Page 5 of No Bones About It

I merely smile at her. Did she really think that I had planned every last detail, from accessories to a playlist, without triple checking her stupid homeowners’ association rules?

I stand up, rising to my full five feet, ten inches. Usually I stoop to hide my height, years of the habit ingrained by my shorter ex-husband who was insecure in his own small frame. But not anymore.

My spine snaps straight, and as I tower over her, I sweetly say, “Actually, Lois, I reviewed section three. All four subsections, too. And guess what? There isn’t a single rule about twelve-foot skeletons. Only the height of blowups."

I pop the P with an annoying exaggeration and salute her with my beer as she whips out her phone, fingers flying over the screen as the light flickers over her face, highlighting every wrinkle and her jiggling turkey neck. She may have frozen her forehead, but she can’t hide the ugliness that is more than skin deep.

The seconds tick by, and with BJ at my back, I feel like I can take on not just the HOA, but the whole world if I need to.

A few tense moments later, she snaps her head back up and spits, “I’ll see about that. I’ll get you Tori, and your big skeleton, too.”

I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation and just how much she looks, and sounds, like a certain famous witch. At my maniacal cackle, she scoops up her dog and stomps down the sidewalk, certainly on her way to call an emergency meeting of the busybodies that make up the Autumn Acres Homeowners’ Association.

I may have won this battle, but I’m sure the war is just beginning. And I can’t wait. I have five years of pent up rage waiting to be unleashed. I’m done being small. I’m ready to live big. As big as BJ.

As I watch her form retreat into the distance, the pizza delivery driver pulls up. I toss my empty bottle into the recycle bin and exchange money for cheesy, gooey goodness. I snag the remainder of my six pack and call goodnight to BJ, blowing him a loud kiss.

I spin to head inside for the perfect end to my first day with my new plastic man when something feels wrong enough to stop me cold. I take three slow steps backward and look up.

Mr. Bonejangles is no longer how I posed him, facing the street, waving at the neighbors as he introduces himself.

Instead, he’s facing me, his glowing LED eyes fixed on the exact spot where Lois and I had been arguing. And the hand that had been lifted in a friendly wave now juts toward the sidewalk in the direction Lois has huffed off in, with a very rude gesture.

“What the…” I trail off as I struggle to make sense of what is going on.

Setting the pizza and beer down, I drag the ladder back over and climb up, turning his head toward the street again. I say, “Listen, I don’t like her any more than you do, but we’re on thin ice here. I meant what I said. There’s nothing in the HOA guidelines about you. Yet. And that’s a big yet, mister. I didn’t wait this long to get you just to lose you again.”

I glance down, judging the height and distance I need to reposition his arm. I know I should climb down the ladder and move it, but I’m tired, and the porter has softened the edges of my common sense. So instead of doing the safe thing, I grip the ladder with one hand and lean out over the edge.

My fingers stretch toward his humerus, but it’s just out of reach. I lean a little farther, and the ladder creaks beneath me. My arm trembles under my suspended weight, and my fingertips barely graze him. Just as I feel the ladder start to tip, the smooth curve of plastic bone presses firmly into my palm, steadying me before I can fall.

“Holy shit,” I exhale and squeeze my eyes tight.

The turned head I can explain away. Even the middle finger pointed at Lois could probably be blamed on loose joints or bad positioning. A random gust of wind or some type of short circuit, maybe related to when I felt that tingling at the electric cord.

But saving me from falling?

This seems intentional.

Something feels… off. Not wrong. But definitely not normal.

I move him back into position, and as I scramble back down the ladder, I say, “I think I better call it a night and skip the rest of that six pack.”

My mind replays what just happened over and over, but there’s no logical explanation to any of it. I beat a hasty retreat to the house and over my shoulder call, “Night, BJ.”

Chapter

Three

Aloud creak startles me awake. I’m disoriented for a moment, but realize I fell asleep in my favorite recliner. The television flickers softly in the background, the slasher film I fell asleep to long over. I stand and stretch, an empty beer bottle falling with a hollow thunk on the floor as it rolls off my lap. A startled laugh escapes me and I gasp, then laugh at scaring myself.

“Get it together, Tori,” I scold myself.

I don’t usually startle easily, but as I retrieve the fallen bottle and head to the kitchen to toss it in the recycle bin, I can’t help but notice the time on the clock. Three thirty-three in the morning. The witching hour.

I rinse the bottle out in the sink to prep it for recycling, and look out the window, searching for BJ.

“What the—” I grab my chest, feeling my heart thundering beneath my hand.