A fine line of white light shone across the boy’s empty room. His heart beat in time with every step he took, echoing just a little too loud and a little too real in the silent night. By the time he made it to the bathroom down the hall, he had almost convinced himself to go back approximately twenty seven times. The boy locked the door, the bolt falling into place with a sickening thud. It was only then that he dared open his hand to reveal a small glass bottle of blue nail polish. A gift from his new neighbors, after they noticed him admiring their nails. He slowly, gingerly unscrewed the cap, marveling at the color as he held it up against the light, before ever so gently pressing the long brush to the nail of his right pointer finger.
Each stroke of paint felt like rebellion, like freedom. His lines were jagged and uneven, but they were his own. His cheeks turned a lively pink, his breathing quickened, his heart raced. He reveled in the new feeling of cool, wet paint against his nails. The room was filled with the smell, like rubbing alcohol used on scraped knees and schoolyard scratches. The boy couldn’t get enough of it. He took no note of the passing of time until he was done, too lost in his euphoria. The boy watched his nails through the entirety of the time it took them to dry. He watched as the shiny, wet paint turn more matte and dull, but no less exciting, as it dried, the blue a mix of clear morning skies and summer pool trips with his friends.
Morning came all too soon for the boy. Nonetheless, he could not afford to oversleep today. Pulling on his winter gloves he made his way out of his room before heading downstairs.
“Disgusting ain’t it kid, downright unnatural.” His mother was in her usual spot, reclined in her far too large chair, making far too large remarks that weren’t all that large to him anymore. He expected them and was more unsettled by their rare absence than their constant presence. She could be talking about any number of things, but as long as he kept his head down and nodded when she wanted him to, all was well. It was easier to do that when he didn’t pay too much attention. When he could pretend she was talking about something he hated too. “Just like those freaks next door.” He flinched. It was no longer anonymous, and they had been so kind to him. “Don’t you go near them. Nothing but trouble that bunch.” He nodded and glanced up at the tv to see what he was agreeing with. It was a story about two girls, a couple, who had survived a recent shooting in his hometown. The boy left before he could hear any more.
The day was no longer or shorter than usual. The kids were no better or worse. Their voices didn’t seem to differ too strongly from his mother’s or the news reporter’s. In english he heard quiet exchanges and snips of “that's so gay” as his class read texts on the stark realities of past prejudices. Teachers asked why the boy was wearing his gloves all day. He told them he was cold. He would take off his gloves if, and only if, he was sure he was alone. The boy would hold his hand up like a jeweler would a sapphire or lapis lazuli, admiring the color as he had the night before. In math he heard one kid boasting about how his older brother shot a deer, finishing the story with a flourish and a pose as another kid told their group his brother had “gone hunting for fags.” They all laughed at this, five of them. The boy didn’t find much humor in their exchange. When lunch came around the boy walked through empty halls and corridors until he found the corner only he knew, three rights and four lefts, not in that order. He ate with his gloves folded beside him. The boy didn’t find much humor in any of it. He held his tongue. He counted thirteen times that day he wished he hadn’t.
Walking home, the brisk air reddened his nose and brought tears to his eyes. The boy saw couples walking, young and old, hand in hand. They looked so at peace. So right. The couples would look back at him from time to time, wondering what he could hope to find in the space between them. As the boy approached his own street he saw his mother speaking to the new neighbors. ‘Speaking’ was a kind cushion to put on her words, the kind you would give a child so they didn’t worry. The neighbor's house was covered in splattered eggs and half rotten tomatoes, and two windows were smashed in. There was red spray paint everywhere of words he didn’t care to read and symbols he didn’t care to count. His neighbors waved, he ducked his head, but his mother's condescension had already become rage.
The boy counted almost thirty minutes before she came in. Only twenty seven seconds short. The door slammed so hard he felt in his chest like bass from a speaker. He could see it in her. Like an iron in the fire glowing hotter and hotter with every moment, blinding and painful to the eyes of all those around her. To him. At him. She loomed over him, snatching the gloves off his hands in one swipe. He didn’t have time to flinch. Ten fingers inhumanely still. Her eyes zeroed in on his nails and without a word she pointed to the bathroom. He went.
The boy had never painted his nails before, nor had he ever wanted to get said paint off. He tried washing his hands, scrubbing them, even scraping with a nail file from his mother’s drawer. Nothing would work. In the end he decided to take a shower, at the very least it would buy him time. He heard the crashing before the first drops of water could even hit his back. There were three. Just down the hall, his room. He knew what she was looking for. He knew she would find it. He scrubbed his hands until they were red and raw, cracked, almost bleeding. He heard his mother howl “It’s for your own good” as she cast away his paint and gloves “your safety!” The shampoo bubbles popping gently against his cheek felt almost identical to the numbness behind his face after shedding too many tears, so much so he wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t what he was feeling. He slowly reached up to wipe his cheek, counting thirty six bubbles in his palm before they all popped.
The boy spent that night reassembling his room. His clothes had been cast out across the grey shag carpeted floor. His bookshelf was emptied. Drawers were hanging out of his desk at mismatched angles. Again he lost sleep. He didn’t bother checking for what was gone.
Morning came. The boy didn’t have need for his gloves even if he had them. He laid in bed and watched the sun peek in through his curtains before getting up and making his way downstairs. His mother was in her chair watching the news as usual. She called him over, holding his hands as lightly as she could as if in fear of disease, though in no way gently. His nails were brittle and cracked. The ends of his fingers were riddles with small scabs and tears from the endless scrubbing. There was no blue left. The boy’s mother inspected his nails with a level of disdain typically reserved for news stories and neighbors. He supposed he had entered that category now, and a scene crossed his mind in which he nodded along while she said he was “Nothing but trouble.” As soon as she let go of his hands the boy was headed out the door for school again.