by Jeff Strand
Got a cousin named Blake. (Blake! Blake!)
Yeah, a cousin named Blake. (Blake! Blake!)
The final bell rings, ending another week of class. Audrey and I walk out of school together. You can tell from the lighting and the camera angle that we’re perfect for each other.
Perfect for each other.
Ain’t nothin’ gonna mess that up.
Nope, nothin’ can mess that up.
Certainly not my cousin.
We’ll be together at least until the start of junior year.
Because nothin’ gonna mess that up.
We’re immune to any and all efforts to tear us apart.
I’m sure.
There’s no way anything can go wrong in our relationship due to actions by somebody else.
’Cause we’re perfect for each other.
I hope this song’s not ironic.
18.
It's Saturday morning. Normally, that’s my favorite morning of the week, but I’m almost delirious with exhaustion by this point. You’d think that I’d eventually be able to tune out Blake’s snoring the same way that people who live next to a railroad stop hearing the trains, but his snoring operates on some bizarre frequency, so you can never get used to it. Soon I’ll have to start making a bedtime ritual of knocking myself out with a brick.
I can’t believe it was only last Saturday that I picked Blake up from the airport. That feels like eight thousand Saturdays ago.
Blake is not here. Some of his new friends invited him to go bowling. He woke me up when he left the house, but now that he’s gone, I can sleep in for a few dozen more hours.
My phone vibrates. A text from Audrey. Call me!!!
Three exclamation points. There’s no smiley face or frowny face to give further information, so I assume all three of those exclamation points are good.
I call her. “Hey, what’s up?” I ask.
She doesn’t say anything. I can hear her sniffle on the other end. Unless she’s been kidnapped by somebody with a cold and they are calling for ransom, but that seems unlikely.
“Rod?” she asks, sounding like she’s been crying. Oh, jeez, I hope her pet boa constrictor didn’t die. (Yep, she has a pet boa constrictor. I would’ve mentioned it earlier, but I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging by telling you that my girlfriend has a pet boa constrictor.)
“What’s wrong?” I’m worried about Audrey and her pet snake.
“Do you still care about me?”
That is one loaded question. Fortunately, the truth and the correct answer are the same. “Of course!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. What happened?”
“Why are you writing poems for Gretchen McCoy?”
Because of my exhaustion, my initial thought is, That’s funny. I don’t recall writing any poems for Gretchen McCoy. I wonder what they said. Then I realize that I don’t remember writing them because I never wrote Gretchen any poems. Blake!
“What do you mean?” I ask suspiciously.
“Gretchen told me that you slipped several love poems into her locker.”
“Were they any good?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t read them to me.”
“I don’t write poetry, Audrey. I write song lyrics.”
“Sometimes your lyrics are poetic.”
“Not many of them. You know this has to be Blake’s doing, right?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why does Blake do anything? Did Gretchen say these poems were in my handwriting?”
“She said they were printed out from a computer.”
“Were they in my favorite font?”
Audrey sniffles. “I didn’t ask.”
“I promise you it was Blake. He probably wrote some love poems and slipped them into Gretchen’s locker, knowing that Gretchen would tell you about them instead of coming to me first. I’d never write poems and sign my name to them. That would be stupid. First of all, I wouldn’t write another girl love poems, and second of all, if I wrote you a love poem, I’d want you to know it was from me.”
“She said they weren’t signed but that there were various clues that made it clear they came from you.”
“Okay, so Blake is too clever to add a fake signature. I didn’t write them. You can tell Gretchen that she was set up. But let her down easy. I mean, don’t make her cry or anything. Tell her that if I weren’t completely devoted to you, I’d probably write some song lyrics for her, but since you’re the only girl for me, she’ll have to find somebody else.”
“I’ll figure out a different way to phrase that,” says Audrey. I can hear her blow her nose. “I’m sorry. I got so upset that I wasn’t thinking straight. Of course it was Blake.”
“I’ll confront him when he’s done bowling.”
“Good.”
“Ask her if the poems were any good though. I’m interested to hear if he has talent.”
“He probably copied them from somewhere.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Scumbag plagiarist.”
“I’m going to call Gretchen.”
“Let me know how it goes.”
• • •
Apparently, Gretchen was relieved that the poems didn’t come from me, which hurts my feelings a little bit.
Clearly, Blake has stepped up his evil game. Too bad for him. It’ll take a lot more than some misattributed love poems to drive Audrey and me apart.
Audrey calls around noon. She’s crying again.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Do you have a crush on Bernadette Springer?”
“Who?” That is absolutely the wrong answer. I know who Bernadette Springer is. She’s the head of the cheerleading squad. If you picture the ugliest person you’ve ever seen in your life and then picture their exact opposite, that’s Bernadette. My knee-jerk reaction of “Who?” was a terrible because it sounds like I’m lying. I guess I was. It’s just that when my girlfriend asks me if I have a crush on somebody, no matter who it is, my reaction is going to be “Who?” because I only have eyes for her. Judge me however you wish.
“Bernadette Springer. Head of the cheerleading squad. You know her. Everybody knows her.”
“Oh, right. Her.” Yes, I pretend that it took me a moment to place her name. I’m completely innocent of the crime of having a crush on Bernadette, but I get flustered when being interrogated, okay? “Of course I don’t have a crush on her.”
“Then why were you with her at the Lane last night?”
“I wasn’t!”
“I heard that you were talking to her for forty-five minutes and that you looked like you had a total crush on her.”
“Who told you this?”
“Daryn Jonas.”
“And who told him this?”
“I don’t know.”
“The Lane is an eighteen-and-over club on Friday nights. I couldn’t go in there even if I wanted to.”
“I think he meant that you two were standing outside the Lane.”
“C’mon, Audrey, do you really honestly believe that Bernadette Springer would talk to me for forty-five minutes?”
If you’re grading my answers thus far, “Who?” was a D+ graded on a curve, while this was an F. Because it implies that Audrey, who has spoken with me for far longer than forty-five minutes over the course of our relationship, is an easier catch than Bernadette.
Do I try to course-correct by saying something like “That’s not what I meant!” or do I hope that Audrey doesn’t interpret my response in the same way?
I go with the latter.
“What do you mean by that?” she asks.
Wrong choice.
“Nothing,” I say, which is the wrong answer.
“I know I’m not as pretty a
s her,” says Audrey.
“Yes, you are,” I insist. “Bernadette has a face like a pug compared to you.” That was probably too much of an overcorrection. I should’ve gone with some variety of terrier.
“So as soon as your band starts to be successful, you talk to other girls?”
“No! I haven’t said two consecutive sentences to Bernadette the entire time we’ve been in high school. I’m not sure who Daryn heard that from or who that person heard it from, but the chain begins with Blake.”
“Did you confront him about the poems?”
“He’s not back from bowling yet.”
“How many games is he bowling?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it takes him a long time to get a bowling ball all the way down the lane.”
Audrey is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, I guess it probably was Blake who started the rumor.”
“There’s nothing to guess. It was definitely him. Why would you even think otherwise?”
“Well, you had a really good show on Monday, and singers get lots of chicks…”
“You’re the only chick I want.”
“Okay.”
“If you hear any other rumors, I’m sure they can be traced back to my cousin. I would never let fame change me, change us.”
“Okay. I’m sorry,” Audrey says and sniffles again.
• • •
I get a text from Audrey: Call me. No exclamation points. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. I’m going to assume worse.
“Hey,” I say.
“Have you been texting Lorelei Michaels?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“She showed me texts of you asking her out. You said we’d broken up.”
“Wait. She showed them to you?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on.” I check my texts. There’s nothing to or from Lorelei. “Are you sure they’re from my phone?”
“It’s your number.”
“Blake must have swiped my phone and then deleted everything when he was done.”
“Don’t you have a passcode?”
“Yeah, but the passcode is my birthday.”
“How would he get your phone?”
“He lives in my house! He could’ve done it while I was asleep or in the shower. I had no idea he’d go this far to sabotage me.”
“Is he still bowling?”
“He hasn’t come back from bowling, but I assume he’s done by now. There’s only so long you can bowl.”
“I wish this would stop,” says Audrey.
“Me too.” Then I unwisely decide to add some levity to the conversation. “So did Lorelei say…” I’m four words into my five-word sentence when I realize that this is not the appropriate time to make a joke, and although my brain frantically waves a stop sign, my mouth drives right through it. “Yes?”
“Is that a joke?” Audrey asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was trying to relieve the tension.”
“Leave the tension where it is.”
“Sorry. I will,” I say, and I mean it.
“But, no, Lorelei did not say yes. She asked why you were asking her out when you already had a girlfriend. Your text explained that things hadn’t been going well between us for a while and that while you didn’t officially break up with me, we both understood that it was over and that we were free to—”
“Reminder,” I say, “this is what Blake said, not me.”
“Right,” says Audrey.
“Right,” I say, more firmly.
“I know.”
“I sure hope you know. You mean the world to me, Audrey.”
“It’s just…”
“It’s just what? Blake did this. That’s the only explanation that should be running through anybody’s mind right now.”
“It’s just that this is a lot.”
“I know. What’s his deal?”
“He had to write all those poems for Gretchen and then spread a rumor about you talking to Bernadette and then steal your phone to text Lorelei,” says Audrey. “It’s a lot.”
“It is a lot. I’ve been saying that since I first picked him up at the airport. He’s an unusual character.”
“Maybe you should call the police.”
“Whoa. My mom would freak if I called the cops on him, and I don’t think he’s committed an actual crime, even if he’s a pain.”
“He stole your phone to text another girl.”
“That’s more of a prank than a misdemeanor,” I say. “I’m not calling the police. If I wake up and he’s hovering over me with a butcher knife and a creepy mask, yeah, then I’ll call 911.”
You know what’s scary? I can actually picture Blake hovering over me with the knife, and it doesn’t seem like a ridiculous mental image! Granted, in my imagination he’s wearing a cat mask, so I can’t see his face, but I know it’s him.
Am I afraid of my cousin?
Nah. Blake isn’t frightening. He’s just a jerk.
I hope.
“I’m sorry,” says Audrey. “I don’t know why Blake is trying to ruin our relationship. Make sure you confront him when he gets back from bowling, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
• • •
A new text from Audrey: Call me? I have no idea how to interpret the question mark. I’m pretty sure she’s not going to say, “Hi, Rod, wanted to let you know that all our problems have been solved! Bye-bye!”
“What did he do this time?” I ask when she picks up.
“I got a picture of your car parked outside of Shannon Calmone’s house last night.”
“How do you know it was my car?”
“I know what your car looks like.”
“How do you know it was last night?”
“The phase of the moon in the picture is correct.”
“So it could have been last month?”
“I guess.”
Wait. Why am I arguing lunar cycles? I’ve never parked my car in front of Shannon’s house. “That wasn’t me,” I insist. “He must’ve stolen my car and parked it there.”
“Do you really think he could steal your car keys, sneak out of the house, drive over to Shannon’s, take the picture, drive back home, sneak back into the house, and slip your keys back where he found them without getting caught?”
“You’re making it sound really complicated with all those steps, but sure, why not? It would’ve taken twenty minutes, tops.”
“How do you know how far away Shannon lives?”
“I went to a birthday party when she turned eight or something.” I suddenly remember that it was her ninth birthday, not her eighth, but if I correct myself, it’ll look like I’m floundering to make up a story on the spot. “Blake could’ve easily done this.”
“Do you really think he’d take the risk of getting caught?”
“Considering the things he’s said to my face without worrying that I’d beat him up, yes, I think he’d take the risk. He’d come up with some story about how he needed cough syrup or something and didn’t want to wake us up going through the medicine cabinets to find some, so he borrowed my car to drive to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy. And you know what? He probably really did buy some cough syrup so that if I called him a liar, he could whip out the bottle and say, ‘See, here it is.’ Or maybe the picture is Photoshopped. He seems like somebody who’d be good at Photoshop. Do you know any experts who could vouch for the authenticity of the picture?”
“No.”
“It’s either a picture of my stolen car, or it’s fake. Either way, I most definitely was not parked outside of Shannon’s house last night. With Blake’s snoring, I’m not getting enough sleep to be out gallivanting at night.” I think of something funny to say about that, but having learned from previous mistakes, I keep
my mouth shut.
“Hold on,” Audrey says. A moment later she speaks again, “I got a new picture.”
“Of what?”
“You sharing a french fry with Melissa Ruggarth.”
“Oh.” I know that picture. “That one might be legit.”
Melissa and I were getting a burger and fries. One of the fries in my bag was so long that we each started eating one side of the fry, and somebody took a picture. It’s actually kind of adorable, though I do not describe it as such to Audrey.
“Why were you sharing a fry with Melissa?”
“It was last year before we were dating. Look at my hair.”
“Your hair looks the same as it does now.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then my hair is Photoshopped. Which is good, because now we know that Blake is digitally manipulating the pictures and didn’t actually steal my car.”
“Are you really trying to convince me that Blake Photoshopped your hair to make a picture from last year look more recent?”
“Yes! And I shouldn’t have to convince you of this! You should be saying, ‘Yep, that’s the next phase of Blake’s plan.’ We’re supposed to be teaming up against him.”
“What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense.”
“What makes more sense? That I’m suddenly going after Gretchen, Bernadette, Lorelei, Shannon, and Melissa?”
“You did have a really good show. It could have boosted your confidence.”
“Ask Melissa. She’ll tell you that we shared the french fry a year ago.”
“Why am I only hearing about it now?”
“Because…because…because it’s a fry! One fry! A year ago! It was an amusing picture!”
“I wasn’t amused by it.”
“Look, I feel like there’s a cloud of paranoia forming over you, and that’s exactly what Blake wants. He’s trying to tear us apart. We can’t let him succeed.”
“I guess not,” says Audrey.
I can’t believe this. Blake’s plan is working. I could defend myself against any one of these false accusations, but the sheer volume is wearing Audrey down.
