Three more days pass, and I'm proud to say I don't break any other rules. This was possible due to two major facts: one, I'm really good at being silent. It probably sounds completely unrelated, but trust me, it isn't. Two, I'm actively avoiding Martin. That last part is easy to do during the morning; Martin sleeps like a dead log well beyond noon. I have more than enough time to (a) get supplies and (b) sneak into my parents' bedroom. Once there, I lock myself up until hunger and bathroom needs become an issue I can't neglect.

Never mind the fact that my parents have a room of their own and I don't. Let's just not go there for the time being.

Today's menu includes half a loaf's worth of ham sandwiches, which I masterfully arrange in a perfect mountain on the biggest plate I can find, a slice of chocolate cake, and the thing I love most about Uncle Owen's house: the lower shelf of the fridge is always full of Coke cans. I grab two of them and I'm tempted to grab some chips as well, but the packets crinkle too loudly and could give away my position.

Thank goodness the house is empty most of the time; it makes things a lot easier. Both Mom and Dad are working full-time at Uncle Owen's Pizzeria, along with Uncle Owen himself and Aunt Sugar. Alex is a kind of shadow that roams freely; he usually rides his bike early in the morning and doesn't reappear until dinner, when, more often than not, he just showers and leaves again. Rinse and Repeat.

Usually, by the time Martin wakes up, Aunt Sugar is either home fixing lunch, or done with it and back to the restaurant. Martin hangs around for a bit, but he usually leaves the house most afternoons, and I don't even care where he goes or what he does. I'm sure it's trouble.

As is now usual, I carry my stuff to my parents' room, I close the window blinds, and sit down on Mom's thingy: a little table where women keep their makeup and stuff. I have to carefully push away 'the stuff' to make room for the laptop I got for Christmas. I'd wanted a desktop computer so I could upgrade it later, but Mom ignored me and got me a laptop instead, saying I could take it to school or the library if I had to. Sure, like I'm actually going to do any of that. Anyway, it turns out it fits perfectly on Mom's table, so now I'm glad she got it.

While it boots up, I grab a sandwich. The door swings open as I'm taking the first bite, and I can just make out a grumpy-looking Martin (sporting severe bed-head) glaring at me like I owe him something. I wonder if this means my hideout is gone. I decide to stay silent; the one thing I excel at.

"What the fuck, dude?" Martin says.

I don't reply. I'm not one-hundred percent sure what he means by the comment, so I play dumb, offering my mountain of sandwiches to him, and take another bite.

"What the hell is that? I can't see shit," he says, turning on the lights. "Is that ham?"

I nod, pushing the plate a little closer to him. He scratches his head and grabs one.

"There's Coke, too," I inform him.

"Why?"

"Because I get thirsty."

"Not that, you moron," he grumps, stuffing a huge piece of the sandwich in his mouth before adding, "Why are you always stuck in here?"

"Oh, right." So, he knew. I can't tell him the truth, can I? That I'm actually avoiding him? I suppose I can't. "I just like this room," I say. "It's quiet, and the Wi-Fi signal is strong."

He places a hand over his chest. "Wait. Hold that thought."

He leaves the room, and ten seconds later he's back, carrying a ketchup bottle. He smears some all over what's left of his sandwich before stuffing his face again. Then he tosses the bottle at me as he chews, gesturing for me to try it. I toss him one of my cans of Coke.

"You can't make sandwiches with just ham and nothing else, bud. They're dry and gross."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure I can," I reply, mildly offended that he wouldn't love my amazing food. This is the only reason why I don't add ketchup to mine, although it's definitely a good idea. Not gonna admit that to Martin, though.

"Whatever." He pops the lid and takes a swig. "So, again, what do you do here all day?"

Okay, so we're going to talk about that again. I should probably set things straight so we can move on to our own separate lives, but since I don't know how to do that, I just point at my computer silently.

He nods with dwindling patience, trying to fight back an eye roll. "What do you do on that thing all day?"

"Internet? Online games? YouTube? I imagine you do just about the same with your phone, don't you?"

"I just text girls, but okay." He grabs another sandwich, drowns it in ketchup, and eats it in silence.

I'm guessing he's done asking stupid questions, so I put on my headphones, and open my internet browser. It's not fully loaded yet when he speaks again. I don't think he's as comfortable with silence as I am.

"But why here, though? This room doesn't even have an AC unit."

I rub my eyes lightly and take my headphones off. I wish he'd get bored of me and go on his merry way, but, to be fair, he's making a solid point. Even with the blinds shut, I can barely survive the summer heat, but no effort is ever wasted when the alternative means hanging with Martin. I'd rather have my parents find me dead of heatstroke.

"I told you, it's peaceful in here." I want to go on and say it's no longer peaceful now that he's around, but I can see how that might backfire, so I don't.

"It's like you're avoiding me."

No shit, Sherlock.

"Look, I don't want to sound rude, but I'm just trying to mind my own business here. You don't have to be friendly to me; I'm fine by myself, always have been, and I'm way too boring for you to hang with, anyway."

"It sure looks like you are," Martin admits, scratching his leg. "Two things, though? One, could you at least show up for lunch? Mom's been asking about you and she's kind of worried. Two, if you want to be by yourself, just say so and I'll vacate our room. I'm pretty sure Alex wouldn't mind sharing with me, and I don't care either way. Deal?"

"Wait a minute, our room?"

"That's what I said."

"You mean your room. That room is yours, not ours; there just happened to be a bed there for me when we moved in, so, for all it's worth, I can sleep in the garage if it bothers you." I don't know why, but I'm actually angry at him. It's not as if I asked to come here to begin with, and I have no interest in his fancy prison cell of a bedroom with its AC unit and lack of cracks in the window. He can shove it up his—

"You completely missed the point, didn't you?" Martin says, staring me straight in the eye. "It's not about the room; it's about you acting weird, locking yourself in here for three days straight with a pile of dry sandwiches." He combs his hair with his fingers, and amazingly enough, that's all it takes him to look flawless. That kind of bothers me as well. He's so effortlessly handsome. Still, Martin now looks as pissed off as I feel. "I don't care about the room, and I'm not really that concerned about you, either. But you're worrying my mother with your weird shit, and that is something I'm not okay with. So, maybe, if you could try and pull your head out of your fucking ass, you'd notice that the world is a little wider than just you and a stupid bedroom, and maybe you'll see things a little more like I do."

Martin takes a breath but I can tell he's not done yet.

"Look," he continues, "I realize we're going to have to co-exist together whether we like it or not, so we might as well do so on good terms. So, there you go; you just made me mad enough to give you a piece of my fucking mind. I hope you're proud."

I feel my cheeks burn. Oh, I am proud. I'm one proud mother-effing little twat. Proud enough to put my headphones back on and completely ignore Martin, even though I know he's right. But ignoring him isn't enough for me. Oh no, I need something else; I need to show him that his words don't affect me at all, which, okay, isn't at all true, but still.

"If you're done complaining," I tell him, "would you mind shutting the door on your way out, please?"

"Wow." I can hear the smile in his voice, the kind of smile you smile when you want to send someone's teeth flying. I can tell even though I'm not looking at him, and I wish he would try it so I could have a real reason to strike him back. But there are no punches; Martin stays calm. "I don't remember you being this childish," he says. "Or so dense."

I snort. "You're just angry because you wanted to get a reaction out of me, and you failed."

"There you go, once again making the whole thing spin around your ugly ass."

"If that's true, then why you are still here and why were you looking for me in the first place? I think you were literally looking for my ugly ass?"

"Yes," Martin says earnestly. "It's true, John. I've wanted to cop a feel ever since you moved in."

What the hell?! "Wow," I say, "you're an idiot."

"And you're a moron," he says, a smug smile on his face.

"Fuck you."

"Dickhead."

"Asshat."

"Prick."

"Fuck you."

"You already said that one," Martin says triumphantly. "You lose."

"Damn!" I shout, louder than I meant to, and when I look at Martin again, I can see he's trying hard not to laugh.

"What?"

Martin completely loses it and starts laughing like the complete idiot he is; the doubled over kind of laugh, and I wonder if he's on any sort of drugs these days, because he just doesn't seem able to stop. He gasps for air because he's laughing so hard. And the worst part of it is that a chuckle escapes my own mouth, which makes Martin laugh even harder, and I'm sorry, I really am, but I start laughing too, because this is so incredibly stupid, laughing like him, and then laughing at him because he's such a mess, crawling out of the room on his way to the bathroom. By the time he returns, I've almost recovered; my tummy and jaw tender as I catch my breath.

But then he says, "Damn!" just like I did before and it starts all over again, and this time I'm the one who ends up in the bathroom. I take my sweet time there just to get back to being myself--back to being normal, and when I finally step out of the bathroom, Martin's on the other side of the door waiting for me.

"So, Cousin. I have some plans for today that include you."

I flinch. Last time he had plans we chugged down a whole beer.

"If it includes any sort of drugs, I'm out."

He lifts an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean? I don't do fucking drugs!"

"Three days ago, you were waiting for me with freaking beer, remember?"

"Yes, I remember. But as I told you then, it was my first beer ever, too, and it didn't even have alcohol in it."

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah. It's not like I do that kind of shit all the time."

"But do you always have such a foul mouth?"

"All the fucking time. Does that bother you?"

"It doesn't bother me, but it would be great if you toned it down a little."

"Shit, I'll try."

Well, I guess it's a good start.

"So, focus, John," Martin says. "Plans!"

"Plans, huh?" My head spins a little because it seems like Martin has completely moved on from our fight only moments before. Does this mean he's not pissed at me anymore? "So, what did you have in mind?"

"Ok, come with me." He drags me to his room and closes the door behind us. A cold gust welcomes me and I have to admit: AC units are a thing; a good thing.

Martin walks to his bed and picks up his phone, scrolls for a while, then shows me a pic of himself, surrounded by two pretty girls in bikinis. Of course. He couldn't just be the handsome and reserved kind of kid. He has to be the kind of handsome that gets the girls, too. "Jackie and Cathy," he says, pointing at the girls. "Or the other way around, I don't remember."

"So," I say, "what does this have to do with me?"

"Well, I'm trying to get Cathy here, see?" He points to the girl to his right on the pic. She has fair skin, a big smile, thick lips, and green eyes. "But Jackie is always around," Martin explains, "and I can't work my magic. That's why I need you."

It all becomes crystal clear. "Oh," I say, "I see. I have to, uh... entertain this Jackie girl while you work your magic?"

Martin nods enthusiastically. "I mean, Jackie is cute too, John. I thought you'd show a little more interest."

"I'm not going to date that girl, Martin," I tell him, waving my hands in front of me like Jackie has some kind of incurable disease. "First of all, I don't want that kind of drama in my life. Second, I wouldn't even know what to do, and thirdly, she probably wouldn't be interested in me, anyway." Which is not the same as admitting that Martin is more handsome than me. Nope, I'm not going that far. Nuh-uh.

"What? But you're..." He drags me to his wardrobe, which has two doors on the sides and a huge mirror between them. "Just look at you, John. I mean, you need to stop letting your mom cut your hair, no offense, but you have that baby face which girls love, and those blue eyes of yours are certainly an asset, too."

My thoughts tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Come on. I don't think there's anything special about me."

Martin ignores the comment, still fixated on my reflection in the mirror. "And not only that," he continues, lifting my t-shirt up. "You have abs. ABS, JOHN! There's no kid in the entire seventh grade sporting actual abs."

I study my muscled stomach and cringe. "Yeah, I know. It's weird."

"It's not weird! It's awesome!"

I'm confused, because I don't know why my cousin is giving me this little pep talk, and for what it's worth, it's not working.

But Martin is on a roll. "Girls absolutely love abs," he says. "I wish I had some. I probably need to do some Kung Fu or something, like you."

"It's Karate," I say, "and Tae-Kwon-Do, and a bit of Aikido," but I spare him the finer details. Kung Fu is on my to-do list.

"Whatever. You're missing the point again."

"And the point is...?"

"That you've got your own charms and you should be using them."

"To help you get Chloe."

"Cathy. And yeah, sure. Why not?"

"I don't know, man..."

"Dude, please! I can't ask anyone else, and I already told the girls I'd meet them at the beach later."

Man, I have to go to the beach! I mean, the eagerness in Martin's eyes is one thing, but even without that, I'm up for it. I've been too busy hiding in Mom's room to even dare to leave the house, and, to be honest, I think cabin fever might be setting in. So, even if it means going with Martin, I'm game.

"Yeah, sure," I tell him. "Why the hell not?"

"YES!" He celebrates, again, like he's scored in the finals, pumping both fists in the air. "It's going to be great, Cousin! I assure you that."

And I can assure you, Cousin: this is not going to end well.