Page 6 of The Underachiever’s Guide to Love and Saving the World

The next morning, I shot awake from my fitful sleep, utter panic striking me deep when I heard Courtney’s keys jingle in her front door as she left for work, her TV still booming.

I tumbled out of bed, found a pair of sweats, and staggered out my front door, throwing a hoodie on and blinking back moisture as sunlight assaulted my weary eyes.

“Courtney!” I called as she opened her car door.

I scampered across the driveway, the concrete freezing my bare toes.

“Courtney,” I gasped again, rounding her car. “You left your TV on.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t even acknowledge the fact I was half draped over her driver’s-side door. She simply slammed it, nearly taking off my fingers in the process. Seeing her put the car in reverse, I darted back, narrowly avoiding getting my toes run over as she whipped out onto the street.

I knew when I was being subjected to a silent treatment, even if it was the loudest silent treatment to have ever been performed. Even if I hadn’t worked it out myself, she’d left me a subtle clue she was pissed in the form of her charming new Wi-Fi network name: Bryceisabuttface.

“No talking,” she’d said. “We don’t have to be friends to be neighbors.” Apparently, the alternative she had in mind was We’ll be mortal enemies instead! while I’d been assuming she meant we’d be cordial acquaintances.

I would not let her win this petty game.

Even Riverdale had an end. All I had to do was wait it out.

A quick Google search revealed that there were 137 hours of the show, which meant my torture would be over in less than a week, if Courtney didn’t get sick of her own warfare by then, which she probably would.

Spoiler: she did not.

By day three, my ears were sore from the earplugs I’d taken to wearing.

By day four, I knew more Riverdale lore than any human should.

By day five, I was reluctantly intrigued.

By day six, I was even blinking back a tear as I heard the season finale come to an end, though that might have been because I was so happy it was finally over.

Then at last. At last . Sweet, sweet silence.

I removed my earplugs, letting out a little whimper of relief.

Three seconds later, the opening music for Riverdale once more thundered through the building, the first lines of season one episode one striking pure terror into my heart.

That was it. I snapped. I shoved away from my desk and burst out the front door.

I crossed to Courtney’s side of the porch and repeatedly jabbed her doorbell.

When there was no answer, I looked over my shoulder and discovered her car was gone.

She must be at work and had somehow set up her TV to autoplay Riverdale on a loop. Forever.

I’d just have to take matters into my own hands.

Feeling like a criminal, I circled the duplex, checking all her windows in hopes one was unlocked. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

No luck. All her windows were secure. I peered through the last one, trying to see if I could spot the TV.

What I saw instead was her bedroom. She didn’t even own a bed frame, just slept with her mattress directly on the floor like a college frat guy.

I thought she couldn’t get more despicable, but then I spied the mug on her nightstand that read: “You’re the Ross to my Rachel!

” Irritation panged through me. Who gave her that mug?

And more importantly, why did she keep it?

Did the ridiculous woman think Ross Geller was a good romantic partner?

Really steaming now, I returned to the front of the house, debating what to do. My eyes settled on her mailbox.

No. That was too far. I wasn’t a felon.

I developed a rapid and alarming disregard for federal law.

The next thing I knew, I had her mailbox open, and I was riffling through her letters. It was mostly junk mail, but I did learn her last name.

After going back inside, I googled “Courtney Westra,” because I was a stalker now too apparently.

I got a hit for an inactive LinkedIn account that still had her email on it.

I was briefly surprised to find she’d worked in marketing at one point but shrugged it off.

Obviously, her abysmal work ethic had landed her where she was today.

I was seconds away from creating a fake ad with her name and email and listing her TV for free, but I hesitated.

As hilarious as it would be for Courtney to receive unwanted emails all day, I also didn’t feel great about handing out her information to strangers, even if it was easy to find.

Not because I was worried about Courtney.

I was worried about subjecting innocent strangers to Courtney.

So instead, I created a bunch of new email addresses under fake names and messaged Courtney myself, posing as interested buyers. She’d never have to know I never made an actual ad. I only hoped she had her email notifications turned on her phone, for maximum annoyance.

I needn’t have worried. A couple hours later, around the fiftieth variation I sent her of: Hi, Courtney, is the TV still available? I know your listing said your schedule is tight, but I can make your 3 a.m. time slot work , her fist pounded on my front door.

“Wherever you posted that ad, you need to take it down,” she demanded as soon as I answered. She’d apparently decided chewing me out was more important than her silent treatment.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” I yelled over the noise of her TV, pointedly bending my ear.

She stalked off, and a few seconds later, Riverdale went silent. She did not return.

When I went back inside, I couldn’t resist changing my Wi-Fi network name to: Bryceisawinner.

Much later in the evening, when she presumably noticed the change, she released a gratifying shriek of outrage from the other side of the wall that made me grin.

The victory was short-lived, of course, because the very next day she superglued my mailbox shut and changed her Wi-Fi name to: UwillRueTheDay.

My mind was already spinning, plotting my next move.

This would not be a war easily won. I had a feeling I’d be seeing a lot more of Courtney.

But god help me, I didn’t hate that as much as I should have.

I told myself it was okay. It wasn’t like we were friends. I avoided relationships, but negative ones wouldn’t do something unwelcome like make me happy right before crushing my soul to oblivion.

Considering all the animosity between us after one week, it wasn’t like we’d ever do something as preposterous as like each other.