Chapter 2

I walked over, trying to keep my cool.

"Mrs. Wilkins," I said.

Mrs. Wilkins turned around and saw me. Her smile faded for a split second before she plastered it back on.

"Oh, Mia, you're back? We're almost done here. We'll clean up in a minute," she said.

"Mrs. Wilkins, this car washer is for my own use, and I pay for the water myself. Don't you think it's a bit out of line for you to use it like this?" I said.

Mrs. Wilkins's face changed, and she pursed her lips, annoyed.

"Oh, it's just a few tons of water. Is that really such a big deal? It's not like you're broke or anything," she said.

The chubby woman jumped in right away. "Exactly! We're neighbors, what's the harm in using a little water? Your car washer would just be sitting there anyway. We're just helping keep your pipes from getting rusty."

The skinny woman, still munching on sunflower seeds, chimed in with a snide tone, "Kids these days have no sense of neighborliness. Back in our day, neighbors borrowing water or electricity was totally normal. Now, you act like it's the end of the world if someone uses a bit of water. Mrs. Wilkins said you were nice, but honestly, you're no different."

I laughed out of frustration.

"Mrs. Wilkins, let me make this clear one more time. This is my stuff. If you use it without asking me, that's stealing," I said.

Mrs. Wilkins's face turned bright red.

"Stealing? How can you say something so nasty? Eight years in this neighborhood, everyone knows me! You've only been here a few days and you talk to your elders like this? Just because I used a little water, you call me a thief? Go on, call the police! Do it!" she shouted.

She slammed the spray nozzle onto the ground, splashing water onto one leg of my pants.

"Alright, just name your price! I'll pay you! Is a hundred bucks enough for you?" she barked.

She yanked a crumpled hundred out of her pocket and threw it on the ground.

The bill fluttered twice before landing in a puddle, soaking half of it.

"Take it! Stop embarrassing yourself here! A hundred bucks could cover your water for half a year!" she snapped.

The chubby woman chimed in, "Seriously, a hundred bucks is way too much. That water's barely worth anything."

The skinny woman spat sunflower seed shells all over the floor. "Some people are just so cheap. A hundred bucks would keep her grinning for three days straight."

With that, Mrs. Wilkins grabbed her bucket and waddled toward the hallway. The chubby and skinny women followed, rolling their eyes at me as they went.

The skinny woman tossed out one last jab. "Mia, you can't be so stingy, or you won't survive in this neighborhood."

The three of them giggled their way into the building, and the door slammed shut behind them.

I stood on a floor soaked with water, my feet crunching on sunflower seed shells and soap suds.

The hose from the car washer was tossed aside, still dripping.

The doormat, scooter, and toys had all been taken away, leaving nothing but a mess.

I stared at the hundred-dollar bill sitting in the puddle, half-soaked.

I took a deep breath.

I bent down, picked it up, shook off the water, folded it neatly, and slipped it into my pocket.

David happened to be coming home from work. He saw me standing there, half my pants leg soaked, and my face looked pretty grim.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Why are your pants wet?" David asked.

"Just got splashed washing the car," I replied.

He looked at the puddles on the floor, then at my face, and let it go without another word.

I switched off the car washer, rolled up the hose, and locked the garage door.

Only one thing was on my mind as I went upstairs.

I took the hundred. No regrets.

But I promised myself that I'd make her pay a hundred folds.

Early the next morning, I leaned over the window and looked down.

I saw Mrs. Wilkins hauling three big plastic buckets over to my garage door, lining them up in a neat row.

"Mrs. Wilkins, those are my personal things," I said.

"I know, you said I just had to ask, right? Well, I asked," she replied, not even bothering to look up.

Without even looking up, she slipped the hose into the bucket and hit the switch.

Water gushed into the bucket, splashing noisily.

I went downstairs to move the buckets, but she blocked me with her body, refusing to let me through.

"Hey, what's your deal? So what if I use a little water? It's not like I'm using it for nothing. Didn't I give you a hundred bucks last time?" she snapped.

"That hundred, you just tossed it on the ground," I said.

"Yeah, I gave it to you. Should be enough to cover your water for half a year, right?" she said, not missing a beat.

We stared each other down, neither of us backing off.

She pushed the bucket toward me, and water sloshed out, getting my foot wet.

"Fine, fine, I won't use it, alright? Seriously, what's your problem? Even a hundred bucks can't buy you a smile," she snapped.

She grabbed the empty bucket and walked off, muttering curses under her breath.

But she left the other three buckets behind.

They were still sitting right next to my car washer, hogging my spot.

On the third day, things got worse than ever.

When I got home from work, I found two tiles at the garage door cracked, with shards scattered everywhere.

David was crouched down, scowling at the mess.

"Who did this?" David asked, his voice tight.

"Who else could it be?" I replied, my voice flat.

I pulled up the security footage. Mrs. Wilkins rolled in that afternoon, squeezed her SUV way too close, and just drove right over the tiles. She got out, glanced at the mess, kicked at the broken pieces, grumbled, "Cheap tiles," and then went on to wash her car like nothing happened. When she was done, she just drove off.

Not a single word to anyone.

I went to see the property manager.

The manager, Noah, was in his fifties, a real peacemaker, always smiling no matter who he was talking to.