The World of Normal Boys

by K.M. Soehnlein

Genres: Family Life; Literary Fiction; LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Winner of the Lambda Literary Award

"This first novel is so eloquent because it is hellbent on collaring the reader and telling him or her the whole passionate story." --Edmund White, author of Our Young Man

"This is a rich and unflinching book." --The New York Times Book Review

"Extraordinary…an exhilarating experience…that Soehnlein has produced as his first novel a work of such maturity and excellence is little short of astounding." --Fenton Johnson, author of Scissors, Paper, Rock

The time is the late 1970s--an age of gas shortages, head shops, and Saturday Night Fever. The place, suburban New Jersey. At a time when the teenagers around him are coming of age, Robin MacKenzie is coming undone. While "normal boys" are into cars, sports, and bullying their classmates, Robin enjoys day trips to New York City with his elegant mother, spinning fantastic tales for her amusement in an intimate ritual he has come to love. He dutifully plays the role of the good son for his meat-and-potatoes father, even as his own mind is a jumble of sexual confusion and painful self-doubt. But everything changes in one, horrifying instant when a tragic accident wakes his family from their middle-American dream and plunges them into a spiral of slow destruction.

As his family falls apart day by day, Robin finds himself pulling away from the unquestioned, unexamined life that has been carefully laid out for him. Small acts of rebellion lead to larger questions of what it means to stand on his own. Falling into a fevered triangle with two other outcasts, Todd Spicer and Scott Schatz, Robin embarks on an explosive odyssey of sexual self-discovery that will take him beyond the spring-green lawns of suburbia, beyond the fraying fabric barely holding together his quickly unraveling family, and into a complex future, beyond the world of normal boys.

"Karl Soehnlein's stunning first novel reads like a cross between the film American Beauty and Edmund White's A Boy's Own Story." --The Advocate

"The World of Normal Boys is a work of authenticity, as relevant to those who lived a similar coming-of-age experience many years ago as it will be to those who are living that experience now." --Bay Area Reporter

"An amusingly detailed and largely accurate picture of life in the Jersey 'burbs." --Publishers Weekly

"Full of tension and suspense, Soehnlein's well-paced debut novel is a fresh look at one boy's sexual awakening in the 1970s and his journey to find a place where he can fit it." --Booklist

Release date: August 1, 2001

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 296

Sample

Maybe this is the moment when his teenage years begin. An envelope arrives in the mail addressed to him from Greenlawn High School. Inside is a computer-printed schedule of classes. Robin MacKenzie. Freshman. Fall, 1978. He has been assigned to teachers, placed in a homeroom. His social security number sits in the upper right corner, emphasizing the specter of faceless authority. Someone, some system of decision making, has organized his next nine months into fifty-minute periods, and here is his notification. This is what you will learn. This is when you will eat. This is when you go home to your family at 135 Bergen Avenue. This is how you will live your life, Robin MacKenzie.

He has climbed out his bedroom window, onto the roof that covers the kitchen and back door below, with a pile of college-ruled spiral-bound notebooks purchased earlier that day at Woolworth’s. His transistor radio is tuned to WABC, just now starting up ABBA’s new song “Take a Chance on Me.” He bobs from his shoulders, trying to harmonize, but his voice—revolting against him all the time lately—fails to hit a high note, collapsing into an ugly squawk, a bird being choked. He looks past the garage at the end of his buckled driveway and into the next yard, the Spicers’ yard, wondering if Victoria has returned from her summer visit with her cousins in Pennsylvania. He needs to compare schedules with her, to find out how many classes they’ll be in together; he needs to talk to her about high school.

The Spicers’ lawn is a perfect spring green, stretching out from the cement patio and redwood picnic set to a neatly trimmed hedge that separates it from his family’s weedy plot. The Spicers’ graystone house rises up like a small mansion: slate-tile roof, royal blue shutters, and white curtains in every window. Only one thing upsets the serenity: a rebuilt ’69 Camaro jacked up in the driveway, surrounded by tools and oil spots; Victoria’s brother, Todd, has been repairing the engine all summer long, since he turned seventeen and got his license.

He’s there now, Todd Spicer, rolling under the hood—all but his blue jeans and work boots disappearing from view—and then back out again, sitting up to swig from a paper bag stashed behind a toolbox. His sleeveless T-shirt is smeared with a greasy handprint; his arms tense up into lean ridges as he tries to make things fit into place. Even from his perch on the roof, two yard lengths away, Robin can tell the repairs are not going well, can feel Todd emitting frustration. When the hood slams violently, he knows the afternoon has been a failure.

Todd lights up a cigarette, raises his eyes. Pins Robin in his sights.

Caught staring, Robin blushes, embarrassment jetting up his neck, saturating his ears. He waves—what else can he do?—hoping the gesture reads as casual, just friendly, not eager. He knows—the way you just know how you’re supposed to act—that he shouldn’t pay this kind of attention to Todd.

Todd exhales and yells up to him, “What’re you looking at, Girly Underwear?”

Girly Underwear. Todd picked the name just for him. Robin has a clear memory of when it started: he was seven, Todd eleven. Todd was circling around the yard on his dirt bike while Robin and Victoria were acting out plays they had made up; without warning, Todd zoomed in to swat Robin on the butt. Having done it once, he did it again, and again. Then he pushed it further, grabbed the elastic band of Robin’s underwear and tugged up. His underwear that day—to his unending regret—was tinted pink; his mother had let something bleed in the wash. From then on it was, “Hey, Girly Underwear, watch your back,” “Hey, Girly Underwear, how’s it hanging?”

When he was seven or eight “Girly Underwear” could make him cry. It let Todd strip him down; it was all his weaknesses rolled up in one. He’d look at himself in the mirror: the sweep of his eyelashes, the swell of his lower lip, the curve of the bones around his eyes. His face was girly. Not like Todd’s face: behind Todd’s eyes was a storehouse of secret knowledge—how to be cool, to be tough, to get what you want. And the tone of Todd’s voice, the weight of his stare when he called out the words—it was the way a guy teases a girl, an insult that shudders like a flirtation. It used to terrify Robin. But now, after years of it—years of watching Todd, thinking about Todd—now “Girly Underwear” leaves Robin feeling less assaulted than unnerved, as if enveloped in a nameless wish—a wish like wanting to leave Greenlawn and move across the river to New York City—something you can long for all you want, though there’s no guarantee you’re ever going to get it. Sometimes, “Girly Underwear” echoes later in his daydreams as a command, Todd’s order that Robin strip off his clothes. Sometimes, in private, with his clothes off in front of the bathroom mirror, he wonders how his body compares to Todd’s, wonders what Todd’s body looks like naked.

On this late-summer day, the name and the disturbing longing associated with it evoke only anger. Maybe it’s the safe distance between Todd’s backyard and Robin’s roof that emboldens him. Maybe it’s the computer-printed class schedule he’s clutching in one hand, reminding him that a week from now he’ll be in high school just like Todd, that he’s no longer some little kid to be picked on at will. Maybe it’s just ABBA telling him to take a chance. When Todd yells, “Hey, Girly Underwear,” Robin gives him the finger. “Fuck you,” he yells back. “That’s not my name.”

Robin picks up his stuff and retreats through his bedroom window, his pulse thumping at this rare display of nerve. He glances back once before pulling down the blind: Todd is still looking his way, smiling, half a smile really. He sees Robin and nods. He might, Robin lets himself believe, be impressed.

Lying on his bed, Robin opens one of his new notebooks. High school. The hallways will be filled with boys, the speeding train of their conversation echoing off metal lockers. He thinks about popular boys from middle school, the jocks, boys whose names everyone knows. Their presence is inescapable, their actions gossiped about, their dating patterns speculated on by lesser beings like him and Victoria Spicer during late-night phone marathons. Popular boys are like TV stars: you don’t have to know them to have opinions about them. You can spend your time imagining how they will react to something you’ve said out loud in class, or something you’re wearing, when in fact they don’t even know you exist.

On the top of a page he writes: TAKE SOME CHANCES.

The list pours out effortlessly, his handwriting uncontrolled, the tip of his ballpoint pen chiseling the soft paper. It’s all so obvious—it’s everything that he doesn’t do. Everything normal. At the bottom of the page he writes, “Pick one to do everyday!” and underlines it twice.

The next day Victoria gets back from her cousins. Robin is mowing the Feeneys’ lawn, another lawn in a summer of lawns he has taken on at three dollars a pop. He wears his work clothes—cutoff shorts and Keds and tube socks, all licked with mint-colored grass stains. Victoria is a gusher of stories about her Pennsylvania trip: the excursion to Hershey Park, the raft ride down the Delaware, the trip to the Colonial hot spots of Philadelphia. Her return is not the reunion he’d looked forward to: for months, he’s been pushing the mower around the neighborhood, with just a couple of trips to New York City with his mother to break up the monotony, while she’s been hanging out at a swim club, going to parties, letting some guy named Frank stick his hand under her bikini top. By the end of the afternoon he has nothing to say to her. She has her high school schedule to show him, but it yields only disappointment—they have no classes together. Without warning he jerks the starter cable for the mower. The clamor swallows up Victoria’s voice and seals him into his own bubble of envy. Watching her strut away in her new pink satin jacket, like some tough-girl out of Grease, he can predict she’ll fit right in at Greenlawn High. Hands in pockets, shoulders back, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans accentuating her developing body, she looks like she’s getting away from him.

Todd is staring across the hedge. “Hey—”

“Don’t say it,” Robin interrupts.

“What?” All innocence in Todd’s voice.

“You know. Don’t call me that name anymore.” He pushes the lawn mower back into the garage. Speaking to Todd like that, telling him what to do, gives him the jitters—something bad is bound to follow.

Todd is still standing there when Robin walks out of the garage. “All right, cool out, man. Robin.”

Robin. Not “Girly Underwear.” It isn’t quite an apology, but he relaxes a little. He looks Todd in the eyes.

“So,” Todd says, shifting his gaze away. “So, you wanna cut my lawn for me?”

“I thought your mother had a landscaper.”

“That faggot quit, and now my father wants me to do it.”

Robin shrugs his shoulders. “I charge three dollars.”

Todd shakes his head. “No, see the idea is like this: you cut the lawn, and I give you a break on calling you—you know, that name.”

His face is so sure of itself, Robin thinks. He sputters out, “Like I can believe you? I’m not stupid, Todd. I’ll cut your lawn, and then you’ll just go ahead and call me whatever name you want.”

Todd moves a step closer, lowers his voice. “That’s the risk you take. That’s what life is about, man. Especially in high school. Taking risks. Don’t ya think?”

Robin stares in amazement. Has Todd been reading his notebook? Or is he just reading his mind? “I don’t know.”

Todd’s face falls. “Man, I’m not getting any money from my Dad for doing it, so I can’t pay you. How about if I give you a jay?”

“A what?”

“You know.” He pinches his thumb and middle finger and mimics inhaling.

Robin gets the reference. “I don’t think so.” He turns to walk away, but Todd is suddenly through the hedge, right there at his back.

“Think about it,” Todd says, and swats him on the ass.

Each step across the lawn, back to his house, he feels that pull. That magnetic thing Todd sends out like he’s an evil Jedi Knight wielding The Force. The smell of cut grass and gasoline on his fingers, and Todd’s voice echoing back at him. “Think about it.” How weird to have Todd making some strange deal with him, Todd wanting him to take a chance.

His mother had taken him to R-rated movies a couple of times—usually on their City Day, when they take the bus into New York, just the two of them—but she outright refused to let him see Saturday Night Fever.

“Gratuitous,” she pronounced its violence and sexual content, though she hadn’t seen it herself. Robin suspected her objection arose from her dislike of John Travolta, whom Robin had become fascinated with ever since Grease; no, it went back even further, to Welcome Back, Kotter, a show everyone Robin’s age had watched devoutly when it first premiered, but which Dorothy blamed for inflicting base expressions into her children’s conversation: “Up your nose with a rubber hose,” “Get off my case, toilet face.” Saturday Night Fever elicited from Dorothy more than one harangue about disco and polyester and John Travolta, all of which Robin couldn’t get enough of.

Robin reads that night in the Living section of the Bergen Record that the studio has announced Saturday Night Fever will be reissued as a PG. Robin is all resentment: a PG version! They’re going to cut all the good parts! He checks the movie timetable: the R-rated version is still playing at the Old Tappan Drive-In. Someone has to take him to see this version before it is pulled. Someone seventeen or older.

The plan comes to him the next day, when the roar of an engine from the Spicers’ yard catches his attention. Todd’s Camaro is fixed! Todd could take him to see Saturday Night Fever, and in exchange, Robin can mow the Spicers’ lawn for Todd. Forget about the “Girly Underwear” reprieve, Robin reasons, there is no way to make it stick. He brings the plan to Victoria, prepared to have to talk her into it, knowing how much she hates spending any time with her brother, but it takes no effort at all. She wants to see the R-rated version as much as he does. Apparently Frank had seen it, and it was one of his favorites.

Todd’s reaction: “No fucking way I’m taking you to some sucky disco movie.”

Robin: “We’ll pay for our own tickets.”

Victoria: “You don’t even have to watch it. You can bring a date and make out in the backseat.”

That part hadn’t been Robin’s idea, but it seemed to tip the scales for Todd.

The Camaro rushes from the end of Mill Pond Road, slicing open the afternoon quiet. Robin raises his face from the green of the lawn to meet the speed in the air. Sunlight on the glass and chrome, a blur of black metallic paint, the skid of rubber as Todd torpedoes into the driveway. Victoria protests the display—the noise, the skidmarks, the plume of gray exhaust. Todd struts out, lording over everything he sees.

Robin is mesmerized. This sweetens the deal, Todd eyeing the lawn, nodding approval at his work, shaking his hand. “OK, buddy. Looks like I’m taking you to the disco movie.” Buddy. Robin wishing that it would be just the two of them, no Victoria, no date for Todd. Robin and Todd, he whispers to himself. Buddies.

When Mrs. Spicer gets home, she rewards Todd with a kiss on the forehead for his yard work. Robin takes note: how easily Todd accepts this undue praise. How he gloats.

It’s been a long time since he prayed to God. He’s never been led to believe that praying was particularly important. His father’s obscure Protestant background, combined with a few years of his mother’s halfhearted stabs at raising them Catholic—the showy display of First Communion, the endless hours of Sunday School—have all added up to a lot of nothing. They’ve become what his grandmother, Nana Rena, refers to as “A&P Catholics”—“ashes and palms,” people who go to church when they can bring home something to show for it. Even on those occasions when he sits through mass at St. Bartholomew’s, Robin prefers silence over talking to God. Why would he expect anything from a Heavenly Father when he rarely asks for anything of his earthly father? If he needs something, he turns to his mother.

But now he has a secret to keep from her, and so he finds himself, without quite planning it, lying in bed, eyes raised upward, his hand moving into the Sign of the Cross. It is the night before Saturday Night Fever. He whispers out loud, “God, make it go OK.”

Across the room, in the other bed, his younger brother sits up. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing.”

“You said something to God,” Jackson persists, a mocking amusement in his voice. Persistence is one of Jackson’s trademarks. Unlike Robin, who tends to walk away from conflict, Jackson grabs hold and forces the issue. It’s only one of their differences. In a new situation, Robin hangs back and observes, while Jackson gravitates impulsively toward the center, harnesses energy, and quickly begins spinning trouble. He laughs easier, has more friends—more guy friends; he is rambunctious where Robin is tentative. Jackson’s half of their room gleams with brassy Little League trophies, Star Wars action figures, a colorful array of baseball caps lined up on his dresser; Robin has postcards bought at museum gift stores, a short stack of Broadway cast albums at the foot of his bed, scrapbooks stuffed with ticket stubs and matchbook covers collected on his trips to the city. The room’s only shared territory is a nightstand between the twin beds, lined with Hardy Boys books that they’ve both read, Robin first, Jackson several years later.

When they were young, both in elementary school, they could play together and have fun; the two of them, with their sister Ruby—be—tween them in age—could spend hours drawing pictures or creating elaborate plays to be enacted in the backyard or basement. Gradually this shifted; Jackson shifted away from them. Now he only liked games that could be won; now he shows up at the house with a group of friends, who divide up into teams and shout their way through competition, all along making fun of the slowpokes and spazzes.

“Dear God: This is Robin MacKenzie,” Jackson squawks. “Please make me not be such a jerkface.” He forces out a belly laugh for emphasis.

In silence, Robin amends his prayer. “And, God, could you please make something bad happen to Jackson?”

Maybe prayers are answered: Robin tells his mother he’s going with Victoria to see Grease again, and she consents, as long as it’s the early show, as long as he’ll be home in time to get some rest before the first day of high school. And then, at the last minute, Todd’s date cancels.

The girl collecting money at the Old Tappan Drive-In, who can’t possibly be seventeen herself, drones at Todd, “You of age?”

“No, actually, I’m twelve. These are my parents.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Robin chimes in.

“You two are a regular comedy team,” Victoria says, unimpressed.

During the previews, Todd lights up a joint. Robin leans across Victoria, who sits between them on the front seat, so he can study Todd’s technique: inhale from the base of the neck, tighten your stomach to hold in the smoke. It looks like a special gesture known only to high school kids, like a secret handshake.

“What are you doing?” Victoria demands. Todd ignores her. “Todd, you could get arrested.”

“You could get arrested for being so ugly,” Todd growls, smoke leaking out his nostrils.

Victoria pokes into Robin’s side. “Snack bar.” She pushes him out of the car. “I can’t believe you, Todd.”

“What’s the matter, didn’t Frank ever get you high?”

“No, he doesn’t do drugs. Anyway, this is like a totally public place.”

Robin’s eyes are on Todd, who’s stretching backward, joint propped between his lips, arms reaching upward. His T-shirt rises, revealing the chalky skin along his waist, a seam of hair laid out like a spear from his belly button to the top of his jeans, where it fans out and disappears. No sign of an elastic band under his jeans. Robin feels his throat go dry: Todd isn’t wearing underwear.

Victoria says, “When we get back, that better be gone.”

Todd catches Robin’s stare and floats the joint toward him. “There’s plenty to share.”

“I’ll wait here,” Robin blurts out. He watches Victoria’s jaw drop and adds quickly, “I don’t want to miss any of the movie.”

Her surprise dissolves, replaced by betrayal. She slaps her hands against her thighs and trots huffily through the parked cars.

Just the two of them on the front seat. Robin and Todd. Todd and Robin. If it weren’t for the scratchy soundtrack being piped into the car he’s sure Todd could hear the nervous thump of his pulse. He usually tries to avoid being alone with Todd at all costs, a preemptive strategy for dodging harassment. What was I thinking? I’m so stupid. Robin stares through the windshield, fixing his gaze on the big screen, but all Todd says is, “My sister’s a bitch,” and passes him the joint. Robin studies it, pinched inside the teeth of a metal roach clip, the rounded orange tip like the butt of a firefly.

“My parents . . .” Robin mutters by way of refusal.

“Your parents drink, right?”

“My mother drinks wine and my father drinks whiskey.” White wine and Seagrams, always in the house—he just takes this for granted.

Todd recites: “Man made booze. God made grass. Who do you trust?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I saw it on a T-shirt at that head shop in Hillsdale. Makes sense, don’t you think?” He leans closer, lowers his voice. “I told you, man: life is about taking risks.”

Robin nods, saturated with new understanding. Risk. It’s more than just a list of things to do—it’s a whole way of life, a ride off the map. Todd’s calm confidence expands until it’s a safety net stretched out beneath them. Robin imagines the two of them as high school buddies—running into Todd in the courtyard, smoking pot between classes. “What the hell,” he says, taking the joint.

The first surprise is the paper, damp with Todd’s saliva, on his lips—the intimacy of it, like using the same toothbrush. Heat coils under his nose. He tries to copy Todd’s approach, deeply drawing in the smoke, but his body rejects it. A stinging cloud explodes from his throat.

“Virgin,” Todd mocks, slapping him on the back.

Robin is still coughing when Victoria returns with buttered popcorn, Raisinettes, and a single large soda. “Move it,” she tells him with a shove. “All potheads on that side of the car.” Her eyes comb over Robin; he guesses she’s checking for signs that he’s high. Maybe he is—when she waves her hand in front of her face, fussily clearing away the smoke, he bursts into laughter.

Todd sinks down behind the steering wheel, arms crossed, dopey smile stretching. His knuckles graze the fleecy hair on Robin’s forearm. Their hips are at the edge of pressing together. Robin glances into Todd’s lap, still astonished at the idea that Todd is not wearing underwear. The folds of Todd’s jeans offer some abstract sense of the shapes beneath, just enough to make Robin nervous. Cut it out, he admonishes himself. Jesus.

From the opening moments, when “Stayin’ Alive” cranks up on the soundtrack and Travolta struts down the streets of Brooklyn, Todd is mouthing off. “Fuck, look at this fag.” He asks Robin in disbelief, “You actually like this?”

It’s the music Robin can’t resist. He knows every beat of the soundtrack. To finally see the movie is like meeting his destiny, as if by playing the album on his parents’ stereo all year long, he has conjured up this very moment. He realizes there’s something uncool about the Bee Gees’ high-pitched voices, but he feels like he understands the need in the lyrics: I’ve been kicked around since I was born . . . I’m going nowhere, somebody help me, somebody help me, yeah.

Todd pulls a Budweiser from under his seat, guzzles from it, and hands it to Robin. The can is slick with condensation. Robin takes in a mouthful, lets the fizz rub his burning throat.

“Oh, great,” Victoria sneers.

“I’m thirsty,” Robin rationalizes.

“I’ll just tell that to your mother when you’re totally wasted.”

“Do you want some?” he asks, trying to appease.

Todd retrieves the beer, his fingers covering Robin’s in the transfer. He sinks down farther in the seat, widening his legs. His thigh slaps Robin’s and stays there. Robin closes his eyes and absorbs the contact into his skin before he pulls away. His heart is pushing blood straight up to his skull, pounding at his temples relentlessly. His dick—he realizes with alarm—is trying to get hard. This happens in school all the time; he’s learned to always carry a book with him so he can cover himself if necessary. He crosses his hands in his lap, petrified Todd will notice.

He loses track of the movie’s plot, simple as it is, and supporting characters blur into each other. The actress who plays the love interest is annoying—why would anyone spend so much time chasing after her? Even Travolta seems tarnished to Robin, who starts comparing him with Todd—the two of them in a battle for coolness, which Todd, through his Force-level disdain for every aspect of the movie, is easily winning. Concentration disintegrates. Blame it on the beer, which Todd keeps offering him (which he keeps accepting); on Todd’s secondhand cigarette and pot smoke, which Robin sucks from the air experimentally; on being caught in the crossfire of Todd and Victoria’s steady bickering, which persists even after Victoria finally relents and has a beer herself. Blame it most of all on two hours’ worth of Todd fidgeting at his side—Todd’s leg/arm/hip again and again meeting his own—and on his own obstinate hard-on, impervious to any mental picture (bugs under a rock, his grandmother’s cooking, the bloody crucifix above the altar at St. Bart’s) he calls forth to banish it.

Only near the end, when the movie climaxes in a series of eruptions—a big fistfight, a girl getting gangbanged in the back of a car, a guy falling off the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge—does Todd seem at all involved in it. And then Robin gets drawn in deeper, too. He remembers that some of these scenes are going to be cut out of the new PG version, that he’s lucky to get what he wanted. The final scene has the Brooklyn boy moving out, and moving up, to life in Manhattan. It’s perfect: he gets away from his family, his lousy job, the mean streets of Brooklyn. The whole night is perfect—well, not completely; Victoria is annoyed with him. But Todd—Todd offers to drive him to school in the morning.

Nearly every window in the house is glowing as he makes his way from the Spicers’ yard to his own; he’s mashing a wad of grape Bubblicious between his teeth, extinguishing his beer breath in the sugary perfume. As he pushes open the screen door, a whine of protest is rising up from Jackson, who stands in the center of the kitchen, fists clenched at his side.

“What’s the problem?” his father, wearing the shorts and tank top he jogs in every night, is asking.

His mother flashes what looks like a glare of accusation. “He owns a very nice pair of gray trousers from Penney’s—”

“It’s a prison uniform,” Jackson whines.

“I’ll say it one more time,” Dorothy announces, “for the benefit of everyone involved.” Here her eyes meet Robin with a quick scan from head to toe; he shuffles guiltily, imagining his transgressions spelled out on his T-shirt in iron-on letters. “I am taking a picture tomorrow morning, and I would like my children to look presentable. Allow me this one motherly indulgence. After tomorrow you can go to school in your underwear for all I care.”

Clark appeals to Jackson. “Be a sport, wear what your mother wants you to wear. It’s no big deal.”

“I’ll be the only nerd in the whole sixth grade in dress pants,” Jackson says, dropping cross-legged onto the floor in front of the oven.

Robin fakes a kick toward Jackson. “Get up, Rover. No dogs allowed.” Jackson grabs his leg and pulls, knocking Robin off balance. He reaches for the counter to keep from falling. “Cut it out!”

“Jackson, leave your brother alone,” Dorothy commands, which only makes it worse for Robin: needing his mother’s protection against his little brother. He pulls his foot free and slides away.

In the midst of the scuffle, their sister, Ruby, flutters into the kitchen. Her hair frames her face in golden tubes, carefully sculpted with her curling iron, and she’s wearing a new white jumper and a gauzy flowered scarf tied tight around her neck. The steam of splashed perfume surrounds her—Love’s Baby Soft, Robin guesses, or maybe Jontue; all the girls at school smell like this. She stands in the doorway, hands on hips, ready for attention.

“Hey, who’s this beautiful princess?” Clark asks, right on cue.

A proud smile on Ruby’s lightly glossed lips. “Do I look like a seventh grader?” She skips toward her father—and then lurches violently forward over Jackson’s suddenly outstretched leg. She falls to her knees and skids across the linoleum to Robin. Her face is stricken; the impact of the fall hasn’t yet sunk in.

An expectant pause, followed by the eruption of voices.

Jackson: “It was an accident!”

Robin: “You retard.” He looks at Ruby, whose shock is giving way to misery; at each of her eyelids, a puddle hovers. “You’re OK, Ruby. Really. Don’t cry.”

Jackson: “It’s not my fault you’re a spaz!”

Ruby, brushing a dingy smudge at each knee: “You got my pants dirty! What am I supposed to wear tomorrow?”

Dorothy: “I’ll throw them in the machine tonight. They’ll be good as new by morning.”

Clark, yanking Jackson to his feet: “Accident my elbow! Get the heck up to your room!”

Robin: “You should make him apologize.”

Clark: “Robin, keep quiet.”

Jackson: “Yeah, shut up.”

Robin grits his teeth, not wanting this uproar to turn against him. He’s newly aware of his intoxication, realizes how all those swigs of beer and secondhand puffs of pot have added up, a recipe for confusion.

Ruby rubs furiously at her stained pants. “I have nothing else to wear!”

“Don’t get too worked up about it, Ruby,” Dorothy urges. “Clothes come clean.”

“I’m not going to school if there’s a stain on it. This sucks.” Ruby spins on her heels, treading heavily from the room.

“Spoken like a true princess,” Dorothy mutters, finishing off her wine.

Clark joins Robin and Dorothy at the table. “Doesn’t this happen every year right before school?”

Under the stained-glass lamp hanging by a chain over the table, Robin sees the exhaustion marked on his parents’ faces: bags under their eyes, shadows thickening their brows. Frustration snakes around their ankles like horror-movie smoke. Robin studies a triangular sweat stain dried into the front of his father’s tank top. Strange, he thinks, the way men sweat so much more than women—as if the heat under their skin can’t be contained. He looks away from his father, bothered by this thought.

“I am utterly wiped