She has press-on nails.
Press-on nails, all pink and black and a pale sort of brown. White. Has a sticker on her index with a character I haven’t ever heard of. When she said it, it sounded like she was speaking a whole different language. I just nodded and sat at my desk.
The nails aren’t shoved into the beds like they used to be. There’s little pale half-moons under them, now that her nails have grown out a bit. Some of them have snapped, broken into jagged halves and pieces. Some are still intact. She laughs at herself when she messes things up because of them.
She got them for her birthday.
Her birthday was around a month ago. I don’t know; I don’t keep track. I mean, I do, but I try not to, try to mutilate the memories in my mind so she doesn’t know that I’m thinking about her. More than that — so I don’t know I’m thinking about her. I try not to. I do anyway.
Every day I think about asking to take her back to the nail salon. It’s on the other side of town, in the new mall that ma’s afraid to go in because she says they look at her funny. I tell her she’s just making things up, but I know the look they give her. The look they give me is different, but it hits the same way. Hers is disdainful, done with a tilt upwards of the nose; mine is shallowly frightened, done with a grasping of purses and taps of nails to the cash register. That tapping gets in your mind.
But I can’t take her to the nail salon, on account of it costing too much, and also on account of not knowing her well enough at all. Other people don’t get that. They tell you to just go for it and talk to her, but I can’t. I don’t want her to look at me like that. That one girl looked at me like that, back in secondary school. Looked from me to the door, as if checking to see if she still had a way out. So I have to know her first, because I don’t want her to be afraid of me.
I was trying to explain that to uncle — he isn’t my uncle, really, just ma’s ex’s kid who hasn’t left (on account of his da disappearing over state lines and leaving him here) — and he got a faraway look in his eyes and he said, “like a rabbit. Rabbit in front of a coyote.”
But that’s not right. Rabbits don’t look frightened in front of coyotes; they don’t look like anything, only they shake. Their eyes look empty as ever. Her eyes wouldn’t look empty; they never look empty. There’s always something happening in them. She wouldn’t shake, either. She’d look at me and the door and me again, and shift her weight a bit. Tug the end of her skirt down, and then flinch when I’d look. I don’t mean to look, either, but my eyes twitch when I’m nervous. And I’d be nervous.
I think when you ask a girl to go somewhere, you have to find a place. My friend asked a girl to go somewhere and picked the park, but what do you do at the park? Before her birthday I had picked the movie theater, because she loves the movie theater and I wouldn’t have to talk at all save for at the beginning and at the end. The end would be all right, I think; just the beginning would be hard, but not that hard because we could talk about the movie. I like it best when she talks, because whenever I talk real slow she fills in the gaps, which is what I want when I talk like that, only when ma does that it’s always something about the yard.
I was going to ask her last month, but then I saw her come out of the theater when I was in the drugstore across the street, and so I had to wait for the next movie to move in, but then this month happened and she got press-on nails and now I can’t get them out of my head. Maybe she likes the nails more than she likes the movies. She looks at them a lot, and taps on the desk when class is moving slowly. Draws attention to herself. Sometimes she checks who’s looking at her, and I have to pretend like I’m doing the assignment even when I haven’t started it. I’m not staring at her, either. My eyes just rest on her.
Maybe I’m staring at her.
It’s winter.
It’s winter. Uncle says the birds are heading west, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The water on the lake’s frozen over. She asked me once if I thought anyone’s ever drowned down there. I see her at the mall sometimes when I run errands. She looks at me with wide eyes as I pass her, all in a rush, while I stare at the little drinks in her hands or the socks hugging her goose-chilled skin. The steam that curls up, and the bit of sweat that beads over her upper lip.
Someday, I tell the back of her head.
But not now.
Press-on nails, all pink and black and a pale sort of brown. White. Has a sticker on her index with a character I haven’t ever heard of. When she said it, it sounded like she was speaking a whole different language. I just nodded and sat at my desk.
The nails aren’t shoved into the beds like they used to be. There’s little pale half-moons under them, now that her nails have grown out a bit. Some of them have snapped, broken into jagged halves and pieces. Some are still intact. She laughs at herself when she messes things up because of them.
She got them for her birthday.
Her birthday was around a month ago. I don’t know; I don’t keep track. I mean, I do, but I try not to, try to mutilate the memories in my mind so she doesn’t know that I’m thinking about her. More than that — so I don’t know I’m thinking about her. I try not to. I do anyway.
Every day I think about asking to take her back to the nail salon. It’s on the other side of town, in the new mall that ma’s afraid to go in because she says they look at her funny. I tell her she’s just making things up, but I know the look they give her. The look they give me is different, but it hits the same way. Hers is disdainful, done with a tilt upwards of the nose; mine is shallowly frightened, done with a grasping of purses and taps of nails to the cash register. That tapping gets in your mind.
But I can’t take her to the nail salon, on account of it costing too much, and also on account of not knowing her well enough at all. Other people don’t get that. They tell you to just go for it and talk to her, but I can’t. I don’t want her to look at me like that. That one girl looked at me like that, back in secondary school. Looked from me to the door, as if checking to see if she still had a way out. So I have to know her first, because I don’t want her to be afraid of me.
I was trying to explain that to uncle — he isn’t my uncle, really, just ma’s ex’s kid who hasn’t left (on account of his da disappearing over state lines and leaving him here) — and he got a faraway look in his eyes and he said, “like a rabbit. Rabbit in front of a coyote.”
But that’s not right. Rabbits don’t look frightened in front of coyotes; they don’t look like anything, only they shake. Their eyes look empty as ever. Her eyes wouldn’t look empty; they never look empty. There’s always something happening in them. She wouldn’t shake, either. She’d look at me and the door and me again, and shift her weight a bit. Tug the end of her skirt down, and then flinch when I’d look. I don’t mean to look, either, but my eyes twitch when I’m nervous. And I’d be nervous.
I think when you ask a girl to go somewhere, you have to find a place. My friend asked a girl to go somewhere and picked the park, but what do you do at the park? Before her birthday I had picked the movie theater, because she loves the movie theater and I wouldn’t have to talk at all save for at the beginning and at the end. The end would be all right, I think; just the beginning would be hard, but not that hard because we could talk about the movie. I like it best when she talks, because whenever I talk real slow she fills in the gaps, which is what I want when I talk like that, only when ma does that it’s always something about the yard.
I was going to ask her last month, but then I saw her come out of the theater when I was in the drugstore across the street, and so I had to wait for the next movie to move in, but then this month happened and she got press-on nails and now I can’t get them out of my head. Maybe she likes the nails more than she likes the movies. She looks at them a lot, and taps on the desk when class is moving slowly. Draws attention to herself. Sometimes she checks who’s looking at her, and I have to pretend like I’m doing the assignment even when I haven’t started it. I’m not staring at her, either. My eyes just rest on her.
Maybe I’m staring at her.
It’s winter.
It’s winter. Uncle says the birds are heading west, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The water on the lake’s frozen over. She asked me once if I thought anyone’s ever drowned down there. I see her at the mall sometimes when I run errands. She looks at me with wide eyes as I pass her, all in a rush, while I stare at the little drinks in her hands or the socks hugging her goose-chilled skin. The steam that curls up, and the bit of sweat that beads over her upper lip.
Someday, I tell the back of her head.
But not now.