How to Ruin My Teenage Life by Simone Elkeles Page A

the call. “Sorry, motek , I have to take this,” he says as he waves and leaves me in the Keeners’ condo.
    Oh, just great.
    So now I’m faced with going into Nathan’s room. All alone. With absolutely no backup.
    Mr. Keener waves me toward Nathan’s room. Okay, I’ll do it. I’m not afraid of that guy. In fact, after I shove his backpack at him, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.
    Because nobody makes a fool out of Amy Nelson-Barak.
    I walk with purpose to the second door on the right. The door is closed, so I have to knock. Looking back, I see Mr. Keener hasn’t followed. I knock lightly at first with the hand not holding the backpack. No response. I knock a little harder.
    After I get no response again, I think he might not be home after all. Which is a good thing, I think. I mean, I want to confront him and everything but I’m not sure I want to do it on his turf. I know the advantage to warfare. On your own turf you have the upper hand.
    I check the doorknob to see if it’s locked. Nope. I turn the knob and crack the door open so I can peek inside. Nathan’s in the room, but he’s listening to his iPod while banging a pencil against a binder, so he can’t hear me.
    Sure enough, as soon as I look at his face I catch two green eyes narrowing at me.
    â€œI can see you,” he says.
    Damn. I open the door wide and walk in, watching as he takes the earphones out of his ears. “You left your backpack at Perk Me Up! I brought it as a goodwill gesture.”
    The guy just shrugs. Thanks would have been nice. Nathan is in dire need of etiquette lessons.
    As I drop his backpack, I scan the room. It’s obviously the guest room. Old bookshelves line the side wall and a pullout bed is open and takes up most of the room. Nathan is leaning on the bed, against the back, just staring at me.
    â€œWho’s the girl?” I ask, picking up a picture of a cute blonde girl in a bikini with short hair and abs I can’t even imagine having. “Your sister?”
    Nathan pushes his glasses up his nose and says, “It’s my girlfriend.”
    Yeah, right. There is absolutely no way this is Nathan’s girlfriend. I’d bet my dog on it.
    â€œWhat’s her name?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.
    â€œBicky.”
    Wait. What did he say? “Becky?” I ask. The other alternative is downright ludicrous.
    â€œBicky,” he says again.
    â€œ Bicky ?”
    â€œNow you’re acting Barbie all over again.”
    â€œWas she born with that name or is it a nickname?” I ask, ignoring the insult.
    Nathan slides off the bed and snatches the picture out of my hand. “Her name is Bicky. No nickname. Just Bicky.”
    While he shoves the picture into his half-zippered suitcase, I say, “You accuse me of being so Barbie when you’re the one who’s deliberately spreading untrue rumors about me just so you could seem cool.”
    â€œI did no such thing,” he says. “And I definitely don’t want to hang around with your friends, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œYou told Kyle I joined a dating service. For your information … and not that it’s any of your business, but I signed my dad up.”
    Nathan shrugs, as if falsely tarnishing my reputation is no biggie.
    â€œWhy do you hate me so much?”
    He rubs his hand on top of his shaggy, light brown hair that resembles the color of maple syrup, and sighs. “I don’t hate you, Amy. I just hate people like you.”
    â€œSame difference,” I say, then storm out of the condo. When I stomp into my own place, my dad is sitting at the dining room table, still on the phone as he shuffles through some papers.
    Men. I feel the taste for revenge. I head to the back office, where the computer is, and type in www.pjsn.com . It prompts me to type in my login name and password.
    I have fifty-five new people who left