Chapter 4
Scrawled in huge letters: [GET OUT OF HERE]
I stood there, staring at those words for a long time.
Someone poked their head out from an upstairs window, took a quick look, then ducked back inside.
Not a single person spoke up for me.
Right then, I just felt so tired inside.
For two years, I'd been busting my ass running this tiny shop, up at dawn and working late into the night.
I figured we were all neighbors, and watching the kids smile always put me in a good mood.
But what did I get in return?
Just then, Flora showed up again.
"Leila, have you come to your senses yet?
"Honestly, it's simple. Reopen the daycare area and hand over three thousand dollars for compensation.
"I'll say something nice about you in the group chat, and everyone will stop the boycott.
"Don't be so stubborn. Your business has been dead these past few days. What good does it do you to keep resisting?
"Listen to me and swallow your pride. That's the only way you'll keep your shop running."
I looked her straight in the eye.
I said, "Flora, you really have no idea what kind of person I am.
"I'm happy to help out when I choose to, but if you think you can bully me into submission? Forget it."
I turned and walked back into the store, grabbed the phone, and called Sam, the renovation guy.
"Sam, can you bring a couple of guys over tomorrow? I want you to take out all the desks and chairs in the back area, redo the floor, and put in another row of shelves," I said.
On the other end, Sam asked if I was shutting down the homework zone.
I replied, "Yeah, I'm done. It's finished for good.
"From now on, that space is for inventory， never going to be free for anyone again."
After hanging up, I pulled up the security footage from before.
I exported and saved every clip, including Flora splashing paint on my storefront in the dead of night and the moms crowding my doorway, just in case I needed evidence.
Then I sat down behind the counter and pulled out my phone.
I posted to my Facebook.
[The free homework area at the Lakeside Community convenience store is officially closed for good.]
[Thanks for trusting me these past two years. Wishing all your kids a bright future.]
[And to those who spread rumors and stabbed me in the back, I've got all the proof saved. Time will sort it out.]
The first week after the tables were removed, nothing happened.
Flora dropped a petty, passive-aggressive message in the neighborhood group chat: [Looks like someone finally knows their place. But don't celebrate just yet. You still owe every cent in compensation.]
Just a couple of likes trickled in under her post.
Most people had already moved on and stopped caring about the whole mess.
But after just a few days, trouble with the kids started cropping up.
Every day after 3:30 PM, the whole scene in the neighborhood shifted.
At that hour, the kids used to be quietly working on their homework in my shop.
Now, a dozen preteens were tearing through the neighborhood like wild animals let loose.
Some were chasing and roughhousing in the garden.
Others scrambled up the landscape boulders and leapt off.
A few zoomed straight through the underground garage entrance on their scooters.
Dennis Flynn, the security guard, was no match for their chaos.
On the third day, I saw Ted and two other boys fighting with sticks outside Building B.
One of the boys ended up with a cut on his forehead and was bawling his eyes out.
Flora came running down in a hurry.
Seeing that Ted was unharmed, she let out a sigh of relief, and without missing a beat, she dialed the injured boy's mom, her tone sharp and urgent.
"Your kid threw the first punch. Don't you dare blame Ted."
A couple of days later, things really started to escalate.
There was a white BMW X5 parked in the spot diagonally across from my shop.
It was a little after four in the afternoon, and I was busy restocking the shelves.
Suddenly, I heard a scraping sound coming from outside.
I poked my head out and saw three boys tossing small stones, trying to skip them across the pavement.
One of the stones went off course and smacked right into the side of the BMW.
Then, the gutsy one walked over and dragged the stone back and forth across the door a couple of times.
Two deep, glaring white scratches appeared on the paint in an instant.
The other two kids freaked out and took off running.
Only the gutsy one was left behind. It was Sean Morton from Unit 2.
He was still crouched down, picking up more stones, totally clueless about the mess he'd just made.
I knew the owner of that BMW. It was Mike Luther from Building 15.
Word was, he was in the building materials business, and he had a bit of a temper.
That night, around eight o'clock, the neighborhood group chat blew up.
"Whose little brat scratched my car? There are four scratches.
"The dealership quoted 4,000 dollars for repairs. I've already called the police."
Mike fired off eight voice messages in a row, each one ranting furiously.
He even attached close-up shots of the scratches and a receipt from the police.
The group chat exploded.
[That's insane! 4,000 dollars?]
[These kids are way too wild. They're always tearing around the neighborhood, bound to get into trouble sooner or later.]
[Didn't they used to hang out at that convenience store to do their homework? How come they don't go there anymore?]
When I saw that last message, a faint smile tugged at my lips.
I didn't say anything. I just kept sorting through the stock.