How You Ruined My Life
ALSO BY JEFF STRAND
A Bad Day for Voodoo
I Have a Bad Feeling about This
The Greatest Zombie Movie Ever
Stranger Things Have Happened
Thank you for purchasing this eBook.
At Sourcebooks we believe one thing:
BOOKS CHANGE LIVES.
We would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at our hottest titles!
Happy reading!
SIGN UP NOW!
Copyright © 2018 by Jeff Strand
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design and illustrations by Nina Goffi
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Strand, Jeff, author.
Title: How you ruined my life / Jeff Strand.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2018] | Summary: Rod’s life is going well until his rich, prankster cousin, Blake, moves in for three months--moving into his room and moving in on his girlfriend and band--ruining everything.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017037472 | (13 : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Cousins--Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)--Fiction. | Bands (Music)--Fiction. | Punk rock music--Fiction. | Family life--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.S8963 How 2018 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017037472
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
Encore!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
This book is dedicated to the kind people who’ve never actively tried to ruin my life. You know who you are!
1.
“Thanks for coming out tonight! Are you ready to rock?”
A couple of people in the audience indicate that yes, they are indeed ready to begin the process of rocking. A few others don’t look up from their cell phones, but I’m confident that they’ll discover their readiness to rock as soon as we start playing. The rest of the eleven or so people in the club haven’t bothered to walk over to the dance floor. Presumably, they’re waiting for the headline act before committing to whether or not they’re mentally and physically prepared to rock.
“We’re Fanged Grapefruit,” I say into the microphone. “This first song is an original called, ‘You Can’t Train a Goldfish to Catch Popcorn in Its Mouth, So Don’t Even Try.’ One, two, three, go!”
I can’t remember which of us came up with the name Fanged Grapefruit. I think it was Clarissa, our drummer. I consider myself the creative driving force of the band, but if you see Clarissa, you’ll understand why she doesn’t lose many arguments. She’s at least six foot three (though I’ve never measured her), and you wouldn’t want to arm wrestle her unless you were willing to lose an arm. When she really gets going, her drumsticks become a blur. And when she’s done with a set, the sticks look like they’ve been gnawed on by beavers.
Mel, short for Melvin, is lead guitar and background vocals. I’m lead vocals and rhythm guitar. Ironically, Mel is a worse guitar player and a better singer than me. Not everything we do in Fanged Grapefruit makes sense.
Mel doesn’t look like he should be in a punk rock band. He looks like he should be president of the Chess Club. Which he is, but I assure you, the guy plays chess with attitude. He also gets straight A’s and is likely to be our class valedictorian, and if so, I hope he’ll pause his inspiring commencement speech for a wicked guitar solo.
I’m Rod, short for Rodney. Nice to meet you. I’m pretty much average, I guess.
Other band names we’d brainstormed included Untidy Reptiles, Autocorrected Text Fail, Rod & the Whacknuts, Carnivorous Vegans, Impolite Music for Unruly People, The RMC Experiment, Say Goodbye to Your Ears, Pawn Takes Rook, Crunchy Noise, Crispy Noise, Chicken Fried Noise, (The Parentheticals), Apes with Monkey Faces, Hairnets Gloriously Aflame, Dog Eat Dog Eat Munchkin, The Self-Diagnosing Hypochondriacs, Sequel II, and Sushi Gun.
We play at this club, the Lane, every Monday, which is the only day you can get in if you’re under eighteen. We go onstage around eight, and we’re home by nine fifteen, so all our parents are cool with us being out on a school night. It also helps that they’ve never actually been inside the Lane, which is a bubbling pit of health code violations. If you have to go to the bathroom, hold it. Trust me.
I’m sure we’d have a much bigger audience if we could play on a Friday or Saturday night, but Clarissa, Mel, and I are only sixteen, so we’ve got a couple of years to go. (Sorry if it was insulting that I did the math for you.) We hope that by the time we’re old enough to play there on a weekend, we’ll have upgraded to venues where your feet don’t stick to the floor as often.
Anyway, we begin to rock out on our guitars and drums, and select members of the audience begin to move to the music. Well, okay, only two of them. And one is my girlfriend, Audrey. You might say that she doesn’t count, but we got together because I was in a band, so I think she does count, thank you very much.
Audrey runs our merch table. We never sell anything, though she gives away free stickers to people who look like they might be band managers. She’s as tiny as Clarissa is non-tiny. You won’t believe me if I say she’s the most gorgeous girl at our school, so all I’ll say is that if you look at her and look at me, you’d say, “Wow, how did that happen? He must be in a band.”
By the end of our set, three people in the audience are bopping their heads to the music. That’s a fifty percent increase from when we started. Fanged Grapefruit rules!
• • •
After dropping off Clarissa, Mel, and then Audrey (because I always pick her up first and drop her off last, even though she lives the furthest away), I go home, take a shower, and start packing my lunch for the next day.
<
br /> “How was your gig?” Mom asks, walking into the kitchen.
“Great! Every show gets a little better.”
“I was going to do that for you,” she says, pointing to the sandwich I’m making.
“I know.” Mom works two jobs, both of which suck, so I’m always happy to make my own lunch. Plus I’m very specific about the spread of my peanut butter. It should be as close to the edge of the bread as possible without spilling over, and the thickness should be consistent. Generally, I’m a pretty casual guy, but not when it comes to peanut butter application. We all have our quirks.
“I’ve got news,” she says.
“Dad got out of prison?”
Dad isn’t really in prison. He left us two years ago. We joke about him being in prison as a coping mechanism.
“No.”
“I’m finally going to get a baby sister?”
“Ha. You wish.”
“You got a raise?”
Mom shakes her head. “I did get a five-dollar tip on an eighteen-dollar meal though. That was nice.”
“Wild panthers have run amok in our neighborhood, gobbling up people left and right?”
“Maybe you should stop guessing.”
“Maybe I should. So is this good news or bad news?” I ask.
“Well…”
I set down the butter knife. “That doesn’t sound like a good ‘well…’”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call it bad news,” Mom says. “It’s definitely not the worst news ever. Nobody died or anything.”
“Tell me.”
“You know your aunt Mary and uncle Clark?”
“Of course.” I don’t think I’ve seen Uncle Clark since I was six. We live in Florida, and they live in California. He and Dad never got along, so every couple of years, Aunt Mary would visit us by herself. With Dad out of the picture, I assumed we’d see more of our extended family, but it never really happened.
“Aunt Mary and Uncle Clark are going on a cruise.”
“That’s cool.” I consider that for a moment and then get very excited. “Are they taking us with them?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“It’s one of those around-the-world cruises. Three whole months. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Did I mention that Aunt Mary and Uncle Clark are rich? You probably picked up on that when Mom said they were going on a three-month-long world cruise.
“Is Blake going with them?” I ask.
“No. He’s not.”
Suddenly, I have an idea where this conversation is headed. It doesn’t make me happy. “Maybe you should spell this out for me,” I say.
“Your cousin Blake is going to live with us for three months. Isn’t that exciting?”
I stare at her for a few hours.
(Possibly, I’m exaggerating.)
“Starting when?” I ask.
“Next week.”
“You mean before the school year ends?”
“Yes. He’s going to transfer to your school.”
“That’s messed up!”
Mom shrugs. “They got a good deal on the cruise.”
“Where’s he going to stay? We don’t have a guest bedroom.”
“Well, I thought…you know…”
“He can’t share my room!” If I wasn’t almost an adult, I would have stomped my foot.
“Honey, it’s only for three months.”
“That’s a quarter of a year! I thought we were broke,” I say. “How are we going to pay for all that extra food?”
“We’re not that broke, and obviously, your aunt and uncle will help pay for groceries.”
“Isn’t he a spoiled brat?”
“You haven’t seen him in ten years,” Mom says.
“Well, ten years ago he was a spoiled brat.”
“I’m sure he’s fine now.”
“Doesn’t he have any friends he can stay with in California?”
My mom sighs. “Rodney, he’s family. Family is always welcome in our home.”
I hope I’m not coming off as whiny and selfish. If a hurricane tore the roof off their house and they lost all of their worldly possessions, sure, I’d happily donate half of my room to Cousin Blake while they rebuilt their lives. But asking me to give up my privacy so Aunt Mary and Uncle Clark can go on a luxury cruise seems kind of unreasonable.
However, I’m pretty sure this is a done deal, and my mom has enough stress in her life without me continuing to protest.
“All right,” I say.
“Thank you.” Mom gives me a hug. “I think you’ll enjoy having him here.”
Who knows? Maybe I will. Maybe my cousin is a really cool guy. Maybe he has good taste in music. And maybe he’s witty and entertaining. And maybe he’ll be willing to help with emergency cleanup if we’re having a wild party and Mom calls suddenly to say she’s on her way home early.
We might end up being the best friends that any two cousins could ever be. We’ll giggle and frolic and be inseparable.
But probably not.
I can’t believe I have to share my room.
I return to making my lunch. I’ll try to be optimistic and pretend that these will be the best three months of my life. How bad could it be?
2.
Upon first glance into my bedroom, you can be forgiven for believing that I’m a vile, disgusting slob. Organization of my personal belongings is not one of my strongest traits.
But it’s not like there are dirty dishes or long-forgotten pizzas or sweaty clothes that have been on the floor for more than forty-eight hours. If you see anything that’s green, it was always that color. Gas masks, though a nice fashion accessory, are completely unnecessary to breathe the air. Your pets would be perfectly safe in there.
C’mon, I’m in a punk rock band! You wouldn’t want my room to be immaculate, would you? Nah. My current housekeeping, where it takes a moment to figure out which mound is the desk and which is the bed, is the way to go. And though it may look messy to an outsider, there’s sort of a method to the madness. I can usually find stuff I’m looking for on the seventh or eighth try.
I like my room the way it is, but I have this sneaking suspicion that Mom will ask me to clean it before Blake arrives. I can’t blame her for that. Blake might be a raging neat freak, and I don’t want to start off on a bad note.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, surveying my room and trying to work out a plan of cleaning attack. If I had a bulldozer, I could just push everything from one half of the room to the other and be done with it. Sadly, I don’t own a bulldozer, and the hallway to my bedroom is too narrow to get one through. We have a one-story house, so technically, I could drive a bulldozer through the wall, but that would end up making more of a mess, don’t you think?
Yes, I am procrastinating on cleaning my room by thinking about driving a bulldozer through the side of my house. Welcome to my mind.
Actually, while I’m procrastinating, let me take you on a quick tour of my house. Let’s start from the outside. Yep, it’s the small, light blue one. The car that doesn’t look like it would start is mine. We’re in an okay neighborhood, I guess. Nobody has swimming pools, but they also don’t have zombies chained in their backyard.
Wipe your feet on the “Welcome Friends” mat and come on in. (Fun fact: that doormat is older than I am.) Congratulations! You’re in my living room! That’s one ugly couch, huh? It’s more comfortable than it looks. Don’t bother checking the cushions for loose change. I’ve got that covered.
From the couch you can see the kitchen, which is where I was making the peanut butter sandwich I talked about earlier. On the refrigerator door, there’s a flier that I made for the first-ever performance of Fanged Grapefruit. Mom hung it there like an elementary school art project. I don’t mean to brag, but if
you open the refrigerator, there may be some food inside.
There’s the hallway that’s too narrow for a bulldozer. First door on the left leads to the bathroom. You’ll be pleased to know that it’s equipped with all the modern conveniences—a toilet, a sink with hot and cold running water, and a shower. Plus a fully stocked library.
The second and last door on the left leads to Mom’s room. Nothing to see there. The first and only door on the right leads to my room, which we’ve already discussed. (Recap: it’s very untidy.)
And…well, I guess that’s it, except for the garage. But you can’t look in there because it’s where we keep our newly restored Ferrari. Oh, yeah. It’s worth a fortune. The windows are made of diamonds. No, no, don’t open the door. I wouldn’t make that up. Just trust me.
All right, time to clean my room.
• • •
Did I do a perfect job? No.
Can you see most of the floor now? Yes.
I took a “before” picture so that if Blake has a problem with it, I can prove that I made an effort.
I didn’t tell you, but I called Audrey before I started and asked if she wanted to help clean. Her response was, and I quote, “Ha ha. No.”
If I were a good son, I’d clean up the rest of the house.
And you know what? I’m a good son.
I don’t get down and scrub the corners or anything, but I do a perfectly adequate job. It’s not like an emperor or Jennifer Lawrence is coming to visit.
When I’m finished, I survey my work, proud of a job well done. When Mom gets home, she thanks me and expresses surprise that I cleaned the house so soon since Cousin Blake won’t be here for six more days.
Five days later, the house looks the way it did before I started cleaning.
Oh well. I’ll clean it again after band practice.
• • •
Mel and Clarissa are in my garage, which has no Ferrari, blasting our song “Jalapeño Poppers Filled with Battery Acid Are a Tasty Treat.” (We have long song titles.)
This song requires a lot of screeching on my part, which hurts my voice after a while, so we take a quick break for me to drink some water with lemon and honey.