Nicebomber

by Charles, Colleen

  “Shit!” he exclaims, clutching his injured shoulder.

  Suddenly, Trenton and Talia freeze in their tracks, their eyes as wide as dinner plates.

  “You said shit, loser,” Trenton whispers. “Mom says that’s a dollar for the jar.”

  “Shit is a bad word,” Talia chimes in. “Shit—shit—shit!”

  “Wh-what?” Shane is breathless, grunting, still holding his shoulder like Ice-T shot him in it, his expression one of agonized disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  “What do you mean, loser?” Trenton demands. “I can't believe you would say 'shit' in front of a couple of little kids. What's wrong with you?”

  “I... I don't... I mean...” Bemused and in pain, Shane stammers, “Yo—you were cursing too! You said 'ass!' And... and 'douchebag!' And 'hell!'”

  Trenton snorts his laugh straight up his nose and his eyes dance with excitement over having Shane backed into a corner. They sure learn manipulation young these days. I would never even have thought about talking to an adult this way at eight. My mom would have washed my mouth out with soap.

  “Yeah, and those are all words they can say on Law & Order, but they're still not allowed to say 'shit!' That's a really bad word! Babysitters shouldn't be saying stuff like that! That’s almost as bad as saying ‘fuck’!”

  “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” Talia titters gleefully, looking right into the camera. “I'm a movie star, and I say 'shit!' This movie is shit! My co-stars are shit! My trailer is... a fucking piece of shit!”

  Shane hauls himself off the floor, looking at me with exhausted and defeated eyes as Talia keeps cursing a blue streak.

  “We can probably go ahead and turn the camera off now,” he groans.

  Chapter Twelve

  Shane

  “Do nice things for people, they said. Film it, they said. Become a better person, they said. That ‘shit’ is a ‘fucking’ bunch of rubbish.”

  “It’s only rubbish because that’s what you’re making it.”

  My father lets the words hang in the air in his office for a few moments like cigar smoke, then repeats them, adding long spaces between each one. “A little magnanimity. That was it, Shane. That was all. That was the only thing you were asked to do in order to prove yourself worthy of my name and of your place on this company's board. Do. Nice. Things. For. People.”

  He glowers at me, clearly expecting some sort of contrite response so I swallow down the stream of curses I want to toss in his general direction. Whatever happened to support? To unconditional love?

  “I know.” What else am I supposed to say? He's just waiting to hear himself talk again anyway.

  “I didn't even expect you to come up with the nice things yourself. I actually hired someone else to think of them for you. I honestly didn't think it was much to ask of my only child to honor his mother’s memory. I didn't think it would require any actual effort or be so subject to failure and humiliation. If I had, frankly, I wouldn't have bothered. I would have assigned this simple task to someone else. I could have given it to Jerome Feingold, who labors sixty hours a week at the support desk in the payroll department, never makes a mistake in his work, and still manages to coach his son's Little League team. I bet he'd have done a bang-up job.”

  I picture my father rehearsing this speech in the mirror this morning while shaving and selecting his power tie of the day and feel a wave of nausea.

  “Or I could have assigned it to Bob McKinley in marketing. You know Bob? Of course you don't, because you never actually come in to work. Well, Bob comes in at least two hours early every day, and never, ever leaves until his desk has been cleared of every single task. Bob has dedicated his life to building and maintaining a respectable face for this company, and when he's not doing that, he's a deacon at his local church. Bob could have easily pulled off something like this, and we'd have come out smelling like a rose. But no. For some idiotic reason, I thought my son deserved a chance to show he could actually accomplish something in this world. And would you like to see the results of that decision?”

  No. “Yes.”

  Dad clicks one of the keys on his computer and swivels the screen, so it faces me. That viral video pops up from the visit to the hospital—a loop of all the kids screaming “Bullshit! Bullshit!” over and over, with the words “Bullshit! Bullshit!” dancing merrily above them in neon lettering and several poo emojis blinking back and forth. And then the headline that makes me cringe.

  Cupbrella CEO’s son puts his foot in… bullsh*t.

  “This has already gotten four million views,” he informs me with a pout. “Sounds like a lot, doesn't it? Well, it's not. 'A lot' would be more in the neighborhood of eleven million views. Like this one.”

  As he hits another key, I can see what's coming. Sure enough, the screen switches to a different video. This time, it's a faceless Talia, dancing and posing for the camera as her string of curses is edited and autotuned into something resembling a Nicki Minaj song. “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! I'm a movie star, and I say 'shit!' This movie? Shit! My co-stars? Shit! My trailer?... fucking piece of shit!”

  “I get the idea,” I tell him, glancing away, unwilling to watch another second of my own demise.

  “Do you?” He clicks the video off, returning the screen to its previous position. “I'm not wholly certain that's the case. On top of all this, we're getting a tremendous amount of flak online for you saying that 'movie stars don't cry.' Somehow, people have taken this to mean that we feel it's not okay for people in general—and women in particular—to be sensitive and express their feelings. 'MovieStarsCryToo' is the top trending hashtag on Twitter today, with 'NoOneCanStealOurTears' right behind it.”

  I feel like crawling under my comfy leather chair. “Okay, I'll admit, I didn't choose my words carefully.”

  “You certainly didn't, and now this company has egg all over its face. This morning, we had to write a check for five million dollars to a mental health charity and waste time drafting a press release saying it's okay for Oscar-winning actors Isabella Chastain and Tom Diamond to cry as much as they want for as long as they want about whatever the fuck they want. We're a complete and utter joke, and the value of our stock has dropped. So? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I inhale deeply, then give him a big smile and a shrug. “There's no such thing as bad publicity?” Dad's bushy eyebrows draw together, and he puffs out his chest, so I continue in a string of contrite words. “I mean, yeah, it's a train wreck, but it's one that people are watching. They'll want to see how the whole mess turns out. So it'll be a dramatic twist when I'm able to turn things around and they see that this app actually works. In the meantime, you've got their attention.”

  He gives me a look of appalled shock, like I just pissed on his dreams. “Are you seriously going to try to convince me that you've deliberately created some kind of dramatic arc in an attempt to help this company? Is that really how much you disrespect what I’ve built here?”

  I sigh and a stab of pain hits me in the gut. After all the years of nannies and abandonment and being tossed aside, I find little agony in my father’s actions anymore. But I guess there are still parts of me that can feel pain. “Of course not. I won't pretend I haven't made a complete hash of this so far, but I'm one hundred percent positive we can make things right by the time this is over and the app's ready for release. Contrary to what you believe, I didn’t do any of this on purpose. You can’t control situations where other people are involved, especially kids.”

  “Hang on a second,” he grumbles. “'We?' Who's 'we'? The only person I see in these appalling videos is you.”

  It doesn’t hurt to think of the one bright spot in my life right now. Her. “I've got someone helping me with this. Her name's Keeley, and she's wonderful. She's a lot better at doing things for other people than I am, and she's given me some terrific guidance. Otherwise, believe me, all of this would have gone much, much worse.”

  Dad looks at me like I'm a sme
ar on his recently polished shoe. “So I give you a real chance to make things right with me—with your mother, with yourself, with the company—and you use it as an opportunity to hit on some random woman?”

  “Dad, look, it's not like that... not even close. I met her during my first Nicebomber attempt with Pinky Applebaum.”

  He waves me away. “Save your breath. I know you, even better than you know yourself. You're simply incapable of doing a single goddamn thing that doesn't somehow benefit you most of all. Not even now. You disappoint me, Shane. You deeply disappoint me. Go on, get out of here. You're done wiping your ass on our work and reputation. We'll just have to start over with someone else on this Nicebomber project and hope you haven't ruined things too badly. Personally, in light of your behavior, I think we'll end up having to scrap the whole damn thing. But hey, that's my fault for trusting you.”

  I should be used to his insults after a lifetime of hearing them—but this time, I'm surprised to discover that they actually make my heart hurt, like a balloon being squeezed in a fist. Plus, he just told me I don't have to keep publicly embarrassing myself with this Nicebomber thing. So why am I not relieved?

  Because I haven't done it right yet, and I want to. Somehow, I need to.

  Not for him, because no matter what I do, I'll never make him happy—I figured that out a long time ago. But for some reason, I need to know that I can do this. I need the world to know I can be more than a cheap villain on a reality TV show. Most of all, I need Keeley to know, so she won't feel like I let her down. Somehow, I feel like she's my last chance to be something... I don't know, more. Better.

  And if I go back to her now and tell her I failed, well, that'll be the end of it. She won't have any other reason to see me again, and I'll go back to just living day to day with no real purpose. Just consuming air and watching other people live.

  “Dad, please,” I say, astonished by the sincerity—the need—in my voice. “Give me another chance.”

  He stabs a piece of paper with his pen. “You're just saying that because you're afraid of being kicked off the board and fending for yourself.”

  The pieces click and light dawns inside me. “No, listen, I understand why you'd think that. I do. But I'm begging you, okay? Please, please let me try again. I know I can do this. And you've already invested so much in the project and the PR...”

  “You're goddamn right I did,” he growls. “I truly thought this would turn things around for you. Because I obviously couldn’t motivate you. I thought your mother could.”

  “Okay, so let me have one last opportunity to make this right. Just one.” I can't believe I'm pleading with him when I've spent my life trying to please him and failing.

  Apparently, he can't believe it either. He looks at me for a long moment, then gives a tired nod. “I can't believe I'm going along with this. I guess I can't remember ever hearing you sound so... passionate about anything. Fine. One more chance. But, Shane, if you screw this up... I’m never giving you another chance as long as I live.”

  “I won't,” I promise him. “You won't be sorry.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” he replies with a heavy sigh.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Keeley

  I sit in front of my laptop, skimming the online comments, GIFs, and videos mocking Shane's efforts at Nicebombing. I can feel the blood boiling in my temples, and I have to remember to try to breathe normally instead of fuming with rage.

  First of all, I can't believe these hashtags that are trending. How could they take such an offhand comment—clearly meant to stop a kid from sobbing uncontrollably—and turn it into such a huge, ridiculous issue? Are people really so insecure and self-absorbed that they have to make everything about themselves? They’re like social justice bullies with a laptop weapon. It seems downright surreal. And anyway, what would any of them have done if they'd been in his situation, with his lack of experience? Shane was doing his best, and sure, it wasn't perfect, but at least he was trying.

  That bothers me the most about all this internet hatred. I don't spend a lot of time wading around in memes and snark—I usually find it boring and petty, and I prefer to spend what little free time I have reading and relaxing instead of watching people be horrible to total strangers. And that's what Shane represents to these haters. A total stranger, one they've actually stopped and taken the time and energy to belittle in public. How sad and horrible.

  It's so easy for them to throw stones from behind their keyboards. It's so easy for them to automatically assume the worst of someone without really knowing him at all. They don't know how difficult all of this has been for him or how hard he's tried to overcome his selfishness after the emotional abuse and neglect he suffered from his cold and absent father.

  No, they just make the easiest and most immature jokes that come into their minds, then endlessly slap each other on the back by hitting the Like and Retweet buttons until they've dragged someone through the mud—only to get bored and repeat the process with someone else the next day.

  Poor Shane. If he's seen all this, he must be devastated. He's probably even thinking about giving this whole thing up, and honestly, I wouldn't blame him a bit.

  Then again, I have to admit that some of my inner anger is directed at myself. After all, didn't I fall into the same trap when I found out about The Fiancé—assuming he was a creep in real life without actually knowing how those shows work with the producers ratcheting up the drama for compelling TV drama and ratings?

  Well, there's no point sitting here and wallowing in my anger. I should go see Shane and tell him that I still believe in him... even if no one else does, even if he doesn't believe in himself. I should tell him that whether his father will let him keep doing the Nicebomber project or not, we should keep meeting up to help random people just because it's worth it and it'll make the world a better place.

  He’s on a journey toward healing, and I think that’s worth it. I hope he does too.

  When we met in the park near the statue—after he explained about The Fiancé, before we chose the babysitting option—he pointed out his condo building. All I need to do is check the names on the directory in the lobby.

  I chew on my lower lip. Should I call first? Fire off a quick text?

  Just stopping by unannounced seems like a strange thing to do, since no one in our generation really does that anymore. But somehow, texting to tell him I'm coming to see him seems even odder, because what if he's feeling sorry for himself and tries to stop me from coming? What if he says he'd rather be alone? After all the internet abuse he's taken, he probably shouldn't be left by himself to let his bad feelings fester. If there's anything I can do to encourage him, to turn his focus outward, then I've got to try, even if it means surprising him.

  Heck, maybe a gentle shock to the system would be good for him now.

  Hopping the ‘L’, I head to his place. When I arrive, I read the condo number from the directory and buzz him once... twice... three times... but no answer.

  Well, maybe this is why people don't show up unannounced anymore. As I heave a sigh, I figure he's probably out or hiding from all things social media.

  Maybe he’s even hiding out from me.

  But what if he's not? What if he's just understandably depressed? What if a knock on the door will help him snap out of it and turn his dark world around?

  What if I've been deprived of social interaction for so long that I've completely lost my sense of what's acceptable behavior and what's wildly inappropriate? What if I shouldn't be here? What if, instead of appreciating that I've come to help, he thinks I'm out of line?

  As these thoughts swirl in my head, one of the building's occupants—a tall man in a long raincoat and beautifully-tailored pinstriped suit—brushes past me, using his key to get into the building. Before I realize what I'm doing, I hold the door open after him, letting myself in. The tall man shoots me a vaguely suspicious glance, then clearly decides I'm not here to rob the place and conti
nues on his way.

  Okay, I'll admit, now I'm starting to feel like a bit of a stalker.

  I take the elevator up to Shane's floor and step off, silently counting off the numbers on the apartment doors. Inwardly, I strike a bargain with myself. If he's home, and if he opens the door, and if, in those first few seconds, there's a look in his eyes that says he thinks it's completely nutty for me to be here, then I'll make some excuse and flee.

  But if it looks like he's happy to see me...

  Then what? What exactly have I come here to do? How do I think I'll be able to make him feel better about all this? Take him out for drinks? Make tea and hug him?

  Something else I'm not admitting to myself because it’s the craziest thought of all…

  You’re falling for him.

  Shaking away that irrational thought, I soldier on. Once my nose is almost flush with Shane’s front door, my courage fades away like the light at dusk. This was a stupid idea. I should just turn around and go right now before he sees me on his way to the laundry room or the trash chute.

  But before I can go, I hear his voice, muffled, with a woman's voice answering. At first, I think he's talking to someone in his apartment, and I feel my face go red.

  Of course, he has a woman with him. You never asked him about his love life.

  My need for him—my unwelcome desire for him—that isn’t returned, cages me in and unravels me. Because that’s why I really came here. That realization lands and settles, and it feels like a curse, a shadow I can’t sweep away. Instead, I spin on my heel, but then I notice that the door of the apartment next to his is ajar—and the voices float out the door.

  Creeping over to the open door, I peer around the frame carefully like some kid detective in a young adult novel. I see a matronly woman in her fifties sitting in a wheelchair, talking and laughing with Shane as he rearranges the items in her kitchen cabinets and pantry.