Accountant, Victoria Slater is struggling through a busy tax time with April fifteenth just around the corner. Working out of her home doesn’t help when someone begins to play practical jokes on her and her home. From mice in her kitchen to embarrassing singing telegrams. She doesn’t have time for the messes the culprit is causing and certainly not the two male neighbors, Christian Taylor or Kirk Jacobson; she’s dealt with for half her life. Victoria decides to retaliate against Christian. She’s throwing stink bombs in his truck and feeding his dog refried beans late at night. He’s the only one who could be causing the trouble. He’s her enemy, the guy who’s called her names since the eighth grade. It couldn’t be Kirk, her all time crush. After visiting a fortune teller with her best friend Sydney, she finds out that two men are pursuing her and one is misleading her. With multiple misunderstandings, a year book note she never found, a sudden change of address, and a tenth year reunion, Victoria learns the true meaning of There Goes The Neighborhood.
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There are three things I hate: being called Big Fat Vicki, Christian Taylor, practical jokes, and no sleeping in on Saturdays. Okay, that’s four, but how can you expect me to think clearly when I’ve had no sleep.
My parents expected me to take care of their four bedroom one story house all by myself now that they were living the high life in Vegas. The view from the porch suggested I wasn’t doing a very good job. The grass was five inches long and growing. I looked at my neighbors’ yards. Everyone else’s was perfect. It was time to mow the lawn.
I opened the garage, grabbed a rake and pushed the lawn mower out onto the grass. Pulling the string to start the mower, nothing happened. I hated mechanical devices. Why couldn’t things just work like they do in the Jetson’s cartoon? You push a button and the lawn is mowed.
I leaned down again and pushed a squishy rubber button labeled Primer several times, held the bar down at the handle and pulled the string repeatedly.
“Son of a bitch!” The yelling just added to the sweat I was working up.
Suddenly, I felt someone was watching me. I kicked the mower, walked slowly toward the garage. That’s when I saw Kirk, dressed in a robe, coming out of his house with the woman from last night. They kissed at the end of the sidewalk as a taxi pulled up. When it honked, I saw stars.
I leaned up on my elbows and shook my head as footsteps approached. My blurred vision focused on Kirk Jacobson.
“Are you okay?” he asked, leaning down to help me up.
“Yeah, I didn’t even see what hit me,” I said, rubbing my forehead.
“You stepped on the rake, and it bonked you on the head,” Kirk said.
Oh shit, how embarrassing!
“Well, thanks for helping me to my feet.” I was thoroughly mortified.
“No problem.” He walked back across the street.
I watched his every move as he entered his house.
“Damn, that blue robe is fine,” I whispered and walked back toward the lawn mower.
“Maybe you should try putting gas in it,” said the voice from behind me. I jumped and turned around. Christian Taylor, my neighbor to the right, stood near his silver Chevy truck.
I had never forgiven Christian Taylor for being so mean to me in high school. My few friends called me Tori. He called me Vicki. I could have forgiven him for that, even though I hated it. It was the rest of it that hurt …big, fat Vicki. The three words were always said together, so they stuck.
It hurt so much I hid myself and my body away. Even now, ten years later, I wore a baggy gray sweat suit. I was five-eight and looked one hundred and fifty pounds, but underneath the bulk of the sweats, I was only one thirty-five.
It didn’t matter. My body image was set. And it was all Christian Taylor’s fault.
I glared at him across the lawn.
He smiled, got in his truck, and screeched away.
“Maybe you should try putting gas in it,” I mocked him as I walked into the garage. What a jerk.
I filled the tank up and pulled the string hard. The line snapped, and I fell back on my ass. Sprawled across the grass, I stared up at the blue sky.
“Does anyone know a gardener?”