Feeling like a criminal, I circled the duplex, checking all her windows in hopes one was unlocked. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
No luck. All her windows were secure. I peered through the last one, trying to see if I could spot the TV. What I saw instead was her bedroom. She didn’t even own a bed frame, just slept with her mattress directly on the floor like a college frat guy. I thought she couldn’t get more despicable, but then I spied the mug on her nightstand that read: “You’re the Ross to my Rachel!” Irritation panged through me. Who gave her that mug? And more importantly, why did she keep it? Did the ridiculous woman think Ross Geller was a good romantic partner?
Really steaming now, I returned to the front of the house, debating what to do. My eyes settled on her mailbox.
No. That was too far. I wasn’t a felon.
I developed a rapid and alarming disregard for federal law.
The next thing I knew, I had her mailbox open, and I was riffling through her letters. It was mostly junk mail, but I did learn her last name.
After going back inside, I googled “Courtney Westra,” because I was a stalker now too apparently. I got a hit for an inactive LinkedIn account that still had her email on it. I was brieflysurprised to find she’d worked in marketing at one point but shrugged it off. Obviously, her abysmal work ethic had landed her where she was today.
I was seconds away from creating a fake ad with her name and email and listing her TV for free, but I hesitated. As hilarious as it would be for Courtney to receive unwanted emails all day, I also didn’t feel great about handing out her information to strangers, even if it was easy to find. Not because I was worried about Courtney. I was worried about subjecting innocent strangers to Courtney.
So instead, I created a bunch of new email addresses under fake names and messaged Courtney myself, posing as interested buyers. She’d never have to know I never made an actual ad. I only hoped she had her email notifications turned on her phone, for maximum annoyance.
I needn’t have worried. A couple hours later, around the fiftieth variation I sent her of:Hi, Courtney, is the TV still available? I know your listing said your schedule is tight, but I can make your 3 a.m. time slot work, her fist pounded on my front door.
“Wherever you posted that ad, you need to take it down,” she demanded as soon as I answered. She’d apparently decided chewing me out was more important than her silent treatment.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” I yelled over the noise of her TV, pointedly bending my ear.
She stalked off, and a few seconds later,Riverdalewent silent. She did not return.
When I went back inside, I couldn’t resist changing my Wi-Fi network name to: Bryceisawinner.
Much later in the evening, when she presumably noticed the change, she released a gratifying shriek of outrage from the other side of the wall that made me grin.
The victory was short-lived, of course, because the very next day she superglued my mailbox shut and changed her Wi-Fi name to: UwillRueTheDay. My mind was already spinning,plotting my next move. This would not be a war easily won. I had a feeling I’d be seeing a lot more of Courtney. But god help me, I didn’t hate that as much as I should have.
I told myself it was okay. It wasn’t like we were friends. I avoided relationships, butnegativeones wouldn’t do something unwelcome like make me happy right before crushing my soul to oblivion.
Considering all the animosity between us after one week, it wasn’t like we’d ever do something as preposterous aslikeeach other.
CHAPTER 4INWHICHI EXPERIENCEANUN-MAGICALAWAKENING
BRYCE
Six months passed. Things were great until I realized how great things were.
Courtney and I were uncomplicated. When we saw each other, we didn’t wave; we flipped each other off. Every morning, I’d wait out on the porch to greet her with a preplanned insult as she left for work. Every evening, she’d get her revenge by being the worst neighbor she could—playing music too loud, blocking my half of the driveway with her car, leaving dog turds in my yard… which was an impressive feat, considering she didn’t own a dog. On special occasions, she’d pop up with somehilariousheinousprank.
Unearthing the weaknesses of my enemy required me to get to know her to some extent, which sometimes felt disturbingly like dating, except it was more honest. For instance, my enemy didn’t try to hide how much she spent online shopping, nor was she particularly shy about revealing all her gross habits. She once cheerfully informed me she forgot to wash her feet in the shower nine out of ten times, simply because she knew thatknowledge would keep me up at night, thinking about gritty sheets and fungus.
All thoughts of dating soon vanished because everything I learned only fueled the special contempt I reserved in my heart for her particular brand of awful. Once, we ran into each other at our mailboxes, and for a dangerous moment, my heart almost softened as I watched her pull a birthday card out of a shopping bag. I couldn’t believe I was actually witnessing her do something kind for someone. That feeling lasted right up until she crammed the card into its envelope without even bothering to sign it or write a message inside before she addressed it and shoved it in the box. It was the birthday equivalent of tipping someone a dollar. A way to say,I acknowledge your existence, but only with my middle finger.
Of course,allof her character traits weren’t completely cold and uncaring. Some were just annoying. Last month, by listening through the wall, I learned the correct pronunciation of the wordcroissantmade her irrationally furious after she spent twenty minutes trying to order a bakery delivery, stubbornly interrupting every two seconds to correct the cashier’s presumably already correct pronunciation of the word.
That evening, I sat outside in my car, waiting for her to come home from work so I could hop out and pretend like I, too, had just returned from an errand, just so I’d have a reason to meet her on our porch. “I think I’m going to have chicken salad on a croissant for dinner,” I remarked as we both unlocked our doors, really slathering the French accent on thick around the wordcroissant. “What do you think?”
Courtney responded that she thought I was a fucking asshole, and as soon as she was gone, I burst into laughter. After that, I dedicated my life to using the wordcroissantas much as possible.
But then, slowly, a few weeks ago, I began to sense trouble brewing. Courtney had this way of saying all the rude thingsI thought but kept quiet, which had a disconcerting way of making me feel like no one had ever understood me more. Like the other day, she acknowledged how weird all the messages were that Larry down the street kept leaving on the community bulletin board (he kept leaving free lemons for people to take, then getting pissed when people took too many lemons). I’d had a pathetic urge to jump up and shoutI thought the same thing!like a total dork who needed to impress her by proving how much we had in common. She made me feel a morbid companionship that only came from finding someone to hate things with, something lodged firmly between happiness and misery.
It all came to a head on my birthday. I’d been celebrating in my traditional way—by reading old birthday cards from my mother and expecting her to call, even though she never called.
Then my doorbell rang.
