Micky Dolenz was in heaven. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and after weeks of dogging her every step in hopes of a date, Ginny Nelson was here, on his very own back porch, enjoying the mild afternoon and sipping lemonade as they sat side-by-side.

He'd never honestly expected her to say yes. He hadn't existed for her when they'd both attended Grant High, and there was no reason for things to be different now that they were in college. She was still the golden girl--cheerleader, sorority princess, Miss Popularity--and he was still Micky the clown. When she'd agreed to go to a Saturday matinee with him he'd figured either the gods had decided to cut him a break, or they were playing some sort of twisted cosmic joke on him. Either way, he didn't really care. She was here, sitting so close he could catch a whiff of light perfume she always wore. Life was very good indeed.

Testing his luck, Micky slipped a casual arm around Ginny's shoulders as they talked over old high school memories. After a few moments of desultory conversation, he made his move. Leaning closer, his dark curls mingled with her blonde locks, their lips nearly touching...

"MICKY AND GINNY SITTIN IN A TREE! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! FIRST COMES LOVE, THEN COMES MARRIAGE, THEN COMES MICKY WITH A BABY CARRIAGE!"

Jerking back as if stung, Micky groaned as he spotted two freckled faces nearly hidden by his mother's prize azaleas.

Leaping to his feet while Ginny hid her flaming face in her hands, Micky bounded off the steps in hot pursuit of their tormentors.

"DEBBIE! GINA!" Swearing under his breath as the prickly branches tore through the material of his slacks, he watched as his two youngest sisters slipped into the neighbor's yard and effected a clean getaway, no doubt to tell all their friends every detail of what they seen and heard.

Just then the back door swung open, and Janelle Dolenz rushed out. "What's going on out here?" she demanded. "And get out of my azaleas before you kill them, George Michael Dolenz!"

Micky cringed at the use of his full--and detested--name. Since he'd been old enough to talk, he'd insisted he be called Micky. When his mother used his full name he knew he'd pushed her too far.

"Sorry..." Reaching down to free himself of a particularly bad snag, he limped back toward the porch. "The munchkins were spying on me again, Mom! Can't you keep them inside or something?"

The older woman rolled her eyes. "Micky, I can't put them under lock and key just because you have company!" She smiled sympathetically at Ginny. "They're good girls, really they are, and they love their big brother to death." She shot her son a pointed glance. "Remember when I caught *you* spying on Rebecca Hardy next door?"

Micky flushed beet red. "Mom! I was just a kid!"

"And so are your sisters. Deal with it." Turning, she walked back into the house, leaving Micky and Ginny alone.

"Where are you going?" Micky asked worriedly as Ginny picked up her purse and stood.

"Back to my apartment."

"You don't have to do that!" he protested. "The girls are gone now. They won't bother us again..."

She held up a hand to silence him. "Listen, Micky... you seem like a nice guy, and I had a good time this afternoon, but this just isn't my bag. I moved out of my parent's house to get away from all this." She gestured at the neatly mowed lawn, the child's toys scattered about, the barbeque grill--all the hallmarks of suburbia. "Why don't you give me a call when you cut the apron strings and move away from Mommy and the kids, okay?"

With that, she made her exit, leaving Micky with his jaw agape. "I knew it was too good to last," he muttered as the gate latched with a quiet click. Silently gathering up the empty glasses, he carried them inside, ignoring his mother's inquisitive look as he bypassed the slice of chocolate cake she offered him and headed up to his room to think.

It was perfect.

Micky craned his neck to look up at the dilapidated beach house he'd discovered while exploring one of the few sections of shoreline in southern California that was unfamiliar to him. He'd been walking, brooding about his disasterous date with the lovely Ginny, when he'd spotted it--two stories high, the beach side elevated on stilts, the street side nestled snugly on the ground.

It had definitely seen better days, Micky observed. The many windows were caked with sea salt and dirt, the paint on the clapboards faded and badly peeling, giving the house a sad, abandoned look. Seeing no evidence that anyone actually lived there, Micky tested the rickety looking wooden stairs, pleasantly surprised to find them much sturdier than they appeared. Encouraged, he made his way up to the small balcony jutting off the lower level, eager to get a better look at the property.

Wiping away some of the grime from one of the windows with his sleeve, he peered inside, cupping his hands to shade his eyes from the bright sun. Squinting, he could make out several pieces of furniture--a kitchen table and chairs, a chaise lounge, sofa and an uncomfortable-looking armchair. A section of wooden floor in front of the large bay window appeared to be raised--much like a stage--and a spiral staircase wound around itself on its' way to the upper level. An undisturbed layer of dust covered every surface, confirming that the place was vacant, as if whoever had lived there before had simply left, taking nothing but what they could carry.

"You'd better not let Babbitt see you up there!"

Startled from his thoughts, Micky turned to gaze down at a lone surfer trudging out of the water as he hauled his board ashore. "You know who owns this place?"

"That's Babbitt's place," the stranger answered, flinging the dripping bangs out of his eyes. "I thought everyone knew that."

"Is it for rent?" Micky loped down the stairs to the warm sand. "It's just what I've been looking for."

"Not a chance," the surfer replied, standing the board in the sand and resting against it. "It's been empty for as long as I can remember, and I've lived on this beach for over ten years."

"Man, why would anyone own a great place like this and not live in it?" As prized as ocean-front property was, Micky couldn't fathom letting a prime piece like this go to waste.

The other man shrugged. "I couldn't say. I've heard he's had offers to buy the place outright, but he's turned every one of them down. He just lets it sit here and rot, as far as I can tell."

Micky took another long look at the house. Even if he could convince Babbitt to rent it to him, there was probably no way he could afford the sum the house would command. Then his face brightened. Maybe he couldn't afford it alone, but if he could find one or two others to share the rent, it just might be possible...

"Where does this Babbitt person live?" he asked eagerly. "Maybe I can change his mind."

The surfer pointed to a small house, just visible on the other side of Beechwood Drive. Neat but utterly bland, it had none of the charm and character of the beach house. This Babbitt must be nuts to live in that crackerbox when he had a groovy pad just across the street.

"Thanks, babe!" Waving good-bye, Micky climbed the narrow, worn path up to the street, trotting across the paved surface to pound on the door.

The door swung open, revealing a middle-aged man, face stony as his dark eyes looked Micky up and down. "Whatever it is you're selling, I don't want any."

"But I'm not selling anyth..."

"Then I gave at the office," the man interrupted him brusquely, pushing the door closed.

"Wait!" Micky's hand reached out to block the door before it could completely shut. "I'm not here to collect for anything," he explained quickly. "I wanted to talk to you about the house... 1334," he added, recalling the faded numbers he'd seen on the mailbox. "It *is* yours, isn't it."

"I own it," Babbitt admitted gruffly. "What about it?"

"Would you wanna rent it out?"

The face grew even colder. "Listen, kid..."

"It's Micky. Micky Dolenz."

"Listen, Micky," Babbitt tried again. "I'm gonna tell you what I told everyone else. The house isn't for sale, and it isn't for rent. Period."

Micky went on as if he hadn't said a word. "How much rent would you want? I know I probably couldn't afford it on my own, but I think I could find some guys to go in with me..."

"Micky..."

"It's pretty run down but I can fix a lot of that stuff," Micky mused. "How many bedrooms does it have?"

"Two, but..."

"What about the furniture? Does that go with it?"

"It's furnished, but I told you, it's not..."

"Great!" Micky cut him off, head filled with plans. "I don't have any furniture, so it'll come in handy." Too excited to stand still, Micky grabbed Babbitt's hand, pumping it furiously. "You won't regret this, Mr. B., I promise! I'll be back as soon as I line up some roommates!" Turning to wave over his shoulder, Micky sprinted back toward the beach, leaving Babbitt standing open-mouthed in the doorway.

Shutting the door, Babbitt walked slowly back to his kitchen to grab the coffee he'd abandoned when he'd heard the knock at the door. Grimacing at the now lukewarm liquid, he dumped it down the sink, mind still spinning after his whirlwind visitor. He hadn't heard anybody talk that fast since...well, since Becky.

That must be what it is, he decided. He'd been thinking a lot about his daughter lately, and this Micky had just proceeded to talk circles around him, just as she'd always been able to do. He looked to be about Becky's age, too--the age she *would* have been, he reminded himself painfully--and he'd stared at the beach house with the same joy and affection in his eyes that she'd always had for the place. His little girl had always loved the ocean and Malibu Beach, and the big house that was the only home she would ever know. Maybe it *was* time to let some life back into the place. Becky would hate to see the home she'd loved empty and deserted...

"I must be crazy," he muttered aloud, even though he knew the decision had already been made. If Dolenz *did* come back, he'd rent him the place. He knew it.

"Pah! What am I worried about?" he asked himself. "He'll never be back--not in a million years."

"What do you need all these boxes for, Micky?" Mr. Hawkins, owner of Hawkins' Grocery, asked as he piled the carboard containers into Micky's outstretched arms. "You're not trying to build a time-machine again, are you?"

Micky blushed in the dim light of the musty storeroom. "I haven't tried to build a time machine since I was a kid," he protested.

"It was last week," the grocer replied, enjoying teasing his young friend. "So if it's not for an experiment, why do you need the boxes? Must be important to get you out and about so early."

"I'm moving!" Micky said happily. "I found this great beach house in Malibu the other day--the owner's a little on the quiet side, but he seemed okay for an old guy."

"Malibu?" Grizzled eyebrows shot skyward. "Pretty fancy address, Mick..." He'd known Micky since the kid was knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper, and as much as he liked him, Micky was perpetually short of money. More than once he'd spotted him a soda or a snack 'Just until I get my allowance, Mr. Hawkins!' "Did you get a job somewhere? You know I could always use a good stockboy." He couldn't pay much, but to help out his favorite customer he'd find the money somewhere.

"Thanks, but I've got it all worked out," Micky assured him. "I'm gonna get some guys to go in with me--you know, split the rent and the utilities and all that."

"No kidding? Have I met them?" Another box was added, bringing the stack up to Micky's neck

Micky laughed, nearly dislodging the containers. "*I* haven't met them yet," he admitted. "But don't worry--I'll find someone."

A small frown crossed the grocer's face at the idea of Micky living with strangers. Despite his glib tongue and happy-go-lucky nature, Micky was a sensitive soul--much more sensitive than he'd ever knowingly let the world see. It would be all to easy for some unscrupulous character to take advantage of him. Still, he was an adult, and he'd have to learn to take care of himself sooner or later. "You just be careful who you pick, you hear me, son?"

"Don't worry about me, Mr. H.--I've got a really good feeling about this." Micky motioned for the last box to join the others in his arms, hiding all but the top of his curly head. "Um...could you face me toward the door, please?"

Chuckling, Hawkins guided Micky in the right direction, and gave him a gentle shove. "You bring those boys to meet me when you find them, you hear?" he added as Micky fumbled his way out and into the street, leaving the door to the storeroom wide open.

Reaching to pull the door shut, he watched as Micky, virtually blind, walked straight into the path of a tall, lean man sporting an odd green woolen hat. He opened his mouth to warn the pair, but could only cringe as they collided, sending Micky and the stranger both tumbling to the ground in a shower of cardboard.

Pausing long enough to see that both men seemed unharmed, he closed the door, shaking his head in amusement as Micky struck up a conversation with the newcomer. That kid was a real corker--if anybody could talk his way out of this, It was Micky. Whistling, he went back to his morning inventory.