How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets

How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets by Garth Stein

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Authors: Garth Stein
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him.
    “Evan?”
    He could do it. He could tell her. Which son? she would ask. My fourteen-year-old son, he would answer. It would be easy, actually. Like jumping out of an airplane. Starting is the hard part. Once you get going, you kind of fall by yourself.
    “Hey, Mom? . . .”
    Tell her.
    “Yes, honey?”
    Jump. Jump. Jump.
    “Never felt better, Mom.”
    “Oh, ” she says, not believing him for a second. “Okay. Well. When do you think you might stop by?”
    “Soon, Mom. Real soon.”
    “Okay. Well, we love you, Evan.”
    “I love you, too.”
    We love you. Of course they love him. They have to. He’s their son, after all. But Evan knows it’s a disappointed love. They love him like they love their retarded dog who eats rocks. They feel bad his teeth get broken, but the dog is happy, isn’t he? They love that dog, but they won’t think twice about putting him down for his own good as soon as he becomes incontinent. No “Doggie Depends” in Ralphy’s future. Just you wait and see. One puddle on the kitchen floor and Ralphy’s gig is up.
    Ah.
    When Evan announced to his parents that he wasn’t taking the SAT because he wasn’t going to college, they tried to keep straight faces. They didn’t want to fight him any more. They knew he had no place in college, so why should he bother? Evan left them in the kitchen and went to his room to play his guitar.
    They thought he couldn’t hear them. They had to think that. There was no way they would have said what they did if they knew he was listening.
    “Poor Evan, ” Louise said as she cleared the dinner table.
    “What a waste, ” Carl answered her.“What a waste.”
    HE FEELS BAD that he didn’t tell his mother about Dean, but he just couldn’t do it. There’s too much going on, his head is swimming and he feels uneasy and confused. He and Dean both fidget uncomfortably.
    Evan can see where Dean dragged the easy chair over to the window so he could sit and look out at Lake Union. Dean had probably spent the entire day staring out the window without uttering a word; he probably hadn’t even rummaged through the refrigerator for food because he felt so out of place that he didn’t know what was acceptable behavior in Evan’s world. Who was to say that Evan didn’t have a violent temper, and that one of his quirks was to sleep until six P. M. every night, and that even the slightest sound could result in corporal punishment? It wasn’t out of the question. So he sat there, all day, not making a sound, not breathing too loudly, for fear of disturbing his new host.
    Evan wants to explain why he was so late in rising, he wants to apologize for not being up earlier to tend to Dean, but that would mean he’d have to admit his flaw—a truly tragic one—and he isn’t sure he can do that yet.
    “You must be hungry, ”Evan says.“Did you get yourself any food?”
    Dean shrugs.
    “You want something? I’ve got cereal, but that’s about it.”
    “A guy named Lars called, ” Dean reminds him.
    “Oh, yeah? What did Lars say?”
    “He wondered if you were still going to the show tonight.”
    Oh, shit. The show. Lucky Strike is playing in Belltown. Evan forgot all about it.
    Dean digs a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket.
    “He made me write it down, ” he says. “He said he assumes you’ll be there unless you’re a ‘total fucking douche-bag fuck, ’ in which case he’ll have to ‘rip your balls off and stuff them down your tear ducts’ the next time he sees you.”
    Evan laughs.
    “Is he your friend?” Dean asks. Evan can’t tell if he’s serious.
    “Yeah, pretty much, ” he says.
    He scratches his cheek. Damn. He loves Lucky Strike. They’re more jazz than rock, and Evan isn’t a big jazz guy. But they’re a New York band well known for their exceptional chops, and Evan is a fan of their leader, Theo Moody, a saxophonist who has a reputation for mixing it up with record labels.
    “Did your mother ever take you to see

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