Read Online The Bad Decisions Playlist by Michael Rubens - Free Book Online Page A

actually beat me up! You understand that, right? You hit me again and I’ll tell Kent, and I’ll go to the cops, and I’ll frigging tell my mommy if I have to. And if you come another step closer to me, I swear I’ll poop in my hand and start throwing it at you.”
    He hesitates. More brow furrowing that suggests there’s some basic cave-bear-level cognition going on.
    â€œOh, just beat his ass already,” says Brad.
    â€œRight,” Todd says, and starts stalking toward me again.
    â€œHey!”
    A new voice, commanding and authoritative, freezes Todd in his tracks. Cue dramatic trumpet sound. Cue my savior, Kent, his golden mane backlit by the sun as he crests the rise on his trusty steed, a Simplicity Cobalt 32 hp riding mower.
    â€œWhat are you doing!” he shouts down to us. “Get back to work!”
    Todd goes to retrieve the shears. Brad fires up his weed whip. I head back to my mower, which requires me to walk right past Todd.
    â€œYou’re gonna quit,” he says.
    I point to my headphones and Brad’s weed whip.
    â€œWhat?” I say. “Can’t hear you.”
    âˆ—  ∗  ∗
    â€œCan I help you?”
    â€œUh . . . I think I must have the wrong house.”
    It’s the next morning. I’m standing at the front entrance of a massive mansion in west Edina. I think​—​thought​—​it’s Josephine’s house, but the person who answered the door and is standing here judging me is an insanely beautiful girl. I recognize her now​—​she was a senior and on the cheerleading squad when I was a freshman, and we all harbored impure thoughts about her. What was her name . . . ? Jacqueline. Jacqueline . . . Lindahl. Holy smokes, goddess-level hot Jacqueline Lindahl might be Josephine Lindahl’s older sister.
    â€œOkay, well, bye,” she says, and starts to close the door.
    â€œWait,” I say. “Is this Josephine Lindahl’s house?”
    She pauses, then reappraises me with amused curiosity, a literal head-to-foot, foot-to-head sweep​—​with special attention given to what I’m holding in my hands​—​and in that moment I think I understand something about Josephine.
    â€œAre you a
friend
of hers?” she says, and there it is again, that amused disdain.
A boy,
she’s thinking. There’s an actual
boy
here to see my uggo sister.
    â€œYes,” I say. And then add, “I’m her boyfriend.”
    You know how girls make that little disgusted OMG sound, a short exhalation like a cough, packaged together with raised eyebrows and an open-mouthed sneer? I earn one of those, plus a repeat of the full-length sweep.
    â€œIs she home?”
    â€œHold on.”
    I fidget on their front porch, waiting. It’s probably a waste of time coming here, but I figured it was worth one last-ditch in-person effort.
    I should not have said the boyfriend thing. It was just going to piss Josephine off, torpedoing my efforts to convince her to tutor me. I don’t know why I did it. No, not true. I did it because of the way Jacqueline was looking at me, because of what her expression revealed about her and her sister.
    I look around. There’s a shiny new Ford pickup truck parked in the driveway, I guess for all the hauling they have to do on the back forty. On the side of the truck is a vinyl campaign sign with a photo of a handsome, smiling, silver-haired gent, the sort who looks like an actor who would play a handsome, smiling, silver-haired politician in a TV series. GERALD LINDAHL FOR STATE SENATE says the sign. Aha. Mental note added.
    It’s taking too long for Josephine to appear. I’ve screwed myself with my unclever cleverness. Then, from somewhere inside the house: “He’s
not
my boyfriend!”
    So I
did
piss her off, but at least the sound of her voice is getting louder, meaning she’s