From then on, every Saturday followed almost the same routine.
Evan left early in old jeans and worn sneakers.
He came home in the evening smelling like dish soap, fryer grease, and french fries.
The hot water dried out his hands until the skin around his fingers turned red.
Sometimes I caught him rubbing lotion into his knuckles before bed.
Whenever I asked how much longer it would be before he could afford the bike, he gave me the same answer.
“Almost there.”
At first, I didn’t question it.
Then three months passed.
Then four.
Then five.
By the sixth month, there was still no bicycle.
That was when I finally started calculating.
Based on his hours and what he said he earned each weekend, Evan should have had enough money long before then.
Probably enough to buy the bike and still have some left over.
So where was it going?
I tried not to become suspicious.
Maybe he had changed his mind about the bike.
Maybe he had found a more expensive model.
Maybe there was a girl he liked.
Maybe he was secretly saving for something else.
Maybe he was planning some kind of surprise.
I kept inventing explanations because none of the darker possibilities seemed reasonable.
Then one evening, I walked past his bedroom and saw the light still on.
His door was partly open.
I glanced inside.
Evan was sitting on the floor.
In front of him was a thick stack of cash.
Much more than I expected to see.
He was counting it carefully.
The moment he noticed me, his entire expression changed.
He grabbed the bills, shoved them into his backpack, and zipped it closed.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
My eyes dropped to the bag.
“Is that your bike money?”
He nodded much too quickly.
“Yeah.”
“That looked like quite a lot.”
He shrugged.
“Sal pays me in small bills. It looks like more than it actually is.”
Then he forced a smile.
