“Help? All I hear is noise, and all I smell is your greasy food. I work nights and need my rest. This has to stop!” Mrs. Johnson scowled. “No. I will not stop feeding these kids, Mr. Davis. And don’t try to claim you work nights with me, either! The whole street knows what you really get up to.” I never would’ve imagined sweet Mrs. Johnson would be the one to confront Mr. Davis, but it was long overdue. He might’ve lived with his family, but he was basically a deadbeat. And whatever noise the kids were making was nothing compared to the hullabaloo he could kick up when he came home late from a night of partying. Watching him go all tense and red in the face was pretty satisfying until he did something so mean I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. “I tried asking nicely, but if you won’t listen, then I’ll make you stop,” Mr. Davis snarled. He bent over, placed his hands under the table, and tipped the whole thing. Plates crashed onto the dirt, food containers fell and burst open, scattering hot dogs, buns, and cookies all over. Mrs. Johnson let out an anguished cry that chilled me to the bone. She immediately dropped to her knees to see what she could salvage. But Mr. Davis wasn’t finished yet. “That’s what you get for being such a busybody,” he crowed. He actually grinned as he stepped on a bun and ground it into the earth. “Now, don’t ever let me hear you talking about me again, old lady.”
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