The next morning, my assumptions shattered. I stood in the kitchen, pouring cereal into mismatched bowls, when my stomach dropped. My car — my only car — was vandalized. Eggs oozed down the side mirrors in thick, sticky streams. Toilet paper clung to the windshield, fluttered in the morning breeze, and wrapped itself around the antenna like a ghostly ribbon. The sharp, sour smell made my nose wrinkle. And in that moment, something quiet and icy clicked inside me.
I followed the trail of broken eggshells across the lawn — a breadcrumb path pointing directly to Derek’s driveway. “Of course,” I muttered under my breath. I told the kids to stay seated, and without changing out of my slippers or even tying my hair back, I marched across the street and knocked on Derek’s door. Hard. He answered wearing an orange hoodie meant to resemble a pumpkin, eyes blinking at me like I was an inconvenience he hadn’t anticipated. Behind him, blinking skull lights flickered, and the animatronic reaper stared down from the porch. “Derek,” I said, voice steady though my jaw ached with tension, “did you egg my car?”Continue reading…
