Page 40 of Rent a Bad Boy

It’s not just the board either. They’re sitting up front—I recognize Christine from Isla’s living room, and her husband sitting next to her. But in front of them, filling up the metal folding chairs in messy rows, is what looks like most of my football team and the cheerleaders, and anybody else who got the message and decided to show up.

They’re all in white T-shirts. That was one of the girls’ ideas. All of them have stuff drawn on them in Sharpie. The artwork ranges from halfway decent to genuinely terrible. Tyler’s chicken looks more like a dinosaur. Sean’s says SAVE THE CHICKENS across the front in block letters that go slightly uphill. Marcus drew an egg and wrote “PROTECT THIS” underneath it. The girls are holding signs over their heads with similar messages written across the front.

Isla turns around to look at me. Her mouth is open. She’s not blinking. “What the hell is this?”

“I told you I had a plan.” Her mouth moves, but nothing comes out, so I explain, “I asked them. They said yes.”

That’s the short version. The longer version involves the group text I sent at two a.m. and the surprising number of guys who responded within minutes. By now, they all know about Isla’s chickens, thanks to the way she showed off pictures at the party.

On top of that, it turns out everybody hates an HOA. It’s one of the few things that unites all people, regardless of background, personality, or position on the team.

“Hey, Pickel.” Tyler gives her a nod, all casual-like. “Went around the neighborhood today. Got something for you.”

He holds up a folder with a stack of papers inside. Fifty-six signatures from residents of Cardinal Oaks, collected door to door this afternoon by a rotating crew of football players who are, as it turns out, very persuasive when they show up on your porch and politely ask you to sign something.

“It’s a petition,” I explain to Isla, whose mouth is still hanging open. “Your neighbors signed it. They want the chickens to stay, and they think the board’s been out of line with all the violations and threats.”

“The Wagners were first,” Tyler adds. “The couple next door to you? They said Cardigan comes to the fence every morning, and they feed her through the slats. They’ve been doing it for, like, a year now. They were pissed as hell when they found out the board was trying to get rid of her.”

She presses her lips together while her eyes fill up. Her dimples are showing even though she’s not smiling. I have to look away for a second before I do something stupid like kiss her in front of my entire team.

Meanwhile, Christine watches all of this unfold from her spot at the table. Her expression hasn’t changed, but I can see what’s happening behind her eyes. She’s counting bodies. Counting shirts. She’s trying to figure out how the meeting she planned turned into something very different.

Her husband leans over and whispers something, which she ignores. “This is a board meeting,” Christine announces, raising her voice until it cuts through the noise. “Not a rally. I’m going to have to ask anyone who isn’t a resident of Cardinal Oaks to⁠—”

“It’s a public meeting,” Tyler calls out. “Community center. Open meeting. We checked.”

I didn’t tell him to check that. He did it on his own. I’m either impressed or surprised Tyler has a secret passion for municipal governance. Either way, it works. Christine doesn’t push it.

That’s when the door opens behind us.

A woman with a camera on one shoulder walks in, followed by a guy carrying a microphone. He’s got the kind of hair and smile that says local news. I recognize him from a segment I watched on YouTube last night about a dog rescue that went viral. I called the station this morning and told them there’s a story here about an eighteen-year-old college student being harassed by her HOA over the pet chickens she’s had since she was fifteen. I told them about the petition we were getting together, and the football team showing up in solidarity. The producer I talked to said they’d send someone, but I wasn’t sure they’d actually come.

They came.

“Hi, I’m David Roberts, Channel 7,” the reporter announces as he scans the room. “Covering HOA disputes in the area. Hoping to sit in and capture some of the discussion, if that’s all right.”

Christine stares at the camera the way you’d stare at a wasp that just flew into your car.

Before she can say a word, Isla’s grandmother materializes from somewhere in the back of the room. I didn’t see her come in, but she’s here, wearing a leopard-print blouse and pants that probably aren’t leather but look like they want to be. She’s already moving toward the reporter with her hand extended, and a smile that can only mean trouble.

“You must be the TV man,” she purrs, holding his hand a little too long after shaking it. “Gretchen Pickel. I’m the grandmother. You know, I’ve always thought I’d photograph well. My husband used to say I had a face for Hollywood.”

“That was... very kind of him,” David manages.

“He was a kind man,” she replies. “Very tall. You’re tall, too. Are you single? Not that it’s relevant to the story, but I’m curious.”

“Grandma,” Isla hisses from next to me.

“I’m networking,” Grandma hisses back.

I put my hand on the small of Isla’s back and guide her toward a chair, because if I let her stand here and watch her grandma hit on the reporter another minute, she’s either going to explode or pass out. Neither of those options helps us right now.

We sit. The camera is set up in the corner. David takes a seat off to the side with a notepad. Christine looks down at her clipboard, then at the camera, then at the room full of football players and cheerleaders. I’ve spent my whole life reading people’s faces for signs of what they’re about to do, and what I see on Christine’s right now is a woman realizing she’s outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and on camera.

“Mrs. Jones,” David calls out, “can you walk us through the board’s position? Our viewers would love to understand the issue.”

She looks at the microphone. Looks at the camera. She looks at the signatures in the folder, which Tyler left on the table. She looks at her husband, who gives her a look back that pretty clearly says please, for the love of God, let this go.