Page 10 of Rent a Bad Boy

She looks up from the sugar packets she’s organizing. “Yeah? You want to hear about it?”

“Please.”

Her eyes light up behind her new glasses, but not like she’s happy. More like she’s glad she can finally get something off her chest. “There are five members. Christine Jones is the president. She’s the worst, but they all suck. Mr. Delaney is the vice president, but he just goes along with whatever Christine says because I think he’s scared of her, and he does business with her husband. There’s a lady named Patty who moved in two years ago and right away started measuring everybody’s grass with a literal ruler. I’m not kidding. She actually has a ruler she carries around in her purse.”

“Seriously?”

She wraps her hands around her water glass and nods. “Last year, they fined the Millers three hundred dollars because their mailbox was two inches too far from the curb. Two. Freaking. Inches. Mr. Miller is, like, eighty-one years old. He can barely get to the mailbox, much less measure how far it is from the damn curb.”

“And nobody pushed back?”

“Nobody ever pushes back,” she snaps. “That’s the whole thing. Christine sends a letter, and everybody panics because nobody wants to deal with the fine or the hearing or whatever she threatens next. There’s this family, the Wagners? They live next door. They repainted their front door because Christine Jones said the shade of blue they’d picked wasn’t on the approved color list.”

So this Christine Jones is a real bitch, in other words. “Some people get off on whatever little bit of power they can get,” I murmur, looking over at the little caddy where the packets are now arranged by color.

“She lives for it, I swear to God.” When the food comes, Isla goes from leaning across the table to sinking back in the booth with her head down and her hands in her lap. Like she’s reminding herself to behave. I kind of wish she wouldn’t. She’s more interesting when she lets herself get pissed off.

At first, neither of us says anything. I devour my burger in about four bites. Isla dips each fry into a tiny cup of ketchup. Slowly, carefully, like she’s performing surgery.

“And your chickens?” I ask between bites. “How long have you had them?”

Now something else floods her face. They make her happy, those chickens. She loves them. Her eyes go soft before she replies, “I’ve had them since I was fifteen. Grandma got them for me after...” She pauses and picks up a fry, then puts it down again. “I had a really hard time in high school. There was a while where the bullying was really, really bad. Mostly they made fun of my name. Isla Pickel. You can imagine.”

I can. Actually, I don’t have to imagine. My memory is clear enough.

I never talk about middle school. Ever. Not to anyone. But I remember it just fine. The summer before seventh grade, I was five-four and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. That year there was this kid named Derek Roth who decided I was his personal punching bag for no reason other than he could.

Every day. Hallways, locker rooms. He would knock my books out of my hands and call me a bitch when I bent down to pick them up. He’d slam me against lockers, shove my head in trash cans. He’d pull whatever I was holding out of my hands on the bus and throw it out the window while we were moving.

He also told everyone my parents didn’t want me, which was true. It wasn’t something I needed the whole world to know, though.

But that next summer, I grew six inches. I started lifting, too. By eighth grade, Derek crossed the street when he saw me coming. I never touched him. I didn’t have to. But I would have, and he knew it, and that was enough.

That’s the thing about bullies. They only work when you can’t fight back. The second you can, they vanish. They’re nothing. They’ve always been nothing, and they’ve always known it, which is why they always choose someone smaller than them.

Sitting here, I remember all of it so clearly; it makes my pulse pick up and the burger go sour in my stomach. That helpless feeling. Being cornered. Feeling small and knowing there’s nobody coming to help.

I know how it feels. I also know how it feels when it stops.

“The chickens helped,” she continues, picking up another fry. “I know it sounds weird, but they did. They needed me, and I guess I needed something that needed me. Cardigan, Marjorie, Betty, Tennessee, and Starlight.”

“Interesting names.”

“They’re named after Taylor Swift songs.” And now she blushes, and it’s kind of cute even if I can’t agree with her taste. “I also have a rooster. His name is Brad Pitt.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“It’s a funny name because he’s not handsome at all,” she explains with a tiny smile that makes her dimples show up. I have to force myself to stop noticing them. “They’re my family. I know it’s weird. I know Christine thinks they’re just animals that don’t belong in a residential neighborhood. But she’s wrong. They’re mine, and they matter. I’m not giving them up just because some lady with a clipboard and an approved color list says I have to.”

What’s that quote? I heard it a long time ago. She’s small, but she’s fierce, something like that. It’s Isla in a nutshell. The harder Christine tries to separate them, the tighter Isla will hold on.

“How long do you have?”

“I got the notice yesterday. It said we have ten business days. So... nine business days now.”

“And what happens if nothing changes by then?”

Lines form between her eyebrows when she frowns. “I don’t know. We’ll probably be fined. There might be a formal hearing. For two years, Christine has been threatening to escalate. Grandma thinks she’s bluffing, but I don’t know anymore. The messages are getting more specific.” If she’s not careful, she’ll chew straight through her lip.