Nice Guys

“be a nice boy,” his grandmother had told him

from the days when he would bully his little brother

who whined far too much over much too little—

and he would scrunch his nose but oblige

because Nana always had wrapped candies hidden

in both pockets of her purple wool coat.

it still didn’t quite stick, as he grew into a troublemaker

who pulled girl’s ponytails and stuck gum on their necks,

until the day Marnie Flanders kicked him in both ankles

and he howled, hurt and a little bit shocked, the first time

he had ever really had to pay for the fruits of his actions,

a moment he would remember as he entered junior high.

“you’re a nice guy,” Davie Solomon said at a game

when the other boys were smoking weed and

making off-color comments about the cheerleaders

while he tried not to look in the direction of Marnie,

whose only greeting had been to scowl at him,

so ready to chew him out for giving her the wrong look.

but he just shook his head and laughed a little,

saying, “I’m just like everyone else,” and Davie

made a “hmm” sound without another word,

and he was glad to be off the hook because

he never liked the focus of attention—

if he could avoid it, all the better.

“you’re so nice,” Laini Morris said to him

the moment after they kissed the first time,

and her smile was like honey to his senses

because she was sweet and warm and open—

so different from Marnie and her crowd—

but like all things, it didn’t last long enough.

and even when he made the honor roll,

took every attendance prize they could offer,

all they ever said was how nice he was,

till it felt like a chokehold of sorts, smothering

and cloying and not the least bit satisfying,

just annoying and frustrating and burning red.

“nice guys finish last,” his little brother said

while they played a combat video game,

and it was a feeling of relish as his character

pummeled the other with a fury for the win,

and all he could do was grin in triumph

as his brother threw the controller at the tv.

the worst thing was that he couldn’t remember

when it started, this need to be perfect or

at least acceptable in the eyes of others,

always gunning for praise but receiving

very little at best, the race for attention

of the positive variety so much like a game.

“I don’t think you’re nice at all,” Marnie declared

a few weeks after the debacle with Laini,

and he felt that familiar red-hot flash of anger

because she was right, wasn’t she: it was all

just a farce, a show, the big charade of his life,

and he definitely wasn’t fooling her at least.

it was too easy to force a kiss on her,

anything to show that he had some power,

but all she did was shove him away and

plant a smack against his face, right before

she stalked away, buzzing with energy

like a wasp—and he felt the anger dissolve.

“you’re right,” he muttered to no one but himself.

“I’m not a nice guy.”

and the building of years, of telling himself

that he was unfairly treated and so misunderstood,

they began to unwind slowly, a cord at a time,

freeing him in a way he had never known before.