Insert One Liner Here (Book 2)

Chapter One: What in Martha Stewart's Name?

Chapter One: What In Martha Stewart's Name?

I groggily wake up on this typical Saturday morning, thinking that today would be like any other day; boring. That is, however, until I discover a mysterious puddle of water. I look around my bed, water sloshing around onto the floor as I do.

Are you kidding me?

There is water literally in and surrounding my bed.

I know for a fact that this wasn't there when I went to bed last night, and neither were the beginnings of it either. So by my calculations, that can only mean one thing: it happened while I was asleep.

I'm clever, I know.

I then come to a second conclusion: this has got to be another one of my younger brother, Greg's, stupid pranks. He is always tormenting me with stuff like this.

One time I woke up to find him in the midst of putting tape in my doorway, so that when I walk through it the next time, I'll walk right into it with my face.

What a little monster.

This is actually something that could damage my mattress and the floor.

I groan as I throw the sopping wet, extremely heavy, blanket off of me, revealing my soaking wet pyjama pants and some grossly pruned fingers that look like pale little raisons.

Ew, gross.

I flop my legs over the edge of my bed and flinch when my feet land in the puddle on the floor.

I storm out of my room angrily. This is not how a guy wants to wake up in the morning.

Well... At least not this guy.

Why water? And why is there so much of it?

Wouldn't a small glass or even a little jug of water have sufficed?

By the amount of water in my room it seems like he poured an entire bathtub of water on me.

Seriously, why can't Greg just be a normal younger brother and put itching powder in my underwear or something?

Actually, scratch that. Pun intended. I'd rather not have itching powder in my underwear. I don't think that would be a very pleasant or fun experience.

Plus it's already not socially acceptable to scratch your balls in public, so itching powder would probably get me arrested.

I fling open Greg's bedroom door to find, to my dismay, that the room is empty.

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion and annoyance.

Where the frick is he?

I take one, long, glance around and don't see him, but I just have to make sure, so I check under his bed and in his closet. But alas, nothing.

My mom pokes her head around the corner, an intrigued expression present on her face. But then she takes in my appearance and she creates her famous how did I raise such weird children face.

"What are you doing? Arlo, you're soaking wet!" She puts her hands on her hips. "Did you go into the shower with your clothes on again?"

Um, excuse me? Did she really just ask me that?

I have the urge to bang my head against the wall, in an attempt to hopefully knock myself out and wake up from this weird dreamland.

But, something tells me, from the way my head is pounding already, that a) that wouldn't be a smart idea, and b) that I am, in fact, not in a dreamland and instead, stuck in my boring—but less boring than yesterday—life.