“After nail made, let dry. You move onto next nail. After dry, sand again.” Miss Chachi grabbed the sander and it buzzed. Cort grimaced, checking Misu’s calm face for any signs of discomfort but the girl sat like a statue.
“Feel.” Extending Misu’s hand toward him, Miss Chachi indicated he was to touch the nail for himself. He did. The texture was smooth as plastic.
Miss Chachi then lifted a four inch buffer. “Then buff.
Feel.”
Sure enough, the surface of Misu’s nail was like silk and Cort nodded. Easy. He could do this. No problem.
Miss Chachi squeezed gold oil onto Misu’s cuticle and massaged it in. “Last step, oil cuticle. Massage in, like this.”
After the treatment was finished, Misu rose from the chair. Miss Chachi spoke, “Client wash oil away. If oil not washed away, it make polish bubble and look bad. Lady not like that. They complain, come back, demand new nail. It cost money.” She chirped out something in another language and the women nodded, muttering replies.
Misu came back, sat and placed her hand out for Miss Chachi who took her finger again. “Most lady want color.
They pick color, you paint. You know how to paint?”
He nodded. He’d painted plenty; the garage door after the pep squad had spray painted
Hottie
across it in bril iant blue. The living room wal after he’d kicked a hole in it when he’d been chasing his sister who had stolen his journal and read some of it. He knew painting.
“Misu have white tip. We air brush. Watch. It easy, you see.”
Miss Chachi held a smal , gun-like contraption in her fingers and arranged a paper shaped crescent over Misu’s nail as she sprayed white. When she removed the crescent, there was a white tip. Misu held her finger up with a smile.
“Cool,” Cort said.
Laughter broke out around him and he smiled at the little women who began chatting.
Miss Chachi stood next to him and Misu was replaced by Abby. “Your turn.”
Cort looked at Miss Chachi through tentative, wide eyes.
“Me?”
The women laughed again. Miss Chachi nudged him around the table and into the warm seat. “You. Do it.”
Cort’s heart pounded. He looked at Abby’s hands splayed on the paper towel before him, at her bare nails. Paint, pink, nails. Women. Could he real y do this?
Four faces peering over Abby’s shoulder with smiles told him that he could.
Cort walked down the hal a new man. He figured he was the only guy at Pleasant View High School who could do nails. Not that he’d advertise his new skil . He was stil pretty tentative about the fact that he did nails for a living.
Wel ,
would
be doing nails. He’d been working at Miss Chachi’s for one week now and had yet to do nails on anybody but Misu, Tiaki, Jasmine and Abby, al of whom had kindly al owed him to do multiple practice sets, until Miss Chachi gave her nod of approval.
The tiny little woman was a tyrant when it came to nails, he decided. One week into employment and she was cursing in her native tongue, which he’d learned was Vietnamese, every time he screwed up.
Al of the girls who worked for Miss Chachi— as she wanted them to cal her— were Vietnamese. They were a close-knit group, but he could tel they were al trying to make him feel part of it.
It was kind of cool being the only guy working at the nail salon. The girls al liked him and because they were older, they treated him like a little brother al gushy the second he walked in the door from school.
He laughed, and pushed open the door to Miss Tingey’s classroom. Yeah, he’d had enough experience with girls to qualify himself as a stud. Girls had always liked him and, he’d always liked girls—except his sister, who he loathed most of the time. She seemed to exist only to torment him.
But girls in general were pretty fascinating.
He sat at his desk, nodded a greeting at some girls staring at him before he looked at Miss Tingey, writing the journal entry of the day on the blackboard: How ego affects our actions.
Miss Tingey was hot. Cort tried not to be obvious with his glances. She had great legs; al the guys knew that, even talked about it. He liked her because she was one of them, not condescending like some of the teachers or administrators at the school.
Cort slapped palms with the only guy in class he talked to, Kevin Mackerel. Being smarter than most of his friends had its drawbacks, leaving him in honors classes without anybody to hang with but second choice friends like Kevin.
Kevin plunked into the seat next to him, his shaggy blonde hair looking like he’d just rol ed out of bed.
“Dude, sleep in?” Cort asked on a laugh. He himself never came to school unless he’d showered, had to shave, which didn’t happen too often thankful y, and he was casual y coordinated.
Kevin yawned and sat back, extending long legs. “Was up chasing freaking deer out of my mom’s garden al night.”
“
What?
”
“Gotta put up some stakes with hair and dried corn on
‘em.” Kevin wiped his hands down his heavy-eyed face. “So I can get some sleep.”
Cort shook his head. “Hair?”
“Hair freaks ‘em out. Or so I hope. Until then, I’m chasing them around like a freaking dog, freezing my butt off so my mom’s scotch pines don’t get eaten.”
“Just put netting over them.” Cort knew deer could ravage a yard in one night if certain plants weren’t protected; their own yard had bushes wrapped up tight for the winter to protect from foraging.
Kevin shrugged. Miss Tingey started class.
Cort looked over where Rachel Baxter usual y sat. He hadn’t seen her come in, something he watched for because she walked like a goddess.
He’d never seen a girl walk like she was saying come get me and you can’t have me at the same time.
Her desk was empty when the bel shril ed. Then the door opened and he sat forward, his heart thumping. When she came in, the room hushed.
Even Miss Tingey looked at her.
Today she wore blue jeans with random cuts and slices in the denim. Her black shirt had sleeves that hung long and weepy. She looked hot in black and wore it al the time so Cort figured she must know it.
Her hair was the color of mink and just as shiny and silky hanging down her back. He wanted to know what it felt like and his fingertips rubbed together absently.
She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, like the sapphires his mom had. Rachel’s eyes were big and round and slanted in a way that reminded him of a kitten. Somewhere inside of him warmed fast. She looked like a kitten, but a wickedly hot kitten you weren’t sure would rub against you or claw your eyes out.
She never greeted anyone when she came in. She sat, primly erect, ready to listen. Part of that untouchable thing, Cort guessed. She took school seriously and lucky for him, they shared al of their honors classes.
It was safe to glance over because she’d never look at him.
Why, he didn’t know. Every other girl stared at him. Why didn’t she?
Suddenly, he was looking into those deep blue cat eyes and his breathing stopped. Before he could give her one of his studly nods, she looked back at Miss Tingey.
“You have five minutes to write your journal entries,”
Miss Tingey said. The class immediately began to scribble in their notebooks.
I have no idea how ego affects behavior, Cort thought with aggravation. He’d missed his chance to impress Rachel and was pissed.
I don’t even have an ego
. He drew lines.
Egos are for celebrities and rich people. Sure, we have money and live in a big house but, so?
He began to write.
Why don’t the chicks we like ever like us back?
Even as he wrote, he knew the question was gross exaggeration. He’d had lots of girls he liked, like him. But things were different now. He was different. He was a senior, going into his last half of the year and for the first time, he didn’t have a girlfriend because he’d had enough of arm candy. Nobody interested him.
He glanced over at Rachel Baxter. Something tingled deep in his chest. Her profile was perfect. Her flirty nose was smal and pretty, and to admire another angle of those pouty lips—any guy would be blind not to notice how chewable they looked from any perspective.
Sweat broke under his armpits, around his col ar. He shifted in his seat, gnawing on his pencil eraser. He had to get to know her, that was al there was to it. But they’d never hung in the same crowd.
His was the hot crowd. Hers was smal and elite. In fact, she had only two close friends, associate babes Ticia Levin and Jennifer Vienvu. The three of them were legendary for always being in the center of the most random group of guys; guys that ranged from band geeks to computer geniuses, to a few select jocks. Most of whom Cort had ever hung with. Now, he was jealous of that. The girls were most definitely babes, but exclusive babes that, to his knowledge, no man—not even those in their random circle, had been able to crack.
What would he find if he cracked that elusive Baxter outer shel ? He’d heard she was raucously funny, bril iantly off-beat, a total stud-woman. But he found it hard to believe, watching her primly writing in her notebook. It would be cool if she was, like she’d show only that secret part of herself to those real y close to her.
“Mr. Davies,” Miss Tingey said, startling him. “Share your thoughts with us.”
Cort sat up, nervously tapping his pencil on the desk.
His page had nothing but a grumpy complaint on it. “I need more time,” he said.
“Miss Baxter,” Miss Tingey said and Cort forgot finishing his own work. Rachel was going to speak.
She cleared her throat. “Ego is an invisible if not integral part of personality,” she began. Cort loved the sound of her voice, cream and spice. “Every person has one, whether they know it, or admit it, or not. It’s what drives us to do what we do, say what we say for social acceptance. Some people’s ego is worn on the cuff, like your basic cheerleaders or jocks. They’re too shal ow to know better. While others carry theirs deep inside.”
Cort’s face drew tight. What the hel was she talking about? He didn’t like her assessment and cleared his throat, bringing eyes to him. But not hers – she kept reading her notebook. “In fact,” she went on, “jocks and other superficial people model their egos after what they think is social y acceptable, rather than exploring who they real y are.”
Miss Tingey had that smile of satisfaction she got whenever somebody hit the intel ectual y stimulating mark.
“Very good, Rachel. Anybody agree, disagree?” Cort raised his hand because her words had hit him like an arrow. “I disagree.”
He was ready to shoot an arrow back but when those mystic-blue cat eyes slid to his, his arrow drooped. “Uh, wel , it just sounds kind of generalized, that’s al . There are exceptions.”
He couldn’t believe it, Rachel’s left eyebrow slowly lifted and her blue eyes were wickedly playful. The look shot another arrow straight to his gut. It lodged there with painful pleasure. Her lips curved into a smile.
“Of course there are exceptions,” Rachel said to him, the cream of her voice spil ing into his veins. “Though I have yet to see any.”
Was she daring him? If she was, it was freaking hot and he’d take her up on it— absolutely.
“There are some generalities about ego and behavior, for sure,” Miss Tingey said. “When attacked, an ego defends itself, feeling like its position must be justified, even if that position is inaccurate. A person whose ego does not drive them wil be secure in their motives, and not jump to defense every time something is said that threatens them. Finish up your entries.”
After class, Cort trailed a cool few feet behind Rachel. It was hard to listen to Kevin who walked with him down the crowded hal , droning on about deer, about how much hair he’d col ected from his mother’s hair brush. So Cort focused on the easy sway of Rachel’s hips, the way she occasional y flung that long, silky hair over her shoulder, fil ing the air with the smel of something sweetly tempting she washed it in.
He had to talk to her.
“So I’ve got about a zip-lock bag’s worth of hair now,”
Kevin muttered. “Al I need is about four stakes, some corn cobs, which wil be frickin’ hard to find since corn season is way over, and—”
“Gotta go dude, catch you later.” Cort positioned himself in the crowd next to Rachel. Their shoulders rubbed.
Casual y, he looked over. She was nearly as tal as he was, and he liked that. He could look straight into her eyes.
“Hey,” he said.
She quickly skimmed his face and the act heated his skin.
“Hey.”
“Was that a chal enge back there?” he asked.
She lifted a shoulder. She had the greatest smile he’d ever seen on a girl, not too wide because her mouth was smal and delicate. But there was power behind it. “It can be.”
“You think al jocks are ego maniacs?”
“So far.”
“I’m going to prove you wrong.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She stopped and the crowd streamed around them. He felt eyes, heard whispers but didn’t care. In fact, he relished them.
Let it be known I’m now hanging with this beautiful creature.
“How are you going to do that?” Her voice oozed inside of him.
He had no idea, so he shrugged. But he’d spend the rest of the day and however long into the night he needed until he figured it out. “Just be ready.”
Something sparkled just at her chest where she held her black binder. Her nails. White-tipped and the pinkies had a diamond in each corner.
“Hey, your nails look great,” he said before he could think not to.
She looked surprised and held her hand out to look at them. “Wow, that was random. Thanks. But they need to be done again.”
He swal owed embarrassment. “They look good.” Then he glanced around. The hal was thinning, growing quiet. “Go to Miss Chachi’s. They do great nails there.”
Her face twisted in a look that made his stomach crimp.
What had he done? Buried himself before he’d gotten a chance to take a breath? He wanted to die.
“I saw that place. It’s new, isn’t it?” she asked.