One thing before we start: Don't ask me how I know her name.

Okay. On with the story.

I met her—correction—I was forced to meet her in early April, right after Easter. I say forced, because I wasn't planning on meeting anyone, really, and this really bad person (who shall remain nameless) with really dark intentions set me up in this really traitorous, horrible, stinky trap. It was vile, cruel, dirty, deceitful, and above all, highly dishonorable. Really.

The facts: I get a text from Martin that April afternoon, which I decide to ignore since I'm in our bedroom, busy doing my English homework, my earphones pressed tight against my ears.

Then, the whole thing escalates. Martin stops texting and starts calling. I'm not picking up no matter what, even if the ringtone stops Queen's "Show must go on" in the best part. The whole thing is highly irritating. Greatly. But thankfully, after five missed calls, Martin finally gives up.

Or, so I think. Because a minute later, the land line in the kitchen starts ringing, finding its way clearly to the desk in our bedroom where I'm trying my best to fulfill my academic duties. It rings once. Twice. And, apparently, in a house I share with six other people, I'm clearly home alone. It's either give up and picking up the phone, or give up on homework. So, I wait until the land line finally stops ringing, pick my own cell phone and dial back.

"Seriously dude, it took you a while." I can hear the frustration in Martin's voice. Obviously, something has happened.

"Sorry, I was in the bathroom," I lie. "What's the problem?"

"A goddamned licensed criminal bastard almost ran me over with his fucking car!" There's the cussing, which is par for the course, but Martin's extremely angry demeanor lets me know he's not making this up. He elaborates, "I think I might have a sprained ankle. Do you think you could come and give me a hand? I'm not far from home."

Without giving anything a second thought, I hang up and am out the door. You might think this was the trap I was referring to before, but no. This thing actually happened, but Martin doesn't fill me in on any details. He has other things in mind, even while he's limping down the street. That much is obvious.

"Dude, are you sure you don't want to call your parents and go get that checked out?" I say.

"I'm gonna be just fine, brother. Don't make me regret calling your pained wuss-ass." But he still limps pathetically, one hand clinging to my shoulder. Not that he notices. He beams up at me. "We have a visitor anyway. Should be arriving any minute now, so we have to hurry," he singsongs.

"So, this means..."

"Exactly. This is it." And then he bursts out laughing.

"Oh, boy." I exhale in one big, defeated sigh. This is it, and for Martin, that term means some careless fairy has become trapped in his demonic web of debauchery and sin. Again. And I'd put money on it that 'Said Girl' will have her heart smashed to pieces sometime before the end of the week.

An important small fact: today is Thursday.

I really wouldn't have a problem with this side of my cousin if the girls didn't fall so freaking hard! If no broken hearts were involved, the whole thing could pass as some sort of crazy game. But man, this charming psycho makes each and every single one of those girls believe she's the one. Soon enough, though, they all discover they're nothing more than just another one, but the 'soon enough' is never really soon enough because the damage is already done. And, by the way, this is the seventh 'this is it' and it's only been barely over a month since school started.

"So, who's the victim today?" I demand with hateful eyes.

"You're not going to believe it."

"Ha! I'm sure I won't," I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. The 'can't believe it' phase was officially declared dead the day I found him with Leslie.

Are you wondering how that went after Martin dumped her? Yeah. Not great. So many guys make fun of her now because of the bad kissing, and the current joke of the day, is to offer her free lessons, a proposition which happens pretty much all the time and in every aisle.

But still, even when you think Martin can't get any lower, two heartbeats later he proves you wrong. This sums up my feelings when I find the girl at our front door as soon as we get back home. As soon as I see that familiar silky black hair, my heart sinks into my shoes.

"Duuuuuuuuuuuude... you gotta be kidding me."

"I hate to be the kind of guy who says I told you so, but... I told you so," Martin says self-righteously.

"Why, Marty? Why this girl?" It's a question I'm not sure I want to know the answer to.

"Relax, John. I just invited her to work on that history project we have to present on Saturday."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

He laughs at this, like I'm some kind of an idiot and I'm too dumb to see what's going on.

But I'm pissed. First of all, SHE'S SO NOT HIS TYPE. This young, small, slim, mostly-on-the-flat-side girl is NOT the sort of girl Martin likes to 'hunt'. He likes volumes, curves, bosom, hips, thick pouty lips, princess-like curls and make-up. This girl is the polar opposite of all that in pretty much every respect. Zero volume to show, no bosom whatsoever, no hips to bump along with, with somewhat thin, perpetually-pursed lips which appear to be permanently sealed shut. Which is this girl's biggest flaw as a proper date for Martin; she just doesn't speak. Like, not at all. You should see her at school. Boy. Does anybody even know what her voice sounds like? I definitely don't.

I know what you're thinking: I'm making her look terribly awful and awkward. But that's not it at all. As I just explained, this girl isn't a bombshell. And that's exactly her best trait. She isn't hot—not in the traditional sense; instead, she is plainly adorable. For starters, there's that perfectly silky black hair that cascades down her back, a perfect contrast to her perfectly fair skin. This girl puts Snow White to shame, folks. She's also in possession of the most amazing set of eyes I've ever seen. They're this icy gray that are oddly warm; almost motherly, and they're framed by a generous sweep of black lashes. And the last selling point before I look like I'm head over heels for her, is her smile. It's what struck me when I saw her on the staircase, the day I found Martin with Leslie. The fact that her front teeth are just a tiny bit too big for her mouth, makes her even more charming.

So, yeah; you guessed it. It's that girl from our class.

Bring it on. I have a Lolita complex, and I don't care. To me, this is the most beautiful girl on earth. No tenth-grade bombshell can compete with such perfection. Not in my book, anyway.

Hold it. I know what you're thinking once again. Why would Martin go for the girl his beloved cousin and best friend (also known as Freaking ME) likes so much? Can he really be such a jerk? The short answer is yes, he can, but this isn't why. And truthfully, he doesn't even know I like her. And he's not going to know either. Because if he ever learns about this, I'm never going to hear the end of it.

Let's get back to business, because here is this girl with her warm, yet strangely icy-grey eyes, looking at me like I'm some kind of code she has to crack. There's even a hint of a smile. Subtle, but I'm pretty sure it's the same smile I've seen six times since classes started. That subtle smile which says, pleased to meet you, I'll be your cousin-in-law till death do us part. Doesn't she know who the fuck is she going to be dating? I want to holler a few facts at her –enlighten her somehow—before she makes what is going to be a very bad move.

"You must be John," the wind whispers. Or at least that's how her voice sounds. At the human being factory, she did not only pack way too few words with her, she also packed very few decibels, probably no more than sixteen. She sounds like a freaking lullaby drifting in from somewhere in the distance, and I want to hear more of it.

"That would be me." Smooth. Martin should be proud. Wait, no. He should be pissed, because I'm smiling at his future heart-bulldozing victim with this stupid smile plastered on my face.

Get your shit together, John!

And so, I do.

I make a beeline for the door, wishing I could say something that conveys to this girl the huge mistake she's about to make, but nothing comes to me. So, in the end, I make it all the way to my room, and back, finally, to my English homework. I'm back to my earphones and Queen's "Show must go on", so I don't hear Martin limping down the hallway. He bursts into the room, visibly angry.

"What the hell are you doing, man?" he shouts.

"Uhm... English homework?"

"Are you seriously this much of an idiot or are you just messing with me?" He limps across the room and shuffles through his backpack, pulling out his history stuff. Beats me why he's calling me an idiot.

"I don't get what you're trying to say."

"We are going to do this history thing together," he offers, like he's making things much clearer, only he isn't.

"I see. And you're here because you apparently need my blessing?"

"YES!" he says, faking enthusiasm.

I reach up and put my hand on his forehead. "May God enlighten your way and protect you, leading the two of you safely to your destiny. Amen."

Martin rolls his eyes. "Dude, you're so dense sometimes."

"I seriously don't know what the hell you want from me, cousin."

"We," he says, making air quotes with his fingers. "Are. Going. To do. This. Thing. Together. GOT IT?" He's about to explode like a freaking atomic bomb. "Together as in Veronica, me, and YOU." For emphasis, he adds: "Together, see? As in the THREE of us."

Veronica... such a beautiful name...

And then it hits me. "HUH?! Why on earth would you want me to be a third wheel there?"

"John, before I actually punch you square in the fucking face, grab your shit and come with me." He exhales his anger, smiles at me, and finally reveals his master plan to me. "Veronica is most likely the best student in our history class. I'm good enough to get by. But you, my man... you'd risk forgetting your own birthday if you didn't celebrate it every year."

"Let me get this straight," I say, confused. "You lured a girl home to mess with her heart just so I could get good grades in a project I don't even care about?"

Martin considers this. "To put it bluntly, yeah."

"You know that's fundamentally prostitution, right?"

"What? You jelly you can't get all of this?" and he gestures to his body with a dramatic flourish.

"The day we both turn gay, I'll make sure I break your heart into very tiny pieces. I swear."

"Oh, darling," Martin says in a slightly affected manner "You know as well as I do, there is no such thing for you to break."

At the kitchen's table, Veronica already has her things ready, and she's copying down stuff from her book. Right away, I notice she's lefty. Also, she appears to be able to write in her notebook with stunning precision while at the same time, reading her book.

She looks up at Martin and me, and as though reading my mind, says, "Truth be told, guys, I had it mostly done by the time Martin asked me." Again, that whispering wind. Her voice is like a warm breeze coming through the window in the coldest of winters. Impossible and welcome, and so very soft. Like a caress.

"Does that mean you're going to finish it alone?" Martin asks, sitting down next to her.

"No, of course not," Veronica says softly. "I agreed to work with you guys so that's what I'm going to do. I'm just saying that there's not a lot left to be done."

"All right; let's wrap it up, then. Just tell us what to do," Martin says.

"What? I thought you'd be the one giving the orders." She smirks at him as I sit down on the other side of her. Then she looks at me. "Isn't he the bossypants type?"

Miraculously, I find my voice. "Actually," I say, "he just gave you an order. You just didn't notice." She looks at me, still trying to crack that code. Man, she has these dark rings around her irises, which, up close, make her eyes look even more stunning. I think I'm going to die.

(And just so you know, those are actually called limbal rings.)

"Well, now I know who the smart one is." This is probably an insult to Martin, but with the beautiful king-size smile she flashes, it's hard to be sure. I can see Martin smirk as he rolls his eyes (a worthy 9.3 in the eye-rollimpics), checking his phone. I kick him under the table.

So, we start working on the assignment but not five minutes has passed before Alex (as in 1970's-punk Alex) bursts through the front door and glides in. At the sight of him, Veronica can't help letting out a squeak, and quickly covers her mouth with both hands. You know, kind of a normal reaction when you suddenly see a scary-looking punk breaking into a house. When she realizes Martin and I aren't exactly scared, she turns beet-red. Alex of course notices and bursts out laughing. I'm sure eighty percent of the reason he wears this kind of stuff is so he can get these kind of reactions. He fist-bumps with all of us, and introduces himself in his usually friendly manner.

"It's OK," I say with a smile. "He doesn't bite."

"But he does bark a lot," Martin intervenes, and we all laugh again.

"You. I got your message. What happened?" Alex asks Martin. My cousin explains how a car almost rammed him on the street, and how he probably sprained his ankle in his attempt to jump away from it.

"I'm okay, though," he concludes.

"Nonsense," Alex barks. "We're going to the hospital. Now."

Martin knows better than to go against Alex, so he dutifully gets on his feet.

"And please tell me you didn't tell Mom," Alex says.

"You kidding? If I had told Mom, I'd be tied up to a hospital bed and she'd be feeding me mashed vegetables for a month through a straw."

"Good. We'll keep it that way. Now let's get moving."

And this is it. No, not Martin's this is it. This time I'm referring to Martin's trademark smile; the one he probably bought on eBay and had delivered to him from the deepest rings of hell. He wears it proudly as he limps past Veronica, and it's even wider when he puts a hand on my shoulder.

This is when I know I've been trapped, and horror spreads across my face like a virus, a horror Martin shamelessly ignores, because this is the traitorous, horrible, stinky, vile, cruel, dirty, deceitful, highly dishonorable trap; he's leaving me alone, at home, with Veronica Holt, the prettiest girl on earth and beyond.

"Good luck, guys," he says, then glides through the front door with Alex and disappears. I compose myself as much as I can in the time it takes me to turn back to Veronica.

"Should we cancel all this and do it some other time?" she offers, her full sixteen decibels barely reaching my eardrums.

I consider this while outside, Alex's bike roars back to life and tears down the street. It would be a way to get out of this horrible situation—this one where my cousin has set me up, to be alone with a girl in my own house. But then I look at Veronica sitting right here in front of me, and I know I'm never going to have a chance to spend time with her like this again. I don't wanna give Martin the satisfaction of getting things his way, but hell, I don't want to see this girl go just yet, either. I guess I might have to thank him later for this.

HA! Sure. As if. Effing traitor.

"Let's just do it," I say. "I'll fill him on the details when he gets back."

"Won't he be tired later?" Veronica offers.

"Trust me," I say. "He'll want to know every last detail."