Page 18 of Rent a Bad Boy

It’s the Joneses. Both of them. Christine is standing in front with a clipboard in hand, wearing a blazer that probably cost more than my whole wardrobe. I wonder if it hurts when she pulls her bleached hair back as tight as she did this morning. Is she trying to give herself a DIY facelift or something?

Her husband, Dennis, is behind her with his hands clasped in front of him, like he’s attending a funeral he doesn’t want to be at. They’re early. Of course, they are. That’s the kind of power move she would pull. Show up before you’re expected so the other person isn’t ready.

“Miss Pickel.” Christine’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It barely reaches her mouth. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. May we come in?”

Like I have a choice. If only. I want to close the door and go sit in the backyard with my chickens and pretend none of this is happening. Instead, I step aside and let them in, because I was raised to be polite even when I want to scream.

Grandma appears from the kitchen with her mimosa still in hand. “Welcome, welcome,” she says, gesturing toward the sofa with her glass. “Please, sit down. I’m sure we can all reach a beneficial conclusion here.”

One problem: she added an extra syllable to the word “beneficial.” I know what that means.

And so does Christine, who looks at the mimosa, then back up to Grandma’s face before her expression shifts into something I can only describe as disgusted pity. Like she’s looking at something on the bottom of her shoe that she can’t be bothered to scrape off.

“Thank you for having us, Mrs. Pickel.” Christine sits on the edge of the couch like she’s afraid the furniture might carry something contagious. Dennis takes the chair across from her. He still looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I think we both know why we’re here.”

“The chickens.” Grandma settles into her armchair. “Which, by the way, have never once caused a problem for anyone in this neighborhood.”

Christine looks at her husband as if he’s supposed to say something. Obviously, he doesn’t speak up as soon as she wants him to. “The bylaws are clear, Mrs. Pickel,” she replies. “Livestock is prohibited⁠—”

“Chickens aren’t livestock,” I blurt out. Well, now everybody’s looking at me. Terrific. My favorite thing. I have to ignore the prickly feeling along the back of my neck and swallow back my nerves, but somehow, I manage to do it even though my heart is trying to escape through my throat. “There is nothing in the HOA agreement that specifically prohibits chickens. I’ve read it three times.”

Christine arches an eyebrow. “The agreement prohibits livestock, Miss Pickel. Chickens fall under that category.”

“Actually, the legal definition of livestock varies by state, and in this state⁠—”

“I’m not here to debate semantics.” She uncaps a pen and makes a note on her clipboard. “I am here to inform you that the board has voted unanimously to escalate this matter. You have until the end of the coming week to remove the animals from the property, or we will be forced to involve the authorities.”

“The authorities?” My voice cracks. “You’re going to call the police over some chickens?”

“And a rooster,” Dennis adds helpfully from his chair, like that’s the detail that really tips the scales. Christine closes her eyes for a beat, like she’s irked he chose now to speak up.

Then she says, “We will do whatever is necessary to enforce the community standards that every resident agreed to when they moved in.” She clicks her pen twice for emphasis. Somehow, that’s the most threatening thing anyone has ever done in my living room.

“Oh, come on now,” Grandma cuts in, waving her mimosa. Her words are now running together in a way that tells me she’s passed the point of taking the edge off and well into the edge doesn’t exist anymore territory. “You’re going to call the police? For what? Are they going to put handcuffs on the chickens? Read them their rights? ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you cluck can and will be used against you?’”

Christine’s mouth tightens into a line so thin it practically disappears. “Mrs. Pickel, I assure you this is not a laughing matter.”

“Everything is a laughing matter if you’ve lived long enough, Christine.” Grandma takes another sip. “I’ve been in this neighborhood longer than you have, and I’ll be here long after you’ve moved on to terrorize some other cul-de-sac. So let’s all just calm down and⁠—”

There’s another knock at the door.

There goes my heart, sinking to my feet. Of course she would bring reinforcements. Somebody ready to nod along with whatever she decides. I drag myself to the door and open it, bracing for whatever’s coming next.

It’s Everett.

He’s standing on the porch in a T-shirt that’s damp at the collar. His hair is still wet, like he came straight from wherever he was without stopping to dry it off. He’s got a gym bag over one shoulder, and he’s a little out of breath, but he’s here.

“Sorry,” he says. “Practice ran late.”

All I can do is stare at him. There are roughly forty-seven things bouncing around in my head that I could say to him right now, but all that comes out is, “They’re already here.”

His jaw tightens before he drops the bag by the door and walks in like he owns the place. Considering he takes up roughly a third of the hallway just by existing, that doesn’t feel completely inaccurate.

Grandma spots him first. Her face lights up like a Christmas tree that’s been plugged in after a long winter in storage. She gets up from her chair, walks right over to him, and squeezes his arm with both hands. “There he is. My future grandson-in-law.”

“Grandma,” I murmur. This is not the time. Not that there is ever a time for her antics.

“What position do you play again, honey?” She gives his biceps another squeeze, clearly for her own enjoyment. “Tight end?”