There is a little hill and then two tennis courts on the flat top of the rise. Long ago, some do-gooder decided to beautify the courts by planting pretty little roses along the outside of the wire enclosure of the courts. As the years passed, the roses became huge, vicious thorn bushes. Anyone trying to play tennis when the courts were locked would definitely not climb the fence! Tim and I found a narrow pocket of thorn-rimmed space between two of the huge roses. Very carefully, we stretched out a Chair Fair blanket and crawled in backward so we could lie facing the fireworks, propping our chins in our hands. “From up here,” said Tim, “we’ll have the best view of anybody in town.” I quite agreed. Although I was not looking at the sky. I was looking at Timothy Lansberry and thinking that the second Tim around was the most wonderful boy I’d ever come across. Forget Albany, I thought. Forget Ken. Forget everything. Think Tim. We didn’t talk. We just looked at each other for a few moments and I found myself shivering again.
