When Michelle moved in, she refused to follow one simple rule: bring your key. Instead, she pounded on my window at all hours, demanding to be let in. After countless sleepless nights, the other tenants and I devised a plan to give her a taste of her own medicine.

I’ve always been a stickler for rules. That’s why I loved living in our little apartment block on Maple Street, where the golden rule was simple: after 8 p.m., always carry your key. But that changed when Hurricane Michelle blew in.

The day she moved in, I should’ve known trouble was brewing. As I collected my mail, she strutted up the path, wild red hair flying and enormous sunglasses perched on her nose.

“Hey, new neighbors!” she called, loud enough to wake the dead. “I’m Michelle! Who’s gonna help me with these boxes?”

I exchanged glances with Matt from 2B. He shrugged, and we both headed out to lend a hand. As we lugged boxes upstairs, Michelle chattered nonstop.

“This place is so cute! I can’t wait to spice things up around here!” she exclaimed.

I should’ve taken that as a warning.

The first week was tolerable. Sure, Michelle’s music was loud, and she clattered up and down the stairs at odd hours. But it wasn’t until the second Friday night that the real trouble started.

It was just past midnight when the first thump-thump-thump echoed through my apartment. My dog, Biscuit, lifted his head with a whine. I groaned and stumbled to the intercom.

“Heeeeey!” Michelle’s slurred voice crackled through. “I forgot my key. Can you let me in?”

Sighing, I pressed the button to unlock the door and opened it to remind her of the rule.

“Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver!” she gushed, reeking of tequila. “I was gonna be stuck out there all night!”

“Remember the rule about carrying your key after 8?” I tried to reason.

She waved me off. “Rules are made to be broken! You’re right here!”

That was the beginning of a nightly ritual. Michelle would bang on windows or buzz every apartment until someone let her in, oblivious to the time.

One frustrating night, I was jolted awake by tapping on my bedroom window. Groaning, I found Michelle’s grinning face illuminated by the streetlight.

“Michelle!” I hissed, sliding the window open. “What are you doing?”

“I forgot my key, Addy. Be a pal and buzz me in?” she giggled.

“This has got to stop,” I snapped, but she shrugged and walked away.

The whole building was at its wit’s end. One day, Tiffany from 3A cornered me in the laundry room.

“Adrienne, we’ve got to do something about Michelle. I haven’t slept in weeks!”

I agreed, exhausted. “I’ve tried talking to her, but she laughs it off.”

That’s when Riley from 4C suggested we speak her language. It felt like sweet justice.

The next night, we put our plan into action. Michelle stumbled home around 1 a.m., and we started buzzing her apartment.

“Who is this, and what the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted over the intercom.

“Hey, Michelle! It’s me, Adrienne. I forgot my key. Buzz me in?”

After some back and forth, she let me in. I texted Tiffany and rushed upstairs for the next part.

We kept up our campaign. If Michelle forgot her key, we ensured she couldn’t sleep. By day five, she looked a wreck.

“Please,” she croaked, “can you stop this? I get it!”

Tiffany couldn’t resist. “Funny how you didn’t care when you did it to us.”

Michelle finally admitted defeat. “I’m sorry. I’ll start bringing my key.”

The next evening, I heard her distinctive clatter on the stairs. To my surprise, there was no banging or buzzing—just the soft click of a key in a lock.

I smiled to myself. “Funny how peace comes when everyone plays by the rules.”

Biscuit wagged his tail in agreement. Our little apartment block was back to normal, or as normal as it could be with Hurricane Michelle upstairs. But now she had the key to fitting in.