20 Questions

Chapter 1

Beeeeeep!! Beeeeep!!

My eyes roll like a California earthquake when the horn of his 1980-something clunker screams obnoxiously, inevitably attracting some slightly inconvenienced neighbors and sure to earn us a detailed post on the homeowners' association Facebook page. If dogs barking and children playing were a crime, the local jails would be overrun with pediatric and canine criminals. The residents of this neighborhood are petty - like sending out newsletters over too many dandelions in someone's yard kind of petty.

Why he can't just come up to the house like a normal member of this family is beyond me, saving me from giving Karen across the street the one finger salute on my next trip to the store. I look out the window, like I don't already know who it is. Janson is sitting in his car, blaring the old school rap that I loathe, but tolerate. He's picking at his hair, as usual, caring far more about it than any human with a Y chromosome should. I've been witness to him preparing to go out at night and spending thirty minutes in the bathroom sculpting his dark, thick mane, only to rewash it because it "wasn't cooperating." He makes us late a lot, but he is always handsome. I admire his dedication to his appearance, but it just isn't me.

I throw a bathing suit and beach towel in my red Adidas bag and head out the door. Punishing our driveway is his piece of shit Dodge Intrepid, its color hideous beyond words. I hate this car, but I kind of love it, too. It's our gateway to teenage freedom. It's the wheels that take us to do fun and exciting things - things memories are made of. It also gets us pulled over a lot or maybe it's the lead foot that Jansen swears is a birth defect. Then again, so is stupidity, but he's somehow managed to embrace that particular character trait.

I hop in, close the door and put on my seatbelt. "Your hair looks like shit," I joke, knowing it's going to send him into a full-blown frenzy, but I can't help myself. His jaw tenses and he checks his mirror as I stifle a laugh.

After confirming that I'm full of shit, he flashes his pearly whites at me. "What's up cuz? What are we doing today?"

"I thought we could chill by your pool for a while and then maybe hit up Tony's later." Tony's is a local restaurant/bar that is known for its mediocre food and terrible karaoke, but fun nonetheless.

"Sounds good to me, but make sure you wear your boxing gloves because you are going to be fighting girls off this sexy ass all night long," he replies as he swipes his hand over his rear end in an overly dramatic fashion before he turns up his terrible music.

"Yeah, and you're going to be fighting off chlamydia if you don't wrap that thing up," I groan, turning down the garbage he calls music, the base so deep it rattles this hoopty of a car like somebody replaced unleaded gasoline with laxatives.

I roll down the window and feel the warm Indiana air across my face and through my hair. It's a normal Saturday in our little town and I'm grateful for the day with my favorite cousin and best friend. He puts me in good mood, no matter what's going on around me.

We drive past the school. The parking lot is empty and it makes me happy to be on summer vacation. I'm not fond of high school, but Jansen loves it. Of course he does. Everybody loves him and he's popular. He's the center of attention and everybody wants to be around him. The guys want to be his friend and the girls fall unapologetically at his feet. And why wouldn't they? I observe the waves in his hair, unbothered by the wind - courtesy of the ridiculous amount of product he used. He sports a black V-neck T-shirt and American flag swimming trunks but could be mistaken for a supermodel in anything he wears. He is charming and funny, but humble. His snarky comments may suggest otherwise, but I'm the only person that he reveals his true self to. My favorite thing about him is how he always makes sure I am included in everything.