? I mean, I've never heard you say."

Buster shrugged. "I don't know why. I haven't talked to them about it in a long time."

"But you've asked them? What did they say?"

He sighed. "You really don't get a lot of straight answers from your parents when you're four, do you? Just the same dumb lines: 'Adult problems are complicated, sweetie,' or 'you'll understand when you're older.' Sometimes you get both those sayings together."

"Oh my God, you haven't tried to discuss it since you were four? But aren't you curious—just a little?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?" she asked incredulously. "If it were my parents, I'd want to know. It would eat away at me, day and night—just gnawing away at the pit of my stomach—"

"Alright, Francine. Yeah, I'm curious, okay?"

"And?"

"And what?"

"Well, they said you could ask when you were older. You're nearly fourteen, for heaven's sake!"

"Yeah, well… as I got older, I finally understood what divorce meant. What it really meant, I mean: Your parents can't live together because one of them did something that hurt the other one. Badly. I guess I figured if I didn't ask, then I wouldn't have to hate one of them for the rest of my life. I could just stay kind of p.o.-ed at both of them for tossing me around like a common household beach ball. At least I'm used to that." He gave a bitter laugh.

Francine put her hand on his shoulder. "It might not be that awful," she said comfortingly. "You'll never know unless you ask."

He nudged a dandelion with the toe of his sneaker. "Then I guess I'll never know," he said simply, "because I don't plan on asking."

He looked at Francine. "And besides, what difference does it make, really? It wouldn't change the outcome." A peaceful tone had crept into his voice now. "I'm okay with not knowing. Really," he added.

The subject was closed. Francine looked at her watch once more.

"C'mon," she said, leading Buster away from the lot by the arm. "You're going to be late for your own birthday party. And try to act surprised when you get there, okay?"

He nodded and gave a small smile. "Okay. And I promise I won't tell Arthur you told me about my face-cake," he said jokingly.

But as they continued walking, Buster couldn't help stealing a look at the tiny white house, just one last time.