Next-Door Nemesis(26)

He started calling me Mouse because I liked cheese plates way before they were all the craze on social media. He would nibble on it when my mom was around, but he hated cheese with a passion—that should’ve been my first red flag. I mean, who doesn’t like cheese? He wouldn’t even eat cheesecake!

“I don’t pull it off my pizza anymore, but I’m still not a fan.”

So not a complete monster, but the potential still stands.

“Well, that’s good, I guess . . .”

Although the air between us is never particularly pleasant, it hasn’t been awkward either. The promise of an impending insult always fills the void. But now, with old memories resurfaced, Nate whistles a tune I’ve never heard before while I manically munch on nuts. It’s wildly uncomfortable, but neither of us wants to be the first to tap out.

Me?

A quitter?

I don’t think so!

After what feels like a millennium, Nate finally gives in.

“Oh, you know what?” He checks his watch knowing that I damn well do not. “I forgot I have to show a house soon. Tell your mom I said thanks for the drink.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before running down our walkway without sparing a backward glance. Unlike my previous victories against Nate, this one feels more than a little lackluster. The usual satisfaction is missing and a deep sense of longing is there instead.

And tragically, it’s at this moment, with my attention focused directly on my mortal enemy, that inspiration strikes for the first time in months.

I leap off the swing, leaving an offensive amount of untouched cheese in my wake, and sprint into the house, taking the stairs two at a time until I reach my room and throw open my computer.

    HOA**holes

Written by

Collins Carter





Chapter 10


I know my script is fiction, but nothing could have invigorated my drive to pulverize Nate more than re-creating him in fictional form. Art imitating life and all that jazz.

After I finished writing the first scene—faster than I’ve ever written a scene before, may I add—I hopped into the swagger wagon and sped over to the local craft store. I wasn’t going to let this inspiration fade for even a millisecond.

I take my time wandering through the aisles and filling my cart with obscene amounts of glitter, paint, poster board, and the crowning jewel of it all: a massive bag of wiggle eyes.

I throw the bags overflowing with art supplies in the trunk but tuck the bag of eyes into my purse so they’re easily accessible. And instead of driving straight home, I take the minivan on a little detour.

I drive down each street of the Reserve, blasting my Little Mix playlist and stopping beside every for sale sign with Nate’s obnoxious smile. I look out the windows and check my mirrors before I get out. I’m not ashamed of my behavior, but the fewer witnesses, the better. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I exit my car with my wiggle eyes in hand and cover Nate’s stupid hazel eyes with a pair of much more fitting googly ones.

Will some people say I’m being childish? Possibly.

But those people don’t have a sense of humor and I don’t care what they have to say anyway.

So there.

I’ve covered about fifty percent of the neighborhood when I see my beige-enthusiast opponent going door-to-door a few blocks away from my house and table my mission for a later date.

I speed home and don’t even bother saying hi to my parents before grabbing my art supplies and racing straight to Ashleigh’s house.

“Knock, knock, biotch!” I pound on her door with my free hand, and it’s only a matter of seconds before I hear the lock turn. “Nate’s definitely up to something but I brought—” I stop mid-sentence when the door opens and reveals Ashleigh in the most wild outfit I’ve ever seen. “What’s going on here? Are those . . .” I squint my eyes and look closer at her seizure-inducing leggings. “Neon wine bottles?”

“Aren’t they so cute?” She kicks her leg up for me to get a better look. “Wait until you see all the different designs they have! They’re in the guest room.”

The searing in my eyes makes it hard for me to comprehend what she’s saying.

“I’m sorry.” I blink slowly, trying to clear my eyesight. It’s like I was looking directly into the sun. “Did you say you have more of these . . . in your guest room?”

“Yes! Come look!” She grabs my free hand and yanks me into her house, pulling me behind her with a strength that, quite honestly, frightens me.

However, nothing—and I mean nothing—is as scary as the sight I’m met with when we walk into her guest room. It’s like I’ve walked into a fun-house closet. Slasher music plays in my head as I take in the bedroom, which has been taken over by neon, pastel, and patterned fabric. Garment racks filled to the brim with floral and striped dresses line the walls, and empty boxes are scattered across the carpeted floor.

“Ummm . . . wow.” I look around the room, but there’s too much going on for my eyes to focus. “This is a lot of clothes.”

“My inventory came in last night! You’re the first one to see.” She jumps up and down, clapping her hands. “Don’t you love it?”

I’ve never heard anyone sound so excited about anything . . . and a couple of my friends in LA were nominated for Emmys.