Summer. When the world is warm and alive and the minds of American children hibernate. Teenagers sweat under the arcs of porches and trees, reminiscing in secret about summers past, many wishing new-found identities didn't shackle their feet from the throes of play. Silently jealous of their younger brethren running in the abandoned streets of the workday.
A pair in particular, a chubby red-headed boy covered in freckles, the beginnings of a burn on his nose, and a bespectacled brunette warming his feet on the cement path, sat together at a mutual friend's door.
The chubby teen, Tobias, sitting a little behind his compatriot, begs his swelled heart to still its affections as he prepares his camera for a shot.
"Toby," but his friend knows the song of his heart too well, and he is caught in a sideways look through the edge of his friend's glasses, "You aren't taking pictures of me again, are you?"
"You're so photogenic, Kell."
Haskell insists, "No pictures." It's a playful denial, part o