How to Ruin My Teenage Life Read Free Page A

look down at my dog and give him my famous sneer, the one where my lip curls up just the right amount. “You are in so much trouble.”
    My dog farts in response. It’s a steaming one, too. Yuck.
    Talk about passive-aggressive

2
    God talked to Moses (Exodus 3:4).
Does God still talk to people?
And how come when I talk to God,
he never seems to answer back?
    On Sunday I drive to Mom’s new house in Deerfield with Mutt. Since I moved in with my dad, I visit her on the weekends. Mutt springs inside the house before I even open the door all the way.
    â€œArg! Arg!”
    I don’t need to guess where Mom is. Her little shriek alerts me she’s in her kitchen. “Amy!”
    Here she goes. “What?” I say extremely unenthusiastically.
    â€œDid you have to bring the mutt?”
    â€œMutt, Mom. His name is Mutt.” Okay, so he’s also technically a mutt.
    â€œArg!” Mutt responds.
    â€œWhy does he bark like that?”
    â€œI already told you, he’s got a speech impediment.” It runs in the family. My dad can’t say the “th” sound because Israelis don’t have the “th” sound in their language. I’m used to it, though, and I don’t even hear his accent. It’s the same way with Mutt.
    â€œMaybe he’s got something wrong with him,” she says, backing up. “Did he get all his shots?”
    I roll my eyes. “And you call me the drama queen. He’s perfectly healthy.”
    â€œJust … let him outside, okay? Marc is allergic.”
    I feel bad leaving Mutt in the cold, especially because I got him in Israel and he’s used to the heat. But, hey, he’s got a fur coat on so I shouldn’t worry. Right?
    â€œMutt. Out,” I order while I open the back door. He doesn’t seem to mind going outside, actually, and bounds out the door.
    To be honest, I think Marc is allergic to the idea of having a dog around. He’s a clean freak. And Mutt is a slobbering, shedding animal.
    I turn around and find my mom staring at my chest.
    â€œThey’re looking a little saggy lately. I think it’s time to go buy you new bras.”
    â€œMom,” I say, horrified. “My bras are fine.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you were fitted properly?”
    Oh, no, here we go again. As if I’m going to stand inside a dressing room and have a lady come in, size me up, and watch/help me shove my boobs into bras. Once my mom made me go to one of those specialty bra boutiques. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life. (Okay, so I’ve had a ton of embarrassing moments in my life, but that one is high on the list.)
    â€œCan we not talk about my boobs, please?”
    Great. Now O Holy Allergic One is walking into the kitchen. I hope he didn’t hear the convo about my saggy boobs. “Hi, Amy,” he says.
    I mumble a “hi.”
    He leans over my mom and kisses her. Eww! Seriously, if he starts making out with her I’m outta here.
    â€œAh-choo!”
    â€œOh, sweetie,” Mom says (not referring to me). “Amy’s dog was in the house.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he says.
    Kiss-ass.
    I can’t stand all this lovey-dovey stuff. “I’m taking Mutt for a walk.”
    â€œWait. We want to ask you something.”
    I turn to Mom. “What?”
    â€œJust … come sit down.”
    I plop down in a chair in the kitchen. Mom sits down beside me. Marc sits next to Mom. She reaches out to hold my hand.
    Okay, this is bigger than boob talk. I can tell just by the way Mom is squeezing my hand.
    â€œHow would you like to be a big sister?”
    I shrug. “I wouldn’t.”
    I like my life just how it is. I have my mom, I have my dad, I have Jessica, I have my non-boyfriend Avi, and I have Mutt. My life is fine, why would I want a little brat screwing it up?
    Mom’s excitement deflates.
    â€œWhy, were you thinking about adopting a baby?