Next-Door Nemesis(29)
I stop for a breath, careful not to shoot the very anxious messenger in front of me.
I saw him hours ago; he could’ve said this to my face. But it’s good to know that even after all these years, Nate is the same spineless jerk who ran off that summer and pretended I didn’t exist. He has passive-aggressive on lock, but when it comes to actual confrontation and handling things like a mature human, he’s completely incapable.
“Well then, it’s a good thing we’ve figured out our campaign slogan,” I say to Ashleigh, who has long since finished her sangria. “Because we’ll have to be prepared when we crash yet another meeting.”
I knew this election was going to be more than glitter signs, shaking hands, and neighborhood meet and greets, but Nate is stooping to levels I never imagined.
But I have no problem matching his energy.
If Nate wants to get dirty, he has no idea how messy I can get.
Chapter 11
The problem with being unemployed—besides the obvious—is that it becomes really easy to conflate a hobby with an actual, paying job.
Like, say, hypothetically of course, you decided to run in your neighborhood’s HOA election, and soon what started as a bit to rile up your sworn enemy becomes an all-consuming, time-sucking, and money-draining activity. One day you’re making tiny signs with glitter pens for shits and giggles and the next you’re making red, white, and blue statement lawn flamingos to share with all your neighbors.
“I’m still not sure I understand.” My mom’s eyes flicker between me and the giant piles of plastic flamingos. “What are you going to do with all of these flamingos? And why are they patriotic?”
I add one of the blue flamingos I’ve painted with white stars into the wagon I pulled out of the garage.
“Because this is Ohio, Mom.” I don’t understand what she’s not getting. “If I’m going to win, I have to be in touch with what my constituents want.”
In a stroke of genius I’m still amazed I came up with, I decided that plain old yard signs simply wouldn’t do.
No, no, no.
I needed something bigger.
Something with pizzazz.
A statement!
With one quick trip to an internet conglomerate I shall not name, I was one click and free overnight shipping away from not only bulk red, white, and blue flamingos, but also a ten-foot-tall inflatable Ben Franklin. And you tell me, what’s a better way to prove I’m for homeowners’ rights and freedoms than a giant inflatable of a slave-owning turned abolitionist founding father?
That’s right. Nothing.
Added bonus? Nate’s going to fucking hate it.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” I grab the handle of the wagon piled high with yard signs and flamingos and pull it behind me. “I made one especially for you. I already put it in front though.”
We make it through the gate, and even though I set everything up, I’m still taken aback by the intense display my parents allowed me to put in front of their house.
The not-so-quiet hum of the motor filling Ben Franklin and his American flag kite is noticeable even over the few cars driving by. Campaign signs and graffitied flamingos litter the lawn. It’s like Uncle Sam threw up in front of the house.
It’s glorious.
I hit the back brake on the wagon and park it on the sidewalk. I take my mom’s hand, leading her through the flamboyance of flamingos until I get to the one I made for her.
“Ta-da!” I gesture to her flamingo with the flourish of a Price Is Right model presenting a new car.
“Oh, I love it, Collins!” Be it an oak tree, latte, or plastic lawn tchotchke, Kimberly Carter loves a gift. And to be fair, this one is really cute.
Her flamingo is more sparkly than the rest. I glittered its beak and superglued rhinestones for eyeballs. However, the true pièce de résistance is the quote art I painstakingly hand-lettered across its wings.
“What does that say?” She’s not wearing her glasses and her eyes aren’t what they used to be. She leans closer and reads out loud. “Live. Laugh. Flamingle. Oh my goodness, I love it!”
See?
Do I know my audience or do I know my freaking audience?
“I knew you’d like that.” I point to a flamingo that I painted with tomatoes and put a mini gardening hat on. “That one’s for Dad.”
Just a guess, but I don’t think he’ll be as excited to see his.
“They’re so cute! And the signs are wonderful.” She fawns over everything with the same enthusiasm she had when I was in elementary school. “I’m so impressed with how seriously you’re taking this.”
We make our way out of the yard and I disengage the brake on my childhood wagon.
“Thanks, Mom.” I can’t decide if I’m impressed with myself or have reached a level of self-loathing so deep that I can’t tell up from down. But I have been working really hard, and honestly? At this point, I’ll take any compliment I can get. “Now, wish me luck. I have a campaign to win.”
And an enemy to destroy.
* * *
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By the time I made it to house number four, I figured out that not only is the internet’s read on homeowners’ feelings toward HOAs correct, but that my campaign promise of doing the absolute least is exactly what people want to hear.