“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 rounds 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
