Bomb: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike

I’ll kill him.

I walk over to the stairs and try my best to be quiet as I ascend, but they are wooden. And old. And squeaky. Suddenly the door is kicked open and a gun is pressing against my cheek. “Move one inch, motherfucker. I’ll blow your teeth out the other side of your head!”

“Whoa there, Ron, it’s me, baby.”

She pulls the gun off my face. “Holy hell, Spencer! You scared the f**k out of me! I thought you were gonna break in and rape me!”

“Well…” I chuckle a little. She does not find my joke funny. At all. “Sorry, Veronica. I was waiting for you outside the shop and saw you walking the wrong direction. I just needed to see what’s up.”

“It’s none of your business what I do.” She pulls the screen door open and walks into her place.

I follow her in and stalk her to the kitchen, where she grabs a beer from the fridge and then pushes past me and plops herself down on the raggedy thing some might call a couch.

“So… you moved out? Why? And what’s this shit about you selling your car? I bought you that for graduation. ”

She kicks her Chucks up on the battered coffee table and pops off her beer cap. “I’m twenty-three, Spencer. It’s about time I left the nest, don’t you think?”

“Uh…” No, not really. That’s not what I think at all. I like her at home. I like her surrounded by Gramps and her father and little brother. Three related men in the house. Yes, that’s something I can live with for a long time, thank you. But I say none of that. My Shrike Sense is tingling. I feel a declaration of independence coming from my little Ron. So I sit down next to her and try to be reasonable. “Ronnie, this place is a dump. You can’t stay here.”

She takes a swig of her Fat Tire and lets out a long, “Ahhhhh.” Totally ignoring me.

I decide on the subtle approach. “So how long is the lease? Please tell me it’s a month-to-month.”

She flips the TV to Comedy Central. There’s an Ab Fab marathon and I get a little distracted for a second. But then I snap out of it and take my attention back to her. “Veronica, answer me. Why are you living in this dump?”

She laughs as Patsy smokes a joint on TV, then drags her eyes over to me. “If you’re here to f**k me tonight, the answer is no. I have a boyfriend.”

“What? Yeah, me! I’m the boyfriend!” I stand up and pace. This has gone too far now. “Please tell me you’re not seeing that banker ass**le. Because I swear—”

“Dammit! Who told you that? Ford? Did Ford tell you? I’ll kill his ass.”

“I saw you together at dinner, Veronica. What the f**k is up? And I still want to know why the f**k you’re living in this alleyway shithole.”

She snorts out a laugh and shakes her head. “You have no clue, Spencer. None.” She looks over at me again, only now her eyes are filled with anger. “You really think that you can saunter in here and demand my attention?” She stands up and points at me. “You really think I give a f**k what you think about my home? Fuck you. I’m not ashamed of this place.” She looks around the apartment and points to the art affixed to the walls with thumb tacks, and then looks back at me. “I love this place. I love this place,” she repeats with the emphasis. “You wanna know why I love this dumpy little shithole? I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s my dumpy f**king shithole, you giant prick. I wasn’t born to a wealthy family. I wasn’t given a private education growing up. I didn’t even have a f**king mother, you insensitive jerk. I had to claw my way through dinner every night. Fighting back four brothers for food. I had to submit to them at every turn. I had to fight them, for f**k’s sake. When they got the itch to pick on me, whether it was in play or not. My life has been nothing but one long f**king struggle. And this”—she pans her hands wide to include all the space within her little apartment—“this is my reward. And maybe it’s not up to your goddamned standards, but no one gives a f**king shit about you in this room except you, Spencer Shrike. And you do not deserve me. You don’t. I’m a good person. I worked hard to get what I have. And maybe it’s not a lot compared to what you have, but at least I got it honestly.”

I just stare at her. Unable to move or even form a sentence.

“So f**k off. I’ve moved on, ass**le. Get it through your thick skull. I’m not interested.”

“Veronica,” I say calmly. “You don’t—”

My cheek is suddenly stinging with heat and Veronica is staring at her red palm, stunned that it actually struck out and hit me across the face.

She shakes herself out of her daze and points her finger at me again. “Don’t you dare tell me what I think or what I feel. Don’t you dare. I’m so f**king tired of people telling me things about myself they have no clue about. Every damn day I walk into Sick Boyz and swallow down the vomit. Do you know that about me, Spencer? You think you know me so well. Do you know that the smell of blood makes me sick? The sight of blood makes me sick? Not sick as in I might faint, or I might feel a little queasy, or that’s sorta gross. But sick in a way that makes my heart beat so fast I think I might drop dead. It gives me panic attacks, Spencer. Every damn day I fight it off.” Her whole body is shaking.

“Ronnie—” But I have nothing to say. “I didn’t know that, no. I thought you liked it. It’s art.”