Ripple Effect

by J. Bengtsson

  3

  RJ: Post-it Notes

  Damn that Dani. She thought she owned the wall. And the balcony. And the world. The woman had an opinion about everything and never passed up a teaching opportunity. Needless to say, we were not Mr. Roger’s sugar-swapping neighbors. Before either of us had moved into the apartment complex, some corporate genius had decided that it would be more cost effective to erect a wall down the length of a single 1150-square-foot apartment and call it two. Dani’s side got most of the square footage, along with the bedroom, the original kitchen, and the bathroom. I got the stripped-down Spirit Airlines version on the other side.

  Still, the cramped quarters and paper-thin wall separating us weren’t the reason for our feud. That honor went to our shared balcony. Before Dani, I’d never once seen the person living next door. Whoever it was had kept their blinds drawn at all times, so that meant the balcony had essentially been mine alone, and my stuff was strewn everywhere—until the day she moved in and turned my bachelor oasis into an Urban Outfitters outdoor living space complete with a Boho wall tapestry, string lights, and an organic vegetable garden.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t opposed to a little luxury, but Dani wasn’t inclined to share. In the middle of our balcony, like she’d actually measured the length with a yardstick, she’d erected a barrier in the form of a brightly colored masking tape strip dividing our two sections. She’d even taken the initiative to stack my shit into neat piles on my side of the line with a Post-it Note attached reading, Please respect my space.

  I responded with my own Post-it Note: I’d rather be drilled in the ass by a woodpecker than respect your space.

  To which she responded, I don’t care what sort of kinky shit you’re into, just don’t touch my basil.

  And so began our passive-aggressive Post-it Note war. At any given time of the day, I could expect to find notes on my door or out on the balcony, alerting me to her disappointment in my existence. She didn’t like my music or my smelly gym shirt hanging over my chair on the terrace or my trash bag that had been strategically placed outside my front door to remind myself to take it to the garbage chute in the morning.

  I winced at the memory of the garbage chute misstep. That incident had led to an entire novel of one-word Post-it Notes pasted all over my front door that read, Your. stinky. trash. belongs. in. the. dumpster. Chad. Do better!

  I wasn’t sure what the woman did for a living, but I was fairly certain it had something to do with torturing small animals. Or maybe she worked at the DMV. All I knew was I needed to avoid her this morning at all costs, because after Alexa’s heartless Nickelback diss, I didn’t have the patience to deal with finicky women today.

  Pressing my eyeball to the peephole before exiting my apartment, I searched for the little five-foot-two spitfire on three-inch heels. On workdays, Dani always wore her hair pulled back into a high ponytail and was clad in smart casual clothing. She was pretty, in a pretentious, know-it-all sort of way. She had killer hazel eyes and long caramel-colored hair that flipped up at the ends and reached all the way to the small of her back when she let it down at the end of the day. I’ll admit to accidentally spying on her on occasion when she was out on the balcony soaking up the sun. That was when I liked her best—when her mouth wasn’t moving.

  After taking the necessary precautions, I determined the coast to be clear and pushed open the door, breathing a sigh of relief. The day was looking up. But then, like a bomb blasting off its fucking hinges, the door beside mine burst open and out tottered Dani. Goddamn, this woman couldn’t do anything subtly. I held back my whimper.

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “I didn’t see you.”

  Clearly, she’d been doing her own keyhole surveillance.

  “Did you get my note?” I asked without looking up.

  Feigning ignorance, she replied, “What note?”

  “The one I pushed all the way through the crack in your door last night until it disappeared inside your apartment.”

  “Oh, that note.”

  “Yeah, that one. Did you read it?”

  She skipped answering my question in favor of her own inquiry. “Did you run out of sticky pads, Chad?”

  “Actually, I did—I’m surprised you haven’t run out yourself, given how liberally you abuse them.”

  “I bought in bulk after meeting you.”

  “I’m sure you did.” I sighed. “Just answer the question, Dani. Did you read my note or not?”

  “Yes, I read your note. But then I was forced to burn it because I don’t want there to be any evidence pointing toward me when management finds your dead body.”

  This was the attitude I dealt with on a daily basis. It was like living next door to a disgruntled postal worker, only more hostile.

  “And? Did you?” I asked, careful to keep my face covered in my pullover hoodie.

  “Did I what?” She spun around to face me, and my pulse quickened. God, how I loved riling her up. Dani was one of those law-and-order girls who thought the universe revolved around her, when in reality, she was just getting in its way. How she’d ended up here, on the edge of extinction, I couldn’t guess, but I’d watched her thrive with fascinated ambivalence. This was not a woman who hid out and felt sorry for herself. She was a go-getter, even if, based solely on her living conditions, she wasn’t really getting anywhere.

  “Are you asking me if I stole your package, Chad?”

  “No. I’m simply following the evidence. According to the delivery information sent to my email yesterday, the package was left on my doorstep at nine fifteen a.m. Saturday morning. But by the time I got home at eleven thirty five a.m., it was gone.”

  “Wow,” she said in sarcastic amazement. “Your detective skills are spot on. Where did you learn your trade? From Riverdale?”

  “I don’t need high quality investigative training to tell me you’re the most obvious suspect,” I countered.

  “Oh, yeah? And why is that? Please provide details.”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Oh, no. If you’re accusing me of kleptomania; I have a right to know your evidence.”

  “Look, Dani, I don’t care if you’re into whips and chains. Your private life is none of my business,” I replied, scratching my temple. I knew damn well what she was talking about, but I also knew I’d be lighting her fuse.

  “No, Chad, kleptomania—a compulsion to steal. Seriously, dude, your teachers need to line up and apologize to you.”

  We have a flame.

  “Or, at the very least, pummel you with a bat, dumbass.”

  Click. Click. Boom, baby!

  She was just that easy. In some ways, making Dani crazy took the edge off. By stripping her of her sanity, I was restoring bits and pieces of my own. My eyes narrowed in on her. Obviously, she hadn’t comprehended the joke. Typical. Fancying herself a scholar, Dani regularly chose intelligence-shaming as her weapon of choice, but seeing that she’d graduated from one of those Varsity Blue campuses where the rich mommies and daddies routinely bought their children’s way into the school, I wouldn’t have put it past Dani to have a fake athletic profile floating around out there somewhere with her face photoshopped onto a rower’s body.

  “You want evidence?” I said. “Fine. There are two reasons why I’ve concluded you’re the culprit. One: we’re at the end of the hallway, and no one comes back here. And two: you’re the only person who wishes me dead.”

  “Oh, Chad, don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure there are plenty of people who want to throw you over the balcony.”

  I laughed at her snappy comeback, one of the few chuckles to pass my lips in months. Dani rolled her eyes then returned to the near-impossible task of fitting her key into the lock while agitated.

  After witnessing several failed attempts, I stepped forward to offer my assistance.

  “Back off!” she hissed, angling her hip to block me from advancing.

  Holding my hands up, I took a step back. “Whoa, I ca
n see that stuffing holes isn’t your thing. I was just trying to help.”

  She glanced up at me, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes. “Clever wordplay there, Chad. I can see you’ve been practicing. Bravo. Oh, and if that hair on your face is any indication, I can’t imagine little Chad is doing much stuffing himself. He probably can’t see over the shrubs.”

  “Don’t you worry about little Chad. He’s a grower.”

  “Well, that’s good, because he certainly isn’t a shower,” Dani said, shifting her eyes downward and over my gym shorts before turning and walking away. “Have a shitty day, Chad.”

  “Thanks. You too. Oh, and Dani? I’ll expect my package to be waiting for me when I get home.”

  She spun back around to face me. “Yeah? Well, you’ll be waiting a long time because—say it with me, Dickweed—Dani. Did. Not. Steal. My. Package.”

  “Dani did for sure steal my package,” I repeated after her…sort of.

  “Uhhh…” she roared. “I can’t even. Think whatever you want, but just know that I have no interest in a box stuffed with lube and tube socks.”

  Oh, damn. Shots fired.

  “Actually,” I volleyed, “it was a box of loneliness and desperation. I ordered it as a gift for you.”

  My neighbor’s eyes widened. She was reaching her limit, and yet still I kept poking. Dani was the only thing in my life that made my pulse race the way it had when I was on stage. I needed her anger like I needed my life back.

  “Ooh, you’re hilarious,” she replied, employing jazz hands just to showcase how unamused she really was. “Can you do me a huge favor, Chad? Can you never speak to me again?”

  “Sure, I’ll give it a shot,” I said brushing by her in the hallway. “Oh, and can you keep the noise down this evening when you gobble up that Ben & Jerry’s ice cream? I can hear your spoon hitting porcelain every fucking night, and it gives me headaches.”

  “Sure. I’ll try to be more considerate.” She smiled through clenched teeth.

  “Awesome. Thanks.”

  “Oh, and Chad? You be sure to hydrate properly after aggressively masturbating tonight.”

  “I would,” I called over my shoulder, “but you stole my lube.”

  4

  RJ: The Ambush

  Chuckling all the way to my car, it wasn’t until I was strapped in that I caught the devious expression on my face in the rearview mirror. I didn’t like what I saw—that self-righteous smirk. A little too familiar a sight for my taste. My smile faded. What was it about Dani that made me want to pick her apart piece by piece? The girl hadn’t done anything to deserve my wrath. I was bored and unhappy with my life, and Dani’s misery had become my serotonin.

  Damn. What had happened to me? What had happened to that hyperactive kid who self-calmed through music? Fame—and a man-made ego the size of a football field—that was what had happened to me. With women throwing themselves at my feet, it was easy to adopt the idea that I walked on holy water. But these past few months had proved I was nothing if not mortal.

  And Dani… oh, Dani. This morning, she’d stumbled onto a land mine in not the most sensible footwear. There was no way the poor girl wouldn’t take a step in the wrong direction and explode. I often wondered if Dani would hate me as much if she knew who I was. Probably not. People tended to give celebrities the benefit of the doubt even when we didn’t deserve it. Still, it did surprise me that, after all this time, she hadn’t pieced it together. Could it be that I’d come face-to-face with one of those rare women under the age of thirty who was not a card-carrying Dayer? I’d always heard such females existed, but I’d never met one in person.

  Although… maybe she actually was a fan of AnyDayNow but had been thrown off my scent by the pelt on my face, as well as the habitat in which I was currently living. This was, after all, the very last place on earth anyone would expect to find a multi-millionaire pop star. And that was precisely why it made this apartment complex the perfect place to hunker down for the rest of my natural-born life.

  What frustrated me about Dani, and maybe why I picked on her relentlessly, was because she viewed me through unbiased ‘Chad Woodcock’ eyes and had clearly found me wanting. Goddamn story of my life. Strip me of all the ladders I’d climbed and all the awards I’d won and you were left with that little boy who ate his dinner on a TV tray away from everyone else because there was no room at the four-person table. I was twenty pounds, soaking wet. They could have scooted the fuck over.

  My fingers curled around the steering wheel, and I gripped it like two steel clamps. This was precisely why I avoided trips down memory lane. They never led anywhere good. But now that I was locked and loaded, I couldn’t get them out of my head. My neglectful mother. My resentful father. My two manipulative brothers, who’d thrilled in watching me be punished for the things that they would do themselves. Something as small as a misplaced candy wrapper could provoke my parents’ wrath. It didn’t matter how much I protested or tried to defend myself against the allegations—no one was listening.

  And so I grew into an unruly kid who sought attention at every curve. I wanted to be heard, and if that meant bouncing off the walls with enough energy to light a city block, that was just what I’d do. A brat, I was called. Hyperactive, I was labeled. If I didn’t receive the loving attention I deserved, then I’d damn well get it anyway I possibly could—even if it came at a cost, like bent over Renato’s knee with his hand slapping me on the ass.

  And yet, I preferred the corporal punishment over the mental abuse he and my uncaring mother doled out on a daily basis. She was more subtle in her distaste, slipping in small insults here and there—things that wouldn’t seem inflammatory on the surface but would burrow into my skin and slowly fester. But Renato, oh yeah, he never passed up a chance to laser me with his hateful eyes as he cursed my existence under his breath. If only those two had understood their spiteful seething hurt me more than if they’d just gotten it over with and lashed me with a belt.

  I could have folded my hand and let them win, but that had never been my style. I had to prove my worth, make something so big out of myself that not even they could deny me. And so, I carved out my niche in the world—something that was uniquely my own in this family of underachieving duds. Music. I’d shown a propensity toward it from as early as my toddler years—able to carry a tune into the next county and back. Given that my brothers would be hard-pressed to sing the Meow Mix song, it was safe to assume my talent came from Gary or Greg or whatever the hell his name was.

  But even as I made my talent known throughout the town and then the county, I still could not best my brothers.

  Yes, RJ, you won the county-wide talent competition, but Luis here, he just farted the National Anthem. Can you get through ‘the rockets’ red glare’ without shitting your pants? I don’t think so.”

  My brothers contributed nothing of value to the family unit, yet still they were the apples of my father’s eye. Me? Nothing I did impressed Renato. In his eyes, I was different. Musical. Artistic. Wild. Another man’s son.

  And my mother? How dare she. I belonged to her and only her. She should have protected me. Loved me. But the day I was born, she picked a side. It was them or me…and she chose them.

  Driving into the back alley, I parked my car in the small lot behind the gym. Technically this was employee parking, but I was given certain privileges because of my celebrity—a status that was quickly fading. I wondered how much longer these perks would last before I’d be forced to park out front with the rest of the washed-up boy banders who’d come before me.

  I pulled on the handle and was about to step out of my car when the door forcefully swung open, shocking me.

  “Outta the car!”

  Two men with black ski masks covering their faces gripped my shirt and dragged me from the cab. My heart battered against my chest as self-preservation took over.

  They just want the car, I told myself. Don’t fight them. You have eight more where this one came f
rom.

  “What do you want?” I managed to coax the words from my bone-dry throat.

  “Don’t play dumb, Contreras, you know what we want.”

  My name. He’d used my name! This was no car-jacking. Could it be a kidnapping for ransom? If so, who was going to pay up? I’d bought the house in Idaho for my family and provided to them the required living wage for keeping their mouths shut about our rickety family history, but I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to grant them access to my fortunes.

  One of the men shoved me up against my car and twisted my arm behind my back. I turned my head to get a look at my assailants, but the other one palmed my head and shoved me down onto the hood. It was then I snapped out of the shock that had rendered me temporarily stunned. These fuckers had picked the wrong guy. I was already at the end of my rope, no way was I going to let someone else take the credit for hanging me.

  Determination pumped through my veins, and with a forceful grunt, I flung my arms out to the sides, knocking both my assailants backward. They instantly released their grip, which allowed me to flip around and ready myself for battle. Neither one had expected my brute strength, that much was clear. During my boyband days, I’d been lean and sinewy—just what the girls had wanted. But months of regret all pounded into punching bags or lifted over my head with heavy weights had added a good thirty pounds of muscle to my frame.

  Both accosters attempted to flee, but I grabbed the closer of the two and slammed my fist into his stomach.

  “Mother dick, that hurts,” the man grunted on the way down to his knees. I cocked a brow, recognizing that voice. It couldn’t be. But then my eyes narrowed in on the dad bod of the other attacker. Now I knew exactly who I was dealing with: the Tweedledee and Tweedledum of former bandmates. Dane and fucking Shawn. And they were about to meet their maker.

  Planting the sole of my shoe against Dane’s chest, I shoved him hard and watched as he tipped to his side and crumpled to the ground. Satisfied he was down for the count, I lunged for Shawn, but he’d been expecting my revenge and sprinted toward the door of the gym. Perhaps if he’d sprinted to the gym more often in his everyday life, I wouldn’t have been able to so easily catch up to him. I took Shawn down like the third-string quarterback he was.