Chapter 4 - The ClipboardRenata's niece was graduating the following weekend. I knew because she'd had a giant "Congrats Class of 2026" sign staked in her yard for almost two weeks. She was hosting the party — forty guests, maybe more, judging by the rental company van I'd already seen pull up twice.
Three days before the party, there was a knock at my door.
Of course there was.
"Hey, neighbor." Renata, bright and breezy, like Saturday's conversation had never happened.
"Hi."
"I need to borrow a few things."
Naturally.
"What?"
"The big cooler. Your slow cooker. Do you still have those two folding tables?"
"Yes."
"Perfect." She actually started heading toward my garage like the conversation was already over.
"Wait."
She stopped. I went inside and came back holding a clipboard.
Her expression changed immediately. "What's that?"
"A lending agreement."
She laughed. I didn't.
She looked down at the page. I'd itemized everything.
Large cooler — replacement value $120. Slow cooker — replacement value $80. Two folding tables — $75 each.
Below that, three conditions: returned by Sunday, 6 p.m. Returned clean and dry. Returned in the same condition it left in.
Then: Refundable security deposit: $350.
And beneath that: Outstanding KitchenAid repair bill: $347.
Renata's mouth fell open. "You cannot be serious."
"I'm completely serious."
"You want me to hand you nearly seven hundred dollars to borrow a cooler and some tables?"
"No." I tapped the page. "Three hundred fifty is refundable. The other three forty-seven is what you already owe me."
"This is insane."
"You taught me a lesson about lending things too casually. I'm just applying it."
Her face went sharp. "I always return your stuff."
"Eventually."
"Nothing's ever happened before."
"The mixer happened."
"That mixer was ancient."
"It worked fine before you took it."
She tossed the clipboard onto my porch table like it had personally offended her. "This is unbelievably petty."
"Then don't borrow anything."
"I've borrowed from you for years, Renata—" She stopped, caught herself. "I mean — this is ridiculous."
"I know."
"And now suddenly there's paperwork?"
"Yes."
"Over one stupid mixer?"
I looked her straight in the eye. "It wasn't stupid to me."
For half a second, she actually went quiet. Then she rolled her eyes and grabbed the clipboard back off the table.
"Fine. I'll rent everything."
"Okay."
She marched back across the yard. Priya, who'd clearly been listening from just inside the front door, opened it wide-eyed.
"That was terrifying."
"Me?"
"Yes."
May you like
"Good terrifying?"
"Mostly."
