“Fine.” Any of the levity that had worked its way into his miserable demeanor is gone, any semblance of joy has been overridden by the desperation of a man who overplayed his hand. “But even though you may not think about anybody other than yourself, the people in that room really do care. Don’t make a mockery of the meeting in order to make yourself feel better. Your parents deserve better than to be embarrassed like that.”
“Funny of you to worry about my parents when you dragging them into this is literally the only reason I’m here.” I keep my voice as carefree as I can manage and make sure not to let my smile falter. “But don’t you worry, someone will leave this meeting embarrassed tonight. It just sure as hell isn’t going to be any of the Carters.”
With that fantastic fucking parting shot—that I didn’t even plan!!—I pat him on the back and take my merry behind to go find Ashleigh.
And to think, he thought he had me beat.
God, I love it when people underestimate me.
Chapter 8
Listen.
It’s not like I expected community theater when I decided to crash the HOA, but even the lowest of expectations couldn’t have prepared me for what an absolute snoozefest these meetings are.
The meeting is held in a room about the size of a classroom, and unlike the space we first entered, this room is devoid of art unless you count the American flag tacked up on the far wall. They set up a long table at the front for the board members and scattered a handful of chairs for the audience. I will say, I’m impressed—and disturbed—by the surprisingly high turnout. I mean, I know Ohio is boring, but even I can’t get over the number of people who had nothing better to do than attend an HOA meeting. At least Ashleigh and I came for revenge. What’s everyone else’s excuse?
The beginning of the meeting lasts nineteen hours.
Fine.
Ten minutes.
But time is relative. And trapped in the beige room, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance with AC that I’m sure is two days away from breaking, it feels as though time completely stops.
The board files into the room, taking their seats behind the table, and my jaw falls open. I already knew there was one person on the board I couldn’t stand, but I’m shocked when I realize he’s not the only one. Mr. Bridgewerth sits front and center with his wrinkled fingers clenched around an old wooden gavel, with Nate as his right-hand man. The Reserve at Horizon Creek HOA board president—and my former English teacher—seems very content with his position at the top of the most power-hungry, irrelevant group in the history of the world.
Seeing them sitting next to each other, quite literally rubbing elbows, I almost wash my hands of the entire plan. I mean truly, if Nate’s life consists of Ohio real estate and sitting on an HOA board with the worst, most misogynistic, racist teacher I ever had the displeasure of being taught by, is there anything I could do to bring him lower? I don’t think so.
But never one to back down from a challenge, I get my head in the game and give it the good old college try.
It’s called determination. Look it up.
See also petty and spiteful . . .
Anyways.
After Janice, the secretary, introduces the rest of the board, she reads through minutes from the last meeting and presents the agenda for tonight. When she hands the microphone—metaphorically, of course—to Mr. Bridgewerth, my eyelids begin to droop.
I’m transported back to Central High, sitting in the back of the classroom struggling to focus as Mr. Bridgewerth bores us to death. His monotone voice reads through the management report and with every nasal word, I realize that the chances of me not dozing off during the meeting are slim to none. Facebook told me this meeting would last around an hour and a half and I’m not sure even my well-thought-out plan for revenge is enough to fuel me.
When they move on to the budget, my eyes gloss over.
“We should’ve brought the wine with us,” Ashleigh whispers into my ear, “or maybe even tequila.”
She’s not wrong.
“I think some people come to complain about the HOA being a bunch of tyrants”—or at least that’s what YouTube showed me when I googled what to expect—“but we have to get through the boring stuff before the fireworks can start.”
I’m gonna have to buy a damn essential oil to thank her for sitting through this with me.
I feel myself begin to nod off as Mr. Bridgewerth lists out the costs for potential projects. I probably would’ve fallen asleep completely if I hadn’t caught Nate’s look of triumph. It’s the shot of espresso I need. No way am I missing out on my opportunity to publicly shame him because my distaste for a reasonable bedtime finally caught up to me.
After what feels like a millennium, the numbers stop and we move on to the juicy stuff . . . well, as juicy as an HOA meeting can be. But I’ll take it.
“And while I understand that children are looking forward to summer activities, we urge you to keep your neighbors in mind and rinse the chalk off your driveway,” Mr. Bridgewerth says to the room. “While we appreciate that parents love their children, not everyone wants to see little Johnny’s ‘art.’?” He uses air quotes as he says art like only a true and practiced asshole would. “If chalk remains for more than five days, it’s a violation and you can expect to receive a fine.”
The world keeps spinning, but some things never change. It will never make sense to me why Mr. Bridgewerth, a man who seems to despise children, became a teacher. Besides the whole being-a-social-outcast thing, his class was one of the most hated parts of my high school experience. The memory of him pulling me to the side and suggesting that I set my sights on more “attainable” universities will forever live rent-free in my mind.
I think his exact words were something like, “When you shove diversity in your writing for no reason, it’s as if you’re intent on creating characters readers can’t connect with. If your work in this class is an accurate representation of your writing, then I hope you’ve applied to more realistic and attainable schools.”
Thankfully I got into USC and was able to rub my acceptance in his miserable face for the rest of the school year, but still. Remembering the hell he put me through causes my blood to boil all over again.
And people wonder why I left this place the second I could.
I glance around the room, trying to gauge how the other people in attendance are feeling. I came into tonight assuming everyone shared my opinions of the HOA—that they are a bunch of bored jerks, looking for any place to grasp on to the teeniest bit of power. I may not have a ton of pride left, but the little that I do have would dissipate in an instant if I was booed in a suburban clubhouse conference room.
“During the summer, we also see an uptick in flag violations,” Mr. Bridgewerth says, much to the dismay of the audience, who begin to whisper around me. “Please keep in mind that the only flags approved for display are American flags and flags for sports teams . . . just not Michigan.”