“Stop devouring my begonias,” Chelsea screeched, dropping the hose and gripping her hair.
Riley pushed at Daisy’s sternum, trying to back the cow out of the flower bed to no avail.
“Gabe, give me a hand here,” she called, then looked back at Chelsea. “Look! This is really important. Have you received a glitter bomb in the mail?”
Chelsea glared at her. “Is that what your father’s next power move is? Well, I can assure you, I won’t be opening anything. And I’ll be suing your entire family for harassment, property damage, and emotional suffering.”
Gabe made clucking noises that had Daisy lifting her head and giving a curious “Moo?”
“Keep doing that,” Riley encouraged.
Chelsea flounced into her house without closing the door, most likely to call the cops or to find a cow-sized weapon.
Riley abandoned the cow who was trotting after Gabe like a puppy and followed her.
She’d never been in the Strump house before. The front door opened directly into a dark living room with white carpet. There were twin arm chairs, both upholstered in a mauve velour, that faced the TV and a white brick fireplace. A long, low couch in a dusky pink squatted along one wall decorated with a shrine-like photographic timeline of the Strump family. Both boys had picked colleges on the West Coast, presumably to put as much distance between themselves and their helicoptering mother as possible.
Riley didn’t blame them one bit.
Chelsea stormed back into the living room with her cell phone in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “Take off your shoes! I just steam cleaned the carpet, you barnyard animal!”
Riley threw her hands up in the air and kicked off her flip-flops. “Don’t shoot!”
“You should have thought of that before you trespassed,” the woman snarled. She tried to pump the handle but couldn’t do it with her phone in her hand. “Here. Hold this.” She thrust the phone at Riley.
Not wanting to get shot, Riley did as she was told.
Chelsea awkwardly pumped the lever. It fell off the gun onto the snow-white carpet. Both women stared down at it.
“Why is the universe against me?” she wailed. “Why do people like your idiotic parents get to live happily ever after, and I’m the one who suffers? I go to church and tell Reverend Clampeter all about the sins other congregation members commit. I sit on the school board so I can weed out bad seeds in the district. Once I even bought Girl Scout cookies from an Asian scout. Yet I am saddled with Neanderthals for neighbors!”
Riley was getting nudges from her spirit guides at an alarming rate. She was seeing coffee and Channel 50’s building followed by one of those psychic explosions. Only this time, there was no glitter.
“Maybe it’s more of an attitude problem?” Riley suggested.
Chelsea put down the shotgun, picked up a pink tufted pillow from the couch, and screamed into it.
“Look, I’m sorry about the cow and the damage. I’m sure my parents will work something out with you, but I really need to know if you’ve gotten any strange packages in the mail or noticed anyone following you—”
“A glitter bomb. How tacky. Your parents know the pride I take in my home. Ofcoursethey would attack me there. Well, this time the joke is on them. I’m just going to burn their house down!” Her eyes were wide under her blonde helmet of hair. “That’s it! I’ll just get my mower gas and a lighter, and I won’t have to listen to your stupid cow having a conversation with your idiot father ever again. I won’t have to smell incense burning or see that disgusting neon sign lit up every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday!”
Chelsea let out an unhinged high-pitched giggle that made the hair on Riley’s neck stand up.
“Maybe arson is going a little far,” Riley suggested.
“Maybe arson is going a little far,” Chelsea mimicked.
Riley was tempted to walk out the door and let Glitter Guy finish his business. But then she remembered Dickie. She’d made an effort, sort of, to keep her gross neighbor from getting shot, but he’d still ended up dead.
If she wanted to look at herself in the mirror, she probably needed to do her best to save Chelsea’s life. Even if the woman was horrible.
“Do you post comments on Channel 50’s social media?” Riley asked.
But Chelsea was mid-rage. The woman stomped into the kitchen and started yanking open drawers. The counter tops gleamed white. There were no stray fingerprints on the refrigerator door. The dish towels were looped over the oven handle at precise 90-degree angles.
“A ha!” Chelsea produced a long lighter triumphantly from a drawer filled with birthday candles organized by number.
Riley stepped in front of her. “You can’t just burn my parents’ house down.”
