In the middle of Des Plaines Illinois three boys find themselves in a tangled knot of angsty lust and amateur love.
Evan Webster has an average American life. When he isn't at swim practice or the movie theater, he's trying to make time to study bi...
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Heather Hagley's basement looked like 1976 and 1980 had been crossbred into a retro MTV backdrop. It had the classic sunk-in living space, with orange shag carpeting and purple jacquard wallpaper. Heather's mom had tried to cover up the dated interior design with Memphis-styled future, but it only made the room look like an exploded box of crayons. It was even more overwhelming with the rainbow streamers Heather had hung up, and the balloons looming on the ground.
Jackson was used to the eclectic style since he had dated Heather for years. He paid no attention to the plum-colored countertops as he opened the yellow mini fridge, comfortable enough to move aside a jar of pickles. He was scouring for some beer when Mrs. Hagley interrupted him.
"Jackson," Mrs. Hagley cooed. "Have a seat. The tarot cards are calling you."
Heather's mother was seated at a velvet-covered tabled – a pile of tarot cards in her hand. She shuffled the deck while a high-pitched synthesizer chorus filled the low-ceilinged basement, making the high schoolers gather around the record player.
Jackson tried to dodge her request, saying, "Oh, no. That's really not – "
"Sit," she demanded. "You dumped my daughter. Now I want to see if your future wife will be prettier than her."
Jackson side-stepped a pink-eyed football player, causing him to bump into Mrs. Hagley's Jadeite glassware collection. Jackson balanced a saucer before he reluctantly took a seat across from her.
"I don't think you have to worry about that," he replied.
Mrs. Hagley had read his palm every time he had come for dinner, but he never got used to her spiritual way of thinking. She did all kinds of things like tarot card readings, crystal healing, and meditation. Jackson didn't know how Heather's dad dealt with her. He usually sat near a bible and chewed quietly, trying not to disturb his wife. Jackson always wondered if she put him under some kind of spell.
"You're right," Mrs. Hagley nodded. "No one is prettier than my Heather."
Mrs. Hagley liked being the life of the party – like her daughter. She set up her fortunetelling table at the end of the stairs, awaiting teary-eyed girls and drunken boys to ask for her advice. Heather let her do it because she actually seemed to help people, and it had become a party novelty. She also paid for the alcohol, so Heather didn't really have a choice.
"We'll do a ten-card spread," Mrs. Hagley said. Her lilac-lacquered nails resembled talons, so long that she could barely shuffle the cards. Her hands were wrinkled and adorned with every gemstone and precious metal imaginable, coiling around her fingers in a cluttered fashion.
"Ten?" Jackson asked.
"It'll be quick," she promised, drawing one from the top. "The first card is the seven of wands. Not surprising. I'm sure this refers to swimming. You seem to be in a tense competition at the moment?"
