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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FEBRUARY
The Webster's kitchen cabinets were cheap and plain, lacking fancy arching or etched bead-boarding. The wooden grain of the square doors looked like a glossy, syrup-colored ink blot. Evan remembered his mom and dad trying to find the most affordable option at the hardware store. They searched for hours and hours while Nadine held Evan's hand and walked him through the light-fixture aisle. They were so little back then. Neither of them could reach the top shelf.
As time went on, the wood became scratched, but no one ever noticed. The brass nobs began to loosen, but no one ever had the time to tighten them. The hinges began to squeak, but their dad called it character. The stick-on countertops started to peel, but they always had duct tape. And the top shelf seemed to get shorter, but Evan still felt small when he grabbed his mother's mug. He wondered how she would renovate the kitchen if she was still alive – the color scheme, the patterns, the cabinets. It was a question he wished he had asked her.
"Sit still," Nadine demanded.
"I'm not even moving," Evan claimed.
"Yes, you are," Nadine argued.
In the middle of their mustard-toned kitchen, Evan was sitting on a dinning chair – wearing nothing but a men's speedo. His arms were lifted above his bleach-covered head, giving Nadine enough space to run the electric clippers over his hairy armpits. The snipped hairs were falling onto a faded Flintstones bedsheet that was strewn out beneath their bare feet. On the table, there was a cluttered mess compiled of shaving cream, straight razors, an assortment of combs, and a pack of highlighting papers. To the untrained eye, the scene may have resembled a cult-like ritual.
