Turn 12 of 16

Convene a sidewalk committee on Birchwood Lane to tell them each to look at each house to find violations. Soon, they all separate and the Karen with green and blue sleeveless top finds a complaint. You all join her and complain just as much. You bang on the door and the girl answer. You all start yelling at her about the problem. She yells back at you before turning into another 57 year old Karen

The committee convenes on the sidewalk, nine identical women in a half-circle, and Karen assigns territories with a general's efficiency. 'Every house. Every lawn. Every trash can. Fan out and report violations back to the group.' They disperse down Birchwood Lane in nine directions, sandals slapping off in nine rhythms, totes swinging, sunglasses flat against the morning.

It takes eleven minutes. Then the Karen in the green and blue sleeveless top plants herself in front of number 17 and calls out in the shared brassy register, and the others converge on her lawn from all directions like iron filings to a magnet. 'THIS,' she announces, pointing her laminated list at the porch, 'is a DISGRACE. The recycling is unsorted. There is a doormat that says something INAPPROPRIATE. And the paint on that shutters is not an approved color.' 'Not even CLOSE to an approved color,' the pink linen Karen confirms.

Karen bangs on the door, four knocks, official. It opens on a girl of nineteen in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, cereal bowl in hand, blinking at nine identical blonde women on the porch.

'Young lady,' Karen begins, 'the state of this property is UNACCEPTABLE—' and the complaints come from all sides, one voice in nine mouths, the unsorted recycling, the doormat, the shutters, the general decline of youth.

'Are you KIDDING me,' the girl yells back, bowl lowering. 'It's SUNDAY. I'm NINETEEN. Get off my—' and the yell is the key, the fatal brassy key, and mid-word the change takes her. Her frame thickens into the sturdy build of a fifty-seven-year-old woman, lines carving themselves around her mouth. Her hair straightens and lightens to ash blonde and swings into the blunt jaw-length bob — the tenth copy. The t-shirt re-knits into a coral long-sleeve v-neck; sleep shorts run into white capris; her bare feet flatten into open-toed sandals. Sunglasses rise onto her face, and on the left breast letters surface: KAREN — HOA.

'—and ANOTHER thing,' she says in the shared voice, setting her cereal bowl on the porch rail, 'my shutters are a VIOLATION and I will be filing against MYSELF.' Ten identical women stand on the porch of number 17, ten lists rustling, and Karen feels the arithmetic tap her shoulder — ten for ten — harder than it has ever tapped before.