by Jeff Strand
“May I explain myself?”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to be successful.”
“To answer the question that’s on your mind, yes, I’m the reason Audrey broke up with you.”
I attack.
If a college scout saw this tackle, they’d immediately offer me a football scholarship, and I would begin an exciting new era of my life. Sadly, there are no scouts to witness this amazing feat. We both hit the ground hard, and I hope that Blake landed on a spot of grass that’s laden with fire ants, millions of enraged fire ants going sting, sting, sting until his back swells up like a water balloon.
Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything too violent. I’m still fully in control of my temper. I’m going to rough him up a little, maybe generate a few small bruises, but he won’t end up in the hospital or anything like that.
Okay, yeah, I do throw a punch at his face. He blocks it though and rolls on top of me.
Suddenly, I am the one whose back is vulnerable to fire ants. Wait. Blake is winning this fight?
Yep. He sure is.
He’s got me pinned to the ground, and my best efforts to break free are an embarrassing failure. If the football scout walks by now, I won’t even get an offer to be the towel boy. (“Sorry, Mr. Conklin. Better luck next year.”)
I am really, really, really surprised to be losing, but I suppose it makes sense. If you’re as unlikable as Blake, you’d learn to defend yourself.
“Let me go!” I snarl.
“Stop snarling first.”
“Let me go, or I’ll scream!”
You now know that my account of these events is one hundred percent accurate because I would’ve otherwise left out the part where I said to let me go or I’d scream.
“Are you ready to discuss this calmly?” Blake asks.
“No!”
Blake slaps me across the face. Not hard enough to expose skull, but hard enough to remind me that I should be ashamed of how I’m faring in this fight.
“Are you ready now?” he asks.
“Getting closer.”
Blake slaps me again. This one is an extremely light slap, clearly designed to send the message that I’m losing so badly that he doesn’t need to make any further efforts to subdue me.
I land a punch to his jaw. Then I immediately apologize. Not for hurting him, but because it was such a weak, inept punch that it’s an insult for me to have even thrown it. I can’t even pretend that I did it that way on purpose. That was one shameful punch.
Blake does that trick where he mimics plucking my nose off my face and then pretends that his thumb is my nose, though he stops short of saying, “Got your nose!”
I throw another punch that completely misses, even though Blake is right on top of me and I shouldn’t have been able to miss even if I had Tyrannosaurus rex arms.
“Are you going to make me honk your nose?” asks Blake.
“Maybe!”
“I don’t want to do it.”
I struggle to regain the upper hand in this war. I fail.
“Please don’t make me honk your nose,” says Blake. “You don’t deserve that.”
I continue to struggle. Surely, this time I’ll successfully… Nope.
I have to surrender. I could survive the nose-steal fake-out, but if word gets out that my cousin honked my nose during combat, I’ll have no friends left.
Or I could pretend to surrender, wait for him to lower his defenses, and then strike!
Nah, that’s tacky.
“I give up,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Especially because Audrey might change her mind and ride back to my house to un–break up with me, in which case, she’d see Blake giving me a fierce whupping and then leave again, feeling most disappointed in me.
“Good.” Blake stands. I hope he doesn’t extend a hand to help me up because that will increase my level of humiliation by two or three degrees, but of course, he does. I let him help me up in a show of comradery.
We take a moment to catch our breath, by which I mean I take a moment to catch my breath while Blake waits patiently.
“What were we talking about again?” he asks.
“You drove Audrey away from me.”
“Right. That.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was trying to help you?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, I was.”
“So if I were sinking in quicksand, you’d help by driving over me with a Humvee?”
“Did you—”
“Hold on,” I say. I brush some ants and grass off my back. I pull up my shirt and turn around. “Are there any more?”
“A few. Want me to take care of them?”
“Yeah.”
Blake brushes my back.
“I think there’s one in my armpit,” I say.
“I’m not touching that one.”
I remove the pit ant myself and lower my shirt. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“You were saying?”
“Did you see the way the ladies were looking at you during the show?”
“No,” I say. “I was focused on the music like a professional.”
“Well, I saw them.”
“How? You were standing in the back.”
“I walked around the club a little.”
“I didn’t see you move.”
“Do you want me to prove it?” Blake asks. “Do you want to send the bottom of my shoes to forensics? I assure you that there are substances on those soles that you won’t find anywhere else in the world.”
“Fine. You saw girls looking at me. So what?”
“Didn’t you get into music for the girls?”
“No. I got into music because I love punk rock.”
“Girls had nothing to do with it?” he questions.
“They were on the list of reasons, but maybe in second or third place, not first. I’ll say second place. Love of music and then girls…and then rebellion.”
Blake nods. “So while it didn’t make the top spot, the fact that females are attracted to members of successful musical acts was at least one of the fringe benefits of the business, correct?”
“Sure.”
“As long as you were with Audrey, you couldn’t partake in that benefit! All these ladies throwing themselves at you, and you had to say, ‘Oh, goodness, no, I couldn’t possibly make out with you!’ What a waste!”
“It wasn’t a waste. Audrey is awesome.”
“She is, but when you’re twenty-two years old and looking back on your life, will you be glad that you were locked into Audrey or glad that you were a free man? I don’t think you would have untied the leash without my help. It was harsh. It was painful, and it was a little ugly. But now you are free to embrace the life of a punk rock superstar.”
“Know what else you could have done?” I ask. “You could’ve sent me a text listing the benefits of not having a girlfriend and let me use that information to make my own, informed decision.”
Blake shakes his head. “You wouldn’t have done it. You needed somebody like me to give you a push.”
“I need somebody like you the way I need scabies.”
“I didn’t expect you to understand right away.”
I want to punch him again, but if it goes the way my first punch did, my morale will be so low that I’ll flop onto the lawn and let the fire ants do with me what they will.
“Well, you got what you wanted,” I say.
“No, I got you what you needed.”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“You’ll thank me. I promise.”
I’m pretty sure I won’t, but I’m tired of arguing. Blake has now won so many rou
nds that I’ve lost count. I long for the simpler, more innocent times of a week ago when my greatest concern was that Mom was going to have to work overtime to pay extra to feed Rod. (See chapter one.) Even if I could have envisioned a world in which an evil cousin would attempt to destroy my relationship with my girlfriend, I never would have imagined that he’d succeed!
“I’m going inside,” I say.
“For what?”
“To mope.”
“Don’t mope yet,” says Blake. “I wouldn’t take something away from you without giving back in return. Text Clarissa and Mel. Tell them to come over.”
“Why? So you can make it look like I’ve been cheating on them with other bands?”
“I have good news.”
“No news is good news coming from you.”
“What do you mean?” asks Blake. “Is that a variation on ‘No news is good news,’ or do you mean that any news coming from me would be bad by definition?”
“The second one.”
“I guarantee that this is the best news you’ve had all week.”
“That’s a low bar. You could tell me that I’ve got the stomach flu, and it would be the best news of the week.”
“Let me correct myself. It’s probably the best news you’ve had all year, but I’ve only been around you for the past week, so I don’t want to overpromise.”
“Go away.”
“Tell them to come over. If it’s not worth your while, you can break both of my arms.”
“I’d love that, but I’d get in trouble with my mom.”
“No, I’d let you break my arms, and then I’d make up a cover story. Two broken arms, free and clear. Think about it.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I don’t think I’d even enjoy it.”
“I’d let you use a shovel.”
“Nope.”
“You sure? Broken arms hurt.”
“I’d have to carry your books around all day and stuff. And you know what? I don’t believe you when you say that you’d make up a cover story. I think I’d break your arms and you’d have hired private investigators to witness the entire thing, and then you’d get my room all to yourself because I’d be in jail. So no deal.”
“Well, the point wasn’t that you’d actually break my arms. The point was that you wouldn’t break my arms because you’d realize that it had been a good idea to call Clarissa and Mel over here. If you can’t even comprehend that this might be true, then I understand. I’ll just talk to them myself.”
“No. Stay away from my friends.”
“They’re my friends too.”
“No, they’re not. They’re your mortal enemies. I don’t want you calling them or texting them or following them on social media or putting any funny filters on pictures they post or having any interaction with them. As far as you’re concerned, they don’t exist. Got it?”
“You’re endearing when you set boundaries.”
“Got it?” I repeat.
“You know, Rod, I’m not big on telling people about the consequences they will face if they defy me. But if Clarissa and Mel find out that you purposely tried to keep this news from them, they’ll never forgive you. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Stop trying to be a supervillain.”
“I’m not.”
“You are! Knock it off! Best-case scenario, you’re a supervillain’s lame sidekick.”
“Are you going to call them over?”
This doesn’t sound like a good idea. Why should I trust Blake? He has literally proven himself to be the least trustworthy person I know, and I knew this kid in third grade who kept promising that he wouldn’t throw my ice cream cone on the ground if I handed it to him. And yet on three separate occasions, I let him hold my ice cream cone, and he did, in fact, throw it on the ground. I realize that this particular incident reflects badly on my judgment. (I mean, nobody asks to hold your ice cream cone for a selfless purpose.) But what I’m saying is that I trust Blake less than I trust the kid who kept saying, “C’mon, let me hold your ice cream cone. I won’t throw it on the ground. I promise.”
Still…
I know what you’re thinking. “No! No ‘Still…’ ‘Still…’ is a terrible direction for your mind to be moving. The man cannot be trusted!”
But there’s a small part of me that wants to believe that Blake might actually have good news to deliver. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still furious about what he did to Audrey. Yet if you believe the reason he said he did it, it kind of makes sense, right? I’m not saying that I wanted to break up with her. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Please don’t stop reading this book because you’ve suddenly lost sympathy for the narrator. That’s not remotely the point I’m trying to make here. What I’m saying is that in Blake’s dark and twisted excuse for a brain, his reasoning makes sense. If he’s not lying, maybe the other band members and I will be happy about what he has to say. (And please don’t stop reading this book because you now think I’m too naive to root for. I know perfectly well that he could be lying.)
Am I babbling? I apologize. Look, I should probably lock myself in my bedroom and never speak to Blake again, but I’m going to take a major risk and play along one more time, okay? If it goes horribly wrong, you can shake your head in disappointment and say that you told me so.
I text Clarissa and Mel and ask if they can come over. They can, but they both need a ride. I tell Blake that I’m not willing to share a moving vehicle with him right now, which I assume will start another fight, but he says that he understands and that he’ll be waiting when I get back. He doesn’t say it in a spooky way: “I’ll be here when you get back.” I mean, that’s what he says, but it’s not foreboding. He’ll just be home when we get back.
(I’m starting to feel like I should hire somebody to cowrite this book with me, just to help until I get my mind sorted out. This last page or so hasn’t been my best work. But it has a raw honesty to it, right? Life, like punk rock, is messy.)
“How are things going with Audrey?” asks Mel as he gets in my car.
“She broke up with me.”
Mel nods. “I heard you were writing poems for other girls.”
“I was framed.”
“I assumed so. Gretchen posted the poems online, and they’re pretty awful. Everybody’s making fun of them. Glad to hear it wasn’t you.”
“Let’s save the talking until we get back to my house,” I recommend.
I pick up Clarissa, who also wants to talk about Audrey and who will cover the merch table now that we’re not dating. She suggests Blake. I reject this suggestion.
When we get back to my house, Blake has poured everyone a glass of cold, refreshing lemonade. Clarissa and Mel gratefully accept the beverages. I reluctantly take the glass, checking carefully for evidence that he spat in it. I don’t see any froth at the top, so he probably didn’t.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here,” says Blake.
“I thought Rod called us here,” says Clarissa.
“No, it was me.”
“Oh, I’m even more intrigued then.”
(Warning: cliffhanger chapter ending approaching!)
Blake clears his throat. “I’ve called you here to…”
21.
“Let you know that I’ve booked three Fanged Grapefruit gigs for this weekend.”
Clarissa and Mel look at each other.
“We can get our own gigs,” I say.
“Not decent ones,” says Blake. “You’ve been playing at the same dismal club for too long. We’re going on a road trip.”
“No, we’re not,” I inform him.
“Yes, we are,” Blake corrects. “Friday night you’re opening for Fist Knuckles.”
Clarissa and Mel stare at each other again. Fist Knuckles is one of our top five musical influences. Whe
n we saw them live last year, the police had to turn a fire hose on them. (The band, not the audience.) It was a great show.
“No way,” says Mel.
“Very much way,” says Blake.
“No way,” says Clarissa.
“Mucho way,” says Blake.
“There’s no way,” I say.
“When Blake Montgomery manages your band, your band gets managed. And it’s a paying gig.”
“How much?” asks Mel, ignoring the horrifying part where Blake implied that he’s now our manager.
Blake tells us. I’m not going to repeat the amount because I’m not sure what your expectations are for how much we’d get paid for opening for Fist Knuckles at a medium-sized club. The reality is probably less than what you’re thinking, so I don’t want the number to be a distraction. Let’s just say that it’s not really going to change our overall financial state but that it’s an extremely fair amount. And it’s more than paying for free.
“Sweet,” says Mel.
“Saturday night, you’re the middle act in a three-act bill of Don & the Keys, Fanged Grapefruit, and Krab Salad.”
“Wait…Don & the Keys are opening for us?” asks Clarissa.
“Yes.”
Clarissa and Mel exchange a high five. Don & the Keys (formerly the Donkeys) beat us in a talent show once, and they were obnoxious jerks about it. If they’re opening for Fanged Grapefruit, their careers are going nowhere. Ha ha.
“Is Krab Salad spelled with a K or with a C?” asks Mel.
“With a K.”
“I love them!”
“How much for that show?” asks Clarissa.
Blake tells us.
“Whoa,” says Clarissa.
“I know, right?” says Blake.
I hate to be Mr. Dubious, but Blake is a long way from having earned my trust. “How do we know you aren’t making this up?” I ask.
“You can check the websites,” says Blake. “But don’t do that yet because I haven’t told you the best news. Sunday night, you’re headlining.”
“Headlining?” asks Mel. “Are you serious?”
“Completely serious.”
“At a tiny, disgusting club?” asks Clarissa.
“Nope. It’s not Madison Square Garden, but this place holds five hundred people.”
