While I uncapped the fire station red, he fiddled with the string of his hoodie. The hue was a vivid red, sparkling and smooth for an effortless finish, according to the photo at the Target nail station. In person, it appeared slightly rusted and lacked the final gloss. I gave it a good shake, but I'd had the hue for at least three years, if not more, and there was no way to match the brand-new glitz. Maybe it was better that way, closer to an actual fire station, with little flecks of dust, rain, and muck attached to the vehicles after years of service.
I'd only worn it once, possibly at Christmas when Mom insisted on matching. She liked to color code according to the seasons, but when I did use nail paint or polish, I tended to keep to blue and silver, the sea's colors.
He buried his left palm into the carpet, pushing past the stains from previous sleepovers with tiny girls, and placed his right hand in mine. I asked him if he wanted to apply it himself one more time because I was notorious for smearing, chipping, and letting flecks of lacquer smear past the nail. He conveyed his displeasure with the situation by shaking his head. I was the only one who got to enjoy myself.
Painting his nails would have been easier if he didn't shake so much. I'd placed the remover next to the colors on the floor in case he wanted to take it off straight away, like I'd promised we would. If he didn't want to, he wouldn't go home, wouldn't walk into his house with red nails. It would take bravery, and if he didn't have it today, we'd have to start all over again tomorrow. I'd do it and reverse it as many times as he wanted because, in the end, It was never my property in the first place.
I took a breath, and he squinted his eyes as he watched me draw the first brilliant red line. It was the color of a flame standing alone on a dark summer night, and it went with his sneakers and sweatshirts. It was bright and red, and I managed to paint an entire nail without coloring outside of the cuticle lines, which was a miracle. There are nine more to go. I snatched the back of his hand with my own and pinned him to the ground. He'd wait until I was through before passing judgment on the sacred ceremony.
If all went well, he'd show up at school with red nails on Monday. In his sleeveless hoodie with two layers of shirts underneath and nails as red as, well, the Red Sea, he'd be a sight to behold. The Sea of the Deceased is a place where the dead are buried. Perhaps not the most appropriate
parallel. I chose to suppress my thoughts and go on to the next nail.
Maybe if he wore painted nails to school, the girl who sat next to him in math class and showed him hundreds of drawings from her sketchbook while smiling at him with whitened teeth would finally leave him alone. Perhaps he wouldn't have to escor anyone to and from the Giant, or offer basketball games. Perhaps he could finally sit alone and study, breaking down complicated math into basic forms and experimenting with intricate logic. Alternatively, he may be free to message Steven or Sterling, or whatever the name of the discord nerd was. I only shook my head when he mentioned his desire to be alone. It's overrated to be alone.
With three rapid beats, the microwave signaled the end of the popcorn process, just as I finished one hand. I grabbed it and pinned it down as he began to wave it around in the air. He had no intention of letting the liquid run and destroying my meticulous job. No, not yet. As I ran to the other room to get the popcorn, he scrutinized it with a careful eye and feelings I couldn't fathom.
The popcorn was for me because he couldn't bear how the kernels got stuck in his teeth, and if I ate it, he wouldn't snack and smear his nails. My actions were well planned and executed. In the original version of the plan, I rushed him into his house and past his father under the guise of a last-minute homework panic. That plan was abandoned because he feared he'd be grounded for months if his father suspected he went out before finishing all of his homework, let alone before learning about the nails.
I ate a handful of popcorn from the bowel with the leaves around the rims and wiped the delicious grease off my fingers before moving on to the other hand. He tapped his feet on the ground in alternating patterns, one-two, one-two, one-two-three, like a band kid. I was glad we were working on the carpet at the time because, even if I spilled and made another red stain, we weren't bothering my mother on the phone with frantic tapping or worried beats. I waved the brush away and told him he could use the other hand to play a dumb video game, and he eagerly accepted.
It was probably a mistake to introduce him to the jumping jelly game because he became fascinated with beating my high score and neglected to take Alyssa to the mall, causing her to throw a fit. He'd came to me anxious about how to reconcile with her over it, and he didn't like my approach of pretending he'd done it on purpose. I'd told her, "Just stop being so kind to everyone and start learning how to say no." But the mere thought of saying no sent him into a pacing and beatboxing frenzy, causing him to execute air percussion on any surface and lose himself in attempting to figure out video game themes' backgrounds.
He began to hum softly at that point, a piece of music from Legends of Zelda, or possibly one of the others. I tried so hard to appreciate the appeal of video games, but something about the displays drew me in, failing to capture my attention in the same way that real-life individuals did. Instead, he was engrossed, dragged into the one kind of world he truly loved, calculating routes and strategizing as he breezed through epic scale conflicts for as long as his father would allow. Then it was back outside to deal with the insignificant folks.
Hundreds of people who didn't matter spoke to him on a daily basis. I was still astounded that he remembered all of their names. There were the strange art girls, the cool freaks, the sports jocks, the math nerds, the noisy theatrical students, and the kids who didn't fit into any of the categories but talked to him anyhow because he was awesome. He was cool and popular because he would say yes to almost anyone for anything and would go out of his way to see it through. His father grinned as he watched him out with a different group of folks every time.
His father didn't like me either. However, I was a girl, queer, and way too loud, which gave many people reasons to dislike me. It rolled off my shoulders into a sea of pity, with no fucks offered. To him, it was incredible that I could be so unconcerned. Because he couldn't comprehend, I chose to grin instead of telling him about the sorrow of sitting alone, the pain of being alone. We had the same problems, lived in different worlds, and were almost the same color on the color wheel. My mother didn't pay attention to me, and his father wouldn't let him be alone. But there are moments when I wish I had said anything, that I had taken the time to say something different, something more genuine. Perhaps that would have altered the outcome. But my brain kept reminding me that his nails were red and mine were blue, and red and blue only ever got alone in lovely violet, the soft haven, in brief periods.
In our delicate purple moment, I sat up and inspected his hand. When he realized I was done, he dropped his phone on the carpet and peered nervously around my head. I placed one more swipe onto his thumb, beyond the angry red burn lines on his wrists, and eventually laid his hand down, content with the mess. He remained motionless for another while, as if scared that if he moved, I would kill him, but then he slowly brought his hand into his chest and held all his fingers side by side. In our tiny purple sessions, he was careful and deliberate in a manner he was never fully outdoors. I lightly patted his knee, then went about my business of gathering paper towels and looking for the stray popcorn kernels that littered the floor.
To witness my tiny heart attack, he gave me a frightened grin and blew on his nails. “I adore it,” he said quietly, as if he didn't want anyone to hear him. “I knew you'd do it,” I said with a shake of my head.
As the days turn into weeks, months, and years, the list of things I wish I'd said becomes longer by the day. While we all nurse our collective regrets, he sleeps there and breathes, hooked to a necessary machine in a frigid white room with gentle caregivers who only let in family, he lays there and breathes.
As soon as he returns, I swear I'll paint his nails again. I vow I'll do it.
The very first thing I wish I'd told him, and the start of my regrets, is that he looked great with his fingernails painted fire station red.
Thanks for take time to read.