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.
But of course, that peace can’t last too long, can it? The loud sound of Ashleigh’s doorbell breaks us out of our happy arts and crafts bubble.
Thanks to the beauty of technology, Ashleigh doesn’t have to move to see who it is. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and opens her doorbell app.
“Oh shit.” Ashleigh, unlike me, doesn’t have a vocabulary as filthy as the sewers, so this outburst garners my full attention.
I drop the glitter pen, keeping my eyes trained on the visibly anxious woman in front of me. “What? Is everything okay?”
Maybe I’ve watched too many Housewives get arrested on camera, but I’m about ninety percent sure she’s staring at images of FBI agents outside her door, ready to bring her in for her part in some nefarious pyramid scheme.
She worries her bottom lip for a moment longer before looking away from her phone and filling me in. “It’s Nate.”
Of freaking course it’s Nate.
I mean, stalk much? Is there anywhere in the godforsaken neighborhood that’s safe from him?
“I saw him slithering from house to house earlier.” I can’t tell if annoyance or panic is more prevalent in my voice. “What’s he up to?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Her eyes go wide. “Maybe he’s hard up for a new pair of leggings?”
“Oh my god. Could you imagine?” The only thing more horrifying than some of those prints is some of those prints on Nate.
The doorbell rings again and I add being impatient to the never-ending list of gripes I have with Nate. Everything about him is the worst.
“Should I answer?” Ashleigh looks between me and the door, her features curled up with indecision. “My car’s in the driveway. He knows I’m home; I can’t just ignore him.”
I may have no problem being rude to Nate, but I don’t think Ashleigh has it in her to disregard someone’s feelings. Which I guess might be one of the things I like best about her? I’m pretty sure if I ask her to not answer the door, she won’t. But considering she’s my only friend in the state of Ohio, I won’t do that to her.
“Answer,” I say. “I know he’s up to something and this way we can know what. You’re going to have to play a double agent and I’ll hide in the kitchen until he leaves.”
I think Ashleigh is too nice to play a double agent, but I’m hoping she can at least keep it together for a few minutes.
“Perfect,” she whispers even though we’re too far away from the door for him to hear us. “I’ll see what he wants and then report back. Hopefully there’ll be something useful for our campaign.”
Did I underestimate my new neon-legging-wearing bestie?
“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” I lift my hand in the air for a high five. “I knew hiring you on a strictly volunteer salary was a fantastic idea.”
I scurry into the kitchen as her long legs carry her to the front door. Even though we’ve already had more than a socially acceptable amount of sangria, I pour myself another glass as I attempt to eavesdrop.
“Hey, Nate! What brings you here today?” I can hear Ashleigh loud and clear. On a scale of one to ten of volume, one being a whisper, ten being a stadium announcer, Ashleigh lands at a solid eight point five. Nate, on the other hand, is much better at discretion and has always been about a three.
I add quiet talker to my rapidly growing list of grievances.
“Oh really? At what time?” Even from across the house, I can hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Ummm. Okay, yeah. Let me check my calendar and I’ll get back to you.”
No matter how much I strain my ears, I can’t hear what Nate says, and by the time Ashleigh closes the door and comes into the kitchen, I’m practically climbing out of my skin.
“So?” I ask as soon as I see her. “Why was he here? What did he say?”
Instead of answering, she grabs the crystal pitcher sitting on the counter in front of me and pours the remaining sangria up to the rim of her glass.
As far as stall tactics go, it’s pretty effective.
“Well . . .” She take a long sip of her drink, still processing whatever Nate threw her way. “That was unexpected.”
“Oh god. What’d the asshole say this time?”
I already think so poorly of him that unless he came to tell her he was dropping out of the race or doing something altruistic, I’m not sure anything he could say would surprise me.
“Well, it’s kind of less what he said and more what he’s doing,” she says.
The poor thing looks so nervous. A kinder person would let her off the hook. Nate and I are grown-ups; there’s no reason I shouldn’t walk down the street and get answers for myself. But I’m not all that kind and I need to know what the hell Nate has up his sleeve this time.
I don’t say anything, and after a moment, Ashleigh crumbles beneath the silence.
“He has a petition and is holding a private meeting next week to get you off of the ballot.” She says it so fast, I have trouble separating the words. But petition and private meeting both stand out. “He said that since you don’t own a home, you’re not eligible for the position.”
Ugh.
What a freaking nerd!
Who tries to win the HOA presidency on a technicality? I should’ve known he’d try to weasel his way out of this fight. And if I wasn’t so annoyed, I’d rejoice in knowing just how nervous I make him.
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?”