I arched a brow. “Why jump to blame? You got a guess on who?”
Isolde’s gaze flicked side to side.
“Uh, the pair over the street? Quillan and his girl—they’re oddballs, total free spirits, you know.”
“Got it,” I said, not buying it. “We’ll ask around.”
We checked it out.
Quillan opened up, puzzled by our sharp edge. His girlfriend, Pomeline, hovered close, just as thrown. “Sorry to bug you,” I began, “but someone wrecked our place while we were gone.
The Hargroves pointed fingers at you two.”
Quillan’s eyes bugged. “Us? No chance!
We’ve stuck close since settling in. Fixing up the spot.”
Pomeline leaned in. “Wait, we could pitch in.
We set up cams last week. They catch some of your side too.”
“For real?” Dorian lit up. “Mind if we peek?”
Quillan shrugged.
“Sure, step inside.”
We stared at the clips, jaws on the floor. The Hargroves had hosted a string of bashes in our yard while we were out. Their crowd trashed the spot, and Isolde with Thayer just let it roll.
“Unreal,” I grumbled, spotting Isolde cracking up as her boy tagged our fence. Dorian’s hands knotted. “Those sneaky, fake—”
“Sorry about that,” Quillan said.
“Had zero hint.”
Pomeline agreed. “Yeah, we’d have hollered if we caught wind.”
We thanked them and bounced, rage growing with every stride to the Hargroves’. This round, no knock needed.
“Yo, Thayer,” I hollered. “Round two on the junk that popped up in our yard.”
Thayer cracked the door, eyed me a sec, then shrugged weak. “You’re making mountains of molehills.
Bit of litter and spray. Young ones, am I right?”
“Bit of litter?” Dorian blew up. “Pool’s a dump, yard’s ruined, trash everywhere!”
“And don’t skip the nonstop parties in our space,” I tossed in.
“Cams nabbed it all.”
Isolde went sheet-white. “What cams?”
“Quillan and Pomeline’s setup got the full show,” I laid out, soaking in their freaked looks. Their cocky vibes stoked my fire.
Time to school ’em good. That night, once the Hargroves turned in, Dorian and I kicked off our fix. We scooped every scrap they’d dumped, tossing in extras from our bins.
At midnight, we snuck to their patch. “Set?” I breathed to Dorian. He nodded, eyes twinkling sly.
“Go time.”
We dumped the mess across their grass and beds, turning it chaotic. For kicks, we let the kids tag their front fence free-style. “Go wild, crew,” I hushed.
“Let loose.”
Our girl beamed, gripping her brush like a sword. “This’ll rock!”
Next dawn, we rose quick for the drama. Isolde’s yelp of horror hit like a tune.
“Thayer! Thayer! Check this!” she wailed.
Thayer shuffled out, chin hitting dirt at the view. “What’s all this?”
We sauntered over, mugs steaming. “All good?” I asked sweet.
Isolde whipped to us, face beet-red. “Your doing?”
I lifted my shoulders, copying Thayer’s shrug. “Making mountains of molehills.
Just litter and a splash of color.”
Dorian jumped in, “Young ones, am I right?”
Their mugs were gold. They knew the jig was up, no wiggle room. “This won’t fly!” Thayer huffed.
“We’ll sic the homeowners’ group on you!”
I grinned soft. “Knock yourself out. Bet they’d dig the clips of you wrecking ours too.”
Isolde’s mug fell.
“Why hit back like this?”
“Why hit back?” Dorian echoed, floored. “You kidding? You wrecked our home, partied without asking, let your bunch smash everything!”
“And lied through it,” I piled on.
“Even pinned it on Quillan and Pomeline.”
Thayer at least looked sorry. “We… figured you wouldn’t catch on.”
“Well, we did,” I stated flat. “Now you get the vibe.”
Talk flew fast around the block.
When Isolde griped to others, we just flashed the Hargroves’ mess on video. “Hard to buy they’d pull that,” our neighbor Greer said, head shaking post-clip. “Seemed decent enough.”
Another, Rafferty, matched the vibe.
“Flat wrong. Can’t trash folks’ stuff like that.”
In days, the street iced them out. They had to scrub their chaos and shape up or ship out.
As I eyed them bagging their yard, that old slip crossed my mind. Some days, you gotta push back and show respect’s a two-way street. The Hargroves got the memo the tough route—that kicking others bites back.
“You know,” Dorian said, slinging an arm my way, “Stoked we dug up that slip, late or not.”
I dipped my head, snuggling close. “Same. And next warning?
We’ll tune in quicker.”
We lingered, eyeing the Hargroves toil, glad the scales tipped fair. Not the hello to the hood we pictured, but one wild tale for sure. As we headed in, I spotted Quillan and Pomeline strolling by.
They waved; we waved too. “You know,” I told Dorian, “Feels like we snagged some true buds here after all.”
