“Seems kind of small to require an actual tour.”
“Would you like a tour of my fist?”
Whoa. I can’t believe I said that. I haven’t offered to punch somebody since I was in third grade and this kid Cody dropped a goldfish down the back of my shirt. (The goldfish was traumatized but survived.) I wouldn’t really hit Blake, of course, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he believes I’m a scary, short-fused stick of TNT-level rage.
Blake narrows his eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
“Nah.”
“That sounded like a threat.”
It suddenly occurs to me that a rich kid like Blake could have a squad of goons at his disposal. I don’t want to wake up in the middle of night to frightening men in face masks standing next to my bed, wielding baseball bats.
No, that’s silly. Still, Mom will be pretty upset if I invited our new houseguest to examine my knuckles at a high velocity.
“It was a joke,” I say. “But you can’t keep insulting my car and house.”
“You’re confusing insults with observations. If I make an observation and you take it as an insult, maybe it’s time to reevaluate your life.”
I sure hope that you’re on my side as you’re reading this. I believe I’ve presented a fair and accurate depiction of the events thus far. So what do you think? Am I wrong for wanting to drag Blake out of my car through the windshield? He’s the worst person ever, right?
Don’t answer that literally. Obviously, there are worse people (Hitler, Stalin, Freddy Krueger, etc.), but he’s terrible!
How would you handle this? Politely? Impolitely? Would you start tearing out your hair? Would you shout “Gaaaahhhhhhh!!!” at the top of your lungs for several minutes? I could really use some guidance.
I settle for giving Blake a dirty look. Then I grab a couple more suitcases, muttering words under my breath that will get the publisher of this book in trouble if I share them here. As I walk past the car, I say, “I’ll meet you inside. Come on in when you’re ready.”
Inside my house, I drop his suitcases in my bedroom and then sit down on the living room couch.
I can’t believe I’m sixteen years old and spending my Saturday afternoon engaged in a battle of wills with my cousin. What’s his deal? Did Aunt Mary and Uncle Clark raise him to be like this, or was there a chemical spill in the hospital where he was born? Was he kicked in the head by a mule? Is he pure evil?
I turn on the television. Some guy with a yappy voice is demonstrating how astonishing a pasta maker can be. The studio audience oohs and aahs in amazement. There’s a close-up of a woman who seems to be almost in tears over how much this pasta maker will change her life. I switch channels.
I stop at Gerbils v. Otters, an animated show that has gotten amazing mileage out of the concept of gerbils fighting otters. I haven’t seen this episode before, so it’s a good way to pass the time until my ridiculous cousin joins me.
The episode ends, and another begins.
Then that episode ends, and another begins.
Then that episode ends, and another begins.
I want to check on Blake, but I don’t want him to see me peeking through the curtains. Instead I go into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich.
Isn’t Blake hungry? Doesn’t he have to go to the bathroom?
He’d better not be using my automobile as a restroom.
Mom will be home from work in a couple of hours. I hope this power struggle is over by then. It will be a difficult situation to explain.
I enjoy my delicious sandwich and a small bag of potato chips while I watch another episode. My weekends are not typically spent sitting on the couch and watching TV, but these are extreme circumstances.
I wonder what Blake would do if I waved my sandwich in front of the window.
(I don’t wave my sandwich in front of the window.)
I’d like to end this war, but if I don’t stand up for myself, it’s going to be an unbearable three months. I mean, it’s clearly going to be an unbearable three months anyway, but it’ll be even worse if I don’t put my foot down.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text message from Audrey: How’s it going with your cousin?
He won’t come out of the car, I text back.
??????, Audrey responds.
I’m serious. He expects me to open the door for him.
???????????, Audrey texts since there is no emoji strong enough to convey her bewilderment.
Incoming call from Audrey. Yep, things are so crazy that we’re going to talk instead of text. I tap Accept.
“What do you mean he expects you to open the door for him?” she demands.
“He seriously thinks I should be his chauffeur. The guy is messed up.”
“How long has he been sitting out there?”
“Three and a half episodes of Gerbils v. Otters.”
“What?”
“I know, right? Dude’s peculiar.”
“Shouldn’t you just let him out of the car?” asked Audrey. “What if he suffocates?”
“He’s not going to suffocate,” I say, although I’m suddenly not so sure. Based on the very limited amount of time I’ve spent with him, Cousin Blake may very well be the kind of person who would let himself run out of air simply to teach me a valuable lesson.
I get off the couch and hurry over to the front window. I’m sure there’s plenty of oxygen left in the car, but what if he’s breathing really deeply to purposely use it up?
There’s a knock at the door.
I’m almost positive it’s not our next-door neighbor here to inform me there’s blue kid in my car, but I have a split second of panic anyway.
“I’ve gotta go,” I tell Audrey. I disconnect the call and put the phone in my pocket. Then I open the door.
It is, of course, Blake. His face is redder than usual.
“Where’s your bathroom?” he asks.
I point to the hallway. “First door on the left.”
Blake hurries down the hall.
