The horse shuffled forward and Gilly pulled back on the reins. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

Taking a picture of the lawn? For what? To show her friends. The friends who probably, maybe even with Gilly, sent this message?

“Hey!” I yelled out, stepping forward. “HELLO! HEY! GILLY!”

Apparently you have to be very careful not to scare horses. A good way to do that would be to hold up a pitchfork and approach them, shouting.

Spotting me, the horse skittered backward, startling Gilly and me.

“WHOA!” Gilly cried.

“Ah!” I dropped the pitchfork. “Sorry. I just. I didn’t mean to pitchfork at you.”

Her hair was spilling down her back from under her helmet. She looked weirdly glamorous for someone on a horse in what looked like track pants and a T-shirt. She reached down and ran her hand over the horse’s neck. “Just chill,” she whispered. “Chill, man.”

“Hey, uh,” I stuttered, suddenly a dangerous combination of embarrassed and mad. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just riding,” Gilly pressed her lips together. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, I LIVE here and it seems pretty obvious that I’m cleaning up your mess,” I seethed.

Making a mess in the process, yes, but let’s stay on point.

“My what?” The horse started walking backward, and Gilly dug her heels in his sides to push him forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Next time you want to leave a message,” I spat, “send a text.”

Gilly blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Okay, in my head that sounded like a much more scathing reprimand instead of just like a request for courtesy.

Could you send a hate email next time?

“Your friends? My lawn?” I pointed. “ ‘Go home, dyke’?”

Gilly shook her head. “I didn’t do anything to your lawn. I didn’t even know you lived here.”

“Right.” I frowned, turning back to my mud-and-sod hole. “Well, I’m pretty busy, so bye.”

I didn’t see Gilly leave, but I heard her horse’s hooves clopping away.

Like I was going to buy her crap a second time? Don’t think so.

I waited till she was gone to resume my sod stomping and poking on grass I basically spent three months of allowance on. When I was done, I sent a picture to Berry and she sent a laughing emoji.

BERRY

What did you do to that poor grass?

ANNE

GAH! Did I kill it???

BERRY

No but I take it back. You are never sodding my lawn.

That night, my parents went out for pizza. I’m assuming I wasn’t invited because of the lawn, although really the last thing I wanted to do was go out into the lion’s den of Greenville.

I assumed the Spencer family also ate pizza.