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.
“You know . . .” While I normally shout the first thing that comes to mind, I pause for a moment to think through my response. And I’m not positive, but I think that’s what people call growth. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
“I know! I’m so excited!” She tells me something I’m already very aware of. “You were so right about those oils. It just wasn’t for me. But this? Selling adorable clothes? I think I’ve found the perfect fit.”
I laugh at her pun, unsure of what else to say.
I’ve heard of many MLMs, but an MLM selling leggings? I would’ve happily gone the rest of my life not knowing about this nightmare. Supporting Ashleigh by purchasing lavender oil was one thing, but I will not be seen wearing pizza pants. No way.
That’s taking it too far.
“Do you have anything to drink?” I’m not really thirsty, but I am desperate for an excuse to escape this room.
“Of course! I made sangria last night and it should be perfect by now.” Ashleigh jumps at the opportunity to show off the crystal pitcher she received for her wedding. “I know it’s early, but it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
I’d be willing to bet she has a kitchen towel and a glass or two that say the exact same thing. Boozy quotes are the millennial’s version of Bible wall art. Not exactly sure what that says about my generation, but I don’t think it’s good.
“It’s never too early for sangria.” In the olden days, sangria is literally how people drank water. This is historical appreciation. Plus, with the way politics have been going, it feels as if we’re heading straight to the dark ages. It’s only fair that we get to indulge in the boozy parts too. “We’ll just have to double-check our spelling if we have more than one glass.”
* * *
? ? ?
Equipped with glitter pens, poster boards, a plethora of stickers, and a freshly topped-off glass of sangria, I and my newly appointed campaign manager are ready to tear shit up.
“First things first,” Ashleigh says, getting to work. “You need a campaign slogan.”
“See! I knew you were the right choice for the job!” I lean across the blank poster board to pull her in for a hug. I may or may not be feeling the effects of the sangria already . . .
“Thank you.” She laughs once I’ve released my grip on her. “What about ‘Collins Carter for homeowners’ rights’ or something like that?”
“Oooh. That’s good, but I was thinking of something a little jazzier. Something along the lines of”—I pause for dramatic impact, holding my hands in the air as if to frame my words—“？‘Collins Carter. Because Nathanial Adams is a power-hungry douchebag who will ruin everything.’？”
I think it has a nice ring to it.
I’d definitely put that sign in my yard.
“Well, that’s . . . that’s definitely one direction.” Ashleigh tries to keep a straight face, but she only lasts for a second before she breaks into uncontrollable laughter. I join in soon after.
“Okay, fine! No name-calling on the signs.” I wipe the tears off my face. “What about ‘The right person for homeowners’ rights’？ Or something like that?”
This time when Ashleigh’s face lights up, it’s not from barely restrained laughter.
“Now you’re thinking!” She flips open the notebook next to her and starts writing. “What else can you come up with?”
For the next hour, we sit on her rug, bouncing ideas back and forth. Some are better than others and I still throw out a few more inappropriate slogans. But in my defense, “Collins Carter, because fuck that other guy” is perfect marketing and I will die on that hill.
“All right.” Ashleigh looks down at her notebook with a sparkle in her eyes. “I think we finally have them!”
“Me too. I kind of love them.” Even though I may have decided to run purely to drive Nate crazy, excitement and pride I didn’t expect to feel cause my stomach to flip.
Or maybe that’s the three glasses of sangria.
“？‘Collins Carter,’？” Ashleigh recites the line we’ve workshopped to death. “？‘Your home. Your needs. Your president.’？”
“It’s the perfect balance with ‘Collins Carter. Get your HOA bylaws off my lawn.’？”
Humor, heart, and seriousness? Nate’s going to have a freaking coronary.
Even though I’ve taken this pledge to ruin him with the utmost dedication, I don’t think he believes I’m going to go through with this campaign. What he doesn’t realize is that after you’ve been publicly humiliated on a national scale, making yourself look silly in a tiny Ohio suburb is small fries. I could—and will—do this all day.
“They’re perfect.” And they are.
I grab a pencil and fresh poster board and get to sketching the first yard sign. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but when I was living in LA, I took a few calligraphy classes with my friends. Not only is my penmanship, quite frankly, fucking regal, but hand-lettering is also one of the most soothing activities I’ve ever done. With every loop of the letter and flourish of the pen, my worries begin to melt away. By the time I put the pencil down and grab the glitter, I’m not even thinking about Nate anymore.