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?”
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
