by Jeff Strand
Blake glares at me and wanders into the bathroom.
A few minutes later, he emerges, hair wet and a towel wrapped around his waist. “Have a nice shower?” I ask.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Did you figure out that the red arrow on the knob was for hot water and the blue arrow was for cold? I know it can be difficult since water that comes out of the faucet is clear.”
Blake ignores me and walks into my bedroom. If we’re trying to mend our relationship, I suppose I should stop being sarcastic.
When he comes back out, he’s fully dressed. “I still can’t believe you don’t have a bathtub.”
“We don’t have rubber duckies either.” Okay, I’ll stop being sarcastic now.
“Showers are for hosing yourself down after you’ve run a marathon,” says Blake. “It’s a low-class way to get clean.”
“That’s an interesting new perspective.” New plan: I’m not going to stop being sarcastic until he stops complaining about our lack of a bathtub.
“Bathtubs are elegant. They’re relaxing.”
“You just woke up. You don’t need extra relaxation. But here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll go out and buy some shovels. Then we’ll dig a great big hole in the backyard, which you can fill with hot water and bubbles, and then—”
“Ha ha. That’s hilarious.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I spent almost twenty seconds thinking it up. I didn’t originally have the bubbles part in there, but that’s what makes the joke, don’t you agree?”
“What’s for breakfast?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“I don’t eat lunch before breakfast.”
“There’s cold cereal then.”
“Oh, joy.”
“You don’t like cereal?”
“I outgrew cereal when I outgrew cartoons.”
“But maybe you’ll find a toy car in the box. Vroom, vroom.”
“I really don’t understand you,” says Blake. “Immaturity is fine when you’re younger, but you should be over it.”
“For your information, we have only healthy cereal in the cupboard. Maybe it’s because I’ve outgrown cereals with prizes inside, and maybe it’s because I love raisins. You’ll never know.”
“Raisins are old grapes.”
“We’re not going to get off on a raisin tangent,” I inform him. “I’m actually a very good breakfast chef. I can make pancakes, waffles, omelets, perfectly crisp bacon, and though I don’t make my own jelly, I spread it across toast with skill beyond anything you’ve never seen. And someday in the future, I might make this for you. Until that day arrives, it’s cold cereal for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to make breakfast for me,” says Blake.
I think back. I’m pretty sure he did. I hope he did. My whole dramatic speech only works if Blake is too lazy to cook his own breakfast.
“I can make light and fluffy blueberry pancakes that will bring a tear to your eye,” says Blake. “My elevated take on waffles would start your day on such a high note that nothing could ruin it. Omelets are my specialty, especially the ones I make with perfectly crisp bacon. And I do make my own jelly.”
I’m almost positive he’s lying. He was convincing until he got to the part about making his own jelly. Blake seems to be the kind of person who would ridicule homemade jelly, not make it himself. But if I call him out, I run the risk of him proving me wrong by making us a delicious breakfast, and then I’ll look like a jerk.
I decide to call his bluff. “I’ll happily drive you to the store for eggs and jelly-making supplies if you want.”
“No need. I’ll have toast.”
I show him where we keep the bread, and he drops two slices into the toaster. I silently dare him to criticize our toaster. Go on, Blake. Say that our toaster isn’t up to contemporary standards. You know you want to. Talk about how your toaster at home has four slots or how ours doesn’t have a sturdy enough spring or how the sides could stand to be a bit shinier. Do it. I dare you. Do it. Do it!
Blake says nothing.
The toast pops up. It’s burnt.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “The settings aren’t quite right. Our toaster is extra hot. If you want it toasted at six, you have to set it for four. Sorry about that.”
“Most people would have shared that information sooner,” Blake comments.
“I know, I know.” I was so focused on the possibility of Blake making fun of our toaster that I forgot that this appliance’s glory days are long gone.
I take the burnt toast from him, throw it in the garbage, and give him two new slices of bread.
“You didn’t have to waste it,” Blake says. “I would’ve scraped off the burnt layers and eaten my paper-thin pieces of toast without complaining.”
“Set it at four,” I remind him.
Blake turns the dial. “You should get a dog.”
“Why?”
“To eat all the food you ruin.”
“I don’t generally ruin food.”
“Well, so far you’re zero for one. I guess we’ll see how the rest of my visit goes. I don’t want to have to buy pizza for every meal, even though I can afford it.” Blake puts the bread in the toaster and pushes down the lever. “You’re sure it should be set on four, right? You’re not second-guessing yourself?”
I want to come back with a devastating retort, but I did botch the toast, so for now, I have to endure his sarcasm. “I’m sure.”
“I suppose we’ll know in a minute.”
It’s extremely frustrating to feel like he’s winning this battle over toast. I should be winning the toast battles in my own home.
“We have to talk about some things,” I say.
“Ooh, that sounds like fun.”
“I’ll sleep on the inflatable mattress, and you can keep up your posters. All I ask is that we discuss stuff like this ahead of time. You can’t just assume that you get my bed.”
“I can’t?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
“Stop saying hmm.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Yes.”
“You must have a pretty low threshold if that bothers you, huh?”
“No,” I say. “Until you got here, I was known for being casual and easygoing, except onstage. But you’re trying to mess up my life.”
“Would you say I’m turning your life topsy-turvy? Or is it more helter-skelter?”
My jaw drops. Because this seems to be an admission that he’s behaving like this on purpose, rather than simply being oblivious to his inner creep. Is he trying to get sent home for bad behavior?
Blake must notice my shock. He smiles. “We keep getting off on the wrong foot, don’t we?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re going to run out of feet.”
“Probably.”
“I’m sorry I stole your bed. I don’t want to be ungrateful to your lungs. I’ll use the air mattress. Make sure you change your sheets though. I sweat a lot while I sleep.”
“You can keep the bed. It’s okay.”
“And I’ll take down my posters.”
“The posters are fine.”
“I’ll ask permission before I do anything else disruptive,” says Blake. “I get where you’re coming from. Your room is sacred. Anything else?”
“No, that’s pretty much it.”
“Good. Where’s the jelly?”
“In the refrigerator.”
Blake opens the refrigerator. He takes out all three jars of jelly and sets them on the counter.
“Oh, one more thing,” I say. “My band uses the garage to practice, but it’s filled with all your boxes. Any chance you could go through them, get the stuff you really need, and put the rest in storage?”
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Blake nods. “Absolutely. If I rent a truck, will you help me load half of the boxes?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Rod. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t talk and put jelly on my toast at the same time.”
I want to say, Really? But we’re on the road to repairing our relationship, and I don’t want to goof it up. I watch as Blake very slowly spreads grape, strawberry, and blackberry jelly on his toast, three perfect lengthwise stripes per slice. Even for somebody like me who takes his peanut butter very seriously, this is weird. The careful application of spreads must be a family trait.
If he’s trying to get along with me, Blake can apply sixteen flavors of jelly in a quilt pattern for all I care, but I’m not convinced he’s being genuine. I’m going to have to stay on high alert around my cousin. If he’s been this frustrating already, there’s no telling how awful he can be if he sets his mind to it.
8.
You know who I really don’t like? My cousin Blake.
This isn’t new information to those of you who’ve been dutifully reading along, but I thought a recap would be nice for those of you who might be joining us in the eighth chapter or who put the book aside for a while and are just now resuming the adventures of Rod Conklin and his cousin, Blake Montgomery.
“But weren’t things starting to look up at the end of the last chapter?” you might ask. Yes, they were. Oh, sure, I was a bit suspicious, but there was the possibility that he’d seen the error of his ways and that the rest of this book would be a lighthearted recap of our amazing exploits as the best of friends. And then we bought cotton candy, and Blake got some stuck on his chin. And we laughed and laughed and laughed!
Instead I’m loading boxes into the back of a truck.
“Um, okay,” you’re probably saying. “Loading boxes into the back of a truck is nobody’s idea of a good time, but if I remember correctly, Blake said he’d rent a truck to clear the garage for band practice if you’d help load half of the boxes. And you agreed. What’s the problem? Did he make you load all the boxes?”
No.
“Did he make you load all the heavy ones?”
No.
“Then what’s the deal? I’m not the one writing this book, so you can’t expect me to tell the story for you!”
Fair enough. Here’s what happened.
A U-Haul pulls into my driveway. I open the garage door as the driver (not the same one as before, although if somebody makes a movie version of this novel, they’re welcome to combine them into one character so they only have to cast one actor) gets out of the truck.
“Mr. Montgomery?” he asks.
“That’s me,” says Blake. He gestures to the boxes that fill my garage. “It’s all of these, but you only need to load half. My cousin’s going to carry the rest.”
That, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m not fond of my cousin.
Yes, Blake sits in a lawn chair watching as the driver and I load the (not light) boxes into the back of the truck. What am I supposed to do? Refuse? I need the room in my garage. Trust me—I glare at Blake every time I pick up a new box with all the fury my eyebrows can summon.
Blake grins and sips his lemonade.
“What’s in these boxes?” asks the driver, breathing heavy from the effort of lifting them.
“Blocks of steel,” Blake replies. He chuckles, but I’m not sure he’s kidding.
We eventually finish, and the driver heads off to the storage facility. It’s worth noting that Blake didn’t open a single one. It seems paranoid to suggest that the only reason he shipped these boxes to Florida was to mess with me, so I won’t suggest that. I don’t want you to think I’m paranoid.
Blake slurps up the last of his lemonade and then holds the glass out to me. “Refill?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I didn’t mean that you should make a special trip. I figured you were heading inside anyway.”
“I am, but I’m not getting you more lemonade.”
Blake sucks some air through the straw since there’s no liquid left to slurp. “Is there a problem?” he asks.
“Gosh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s—”
“Didn’t you agree to load half of the boxes?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you have to load more than half of them?”
“No.”
“Me paying somebody else to do my half didn’t create any extra work for you. I don’t see why you’re upset.”
Credit where it’s due. Blake is a very good actor. He knows perfectly well why I’m upset, but if somebody were standing around listening to our conversation, that person might think he was being genuine. They might think I was the bad guy for picturing running over him with my car.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” I inform him.
“I didn’t realize that carrying boxes was so traumatic for you. I assumed that guitar players had strong arms.”
“I have amazing arms! I’ll load boxes all day, no problem. But I don’t like doing it when they’re your boxes and you’re being lazy.”
“Lazy…or smart?”
“Lazy.”
“Or smart?”
“Lazy,” I say definitively.
“Look,” says Blake, “I’ll be the first to admit that my arms weren’t designed for lifting things. If I’ve got the money, why shouldn’t I pay somebody to do the work for me?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Are you mad because you weren’t paid? I figured that since we’re family, it would be inappropriate to offer to compensate you. But here.” He holds his empty glass toward me. “I’ll give you a buck to get me another glass of lemonade.”
Not gonna lie. It would be an easy dollar. But I’m not going to play his game.
I turn away from him and walk into the garage.
“Fine. A buck fifty. Do you take plastic? I can start a tab. We’ll settle up when I leave.”
I turn around. “Like I said, this isn’t going to continue.”
“I’m trying to generate some income for you, Rod. Most people in your position would be delighted to get me a refill on my lemonade.”
“I’ll tell my mom that I don’t want you to stay here anymore,” I answer. “Your parents can cut their stupid cruise short and pick up their bratty son. Or you can fly back to California and stay by yourself. You’re sixteen. Why do you need us to babysit you anyway?”
I may have struck a nerve. “You’re not my babysitter,” he says.
“Then stop acting like a baby.”
“Babies don’t hire people.”
“Apparently, they do.”
“You got outsmarted. Get over it.”
Outsmarted? Outsmarted? Can you believe what you’re reading?
“I think we have very different definitions of what it means to outsmart somebody,” I say. “You didn’t do anything clever. If a dog has an accident on the kitchen floor and you have to clean it up, that dog didn’t outsmart you.”
“Very well,” says Blake, standing. “No dollar fifty for you. I would’ve gone as high as a buck seventy-five, but you’ve lost out.”
“I’m not impressed that you have spending money. Don’t act like you’re an entrepreneur because you get an allowance.”
“Ooh, look at Rodney’s fancy words!”
“Entrepreneur? That’s a normal word. And you can’t look at my words. You’re listening to them.”
“Whatever.”
(I realize that you, as the reader of this book, are indeed looking at my words, unless you’re listening to it on audiobook or somebody is reading it out loud. But I was talking to Blake. Sorry if there was confusion.)
“All I’m saying, Blake, is don’t get too comfortable.”
Blake sits back down. He sets the empty glass o
n the ground and then stretches out his legs and puts his arms up over his head, getting comfortable.
“Like this?” he asks.
“Yeah, like that.”
“I’d hate to have to tell my parents that you were being a poor host.”
“What are they going to do, not send me a birthday card?”
“For starters.”
“It’s adorable that you think I’m scared of Aunt Mary and Uncle Clark. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I still remember when Aunt Mary made me stand in the corner for ten minutes for not wiping my feet before I came inside. If they put me in time-out, I’ll have to take it like a man.”
“Do you know what I’d advise?” Blake asks.
“Nope. Not a clue. What would you advise?”
“I’d advise you to stop pretending you’re not scared of me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I can’t possibly have heard you correctly. Because what I heard is you saying that I’m scared of you.”
“Then you heard right. Go ahead and deny it if you want.”
“That’s not even worth denying. It would be like me insisting that I’m not really Iron Man.”
“Say what you will. We both know the truth.”
I shake my head. “You’re trying to draw me into one of those conversations that makes me want to rip out my hair. Not gonna happen. My hair is one of my best features.”
“Hi, Rod!” says Audrey.
I spin around. Audrey rides her bicycle up my driveway. She always lets me know before she comes over, but I’ve been too busy loading boxes and dealing with Cousin Satan to pay attention to my phone.
“Oh, hi,” I say, trying to pretend that I’m happy to see my girlfriend. I’d warned her about Blake, but seeing him in action might cause her to question my DNA. Maybe I should tell her he was adopted. In fact, I’ll say that we were both adopted to distance our bloodlines even further.
I wonder if Audrey will get to meet Good Blake or Evil Blake. I’m not sure which will be better for me.
“You didn’t answer your texts, but I didn’t think you’d mind me coming over.”
“It’s great to see you.”
Audrey gets off her bike and puts down the kickstand. Blake is staring at her the way a guy does when he’s not used to being in the presence of attractive women. If I could read his thoughts, I’m sure they’d be Duurrrr derp durrrr durr derp.
