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
