He nodded, relieved she seemed to ignore the stupid way he was talking about nails. “I gotta go.” He started off, sucking in deep breaths, keeping his red face from her eyesight.
“Cort.” His name had never sounded so great. He had to turn and look at her one more time. She was smiling and it eased his insides a little. “I’m ready for that chal enge,” she said.
It was Miss Chachi’s temper. He’d only heard her mouth off in Vietnamese and had no idea what she was saying. Now, she was mixing her rants with broken English. He stayed by the door in case he needed a quick exit.
She banged cabinets, clacking and stomping in red stiletto shoes. Misu broke away from the whispering huddle of the girls and slid up front.
“What’s with her?” he whispered.
“She very angry. No client in two months of being open.
Very, very bad.”
“What can we do?”
“She run ad, she flash light, open door wide. She pul client in from street.”
Cort could believe that. The woman was strong in a deceptive way, kind of like a Chihuahua.
He fol owed Misu to the safety of the back where the girls stood, some filing their nails, others biting them, as they watched and waited for Miss Chachi’s orders.
Final y, she slammed her last cabinet and looked over, her eyes honing in on Cort. He bristled. She tapped right over to him, her finger wagging.
“We need client. You need bring client in. You beauty man, you know tons of people, you say.”
“Yeah, I do, but—”
“No but,” she snapped. “I hire you because you know people. Where are people? You tel me where people are.”
He swal owed, shrugged and looked toward the big picture window at the front of the store. He recognized three girls from school peering through the windows and quickly moved past Miss Chachi.
“Hey.” He opened the door and gave the girls his best smile. Bree, Megan and Shaylee, three of the hottest girls he knew—and they knew that he knew it. They returned flirty smiles, gathering around him.
“Hey, Cort.” Bree tossed some of her long, blonde-striped hair over a tan, bare shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced back into the salon, at the nodding grin Miss Chachi was sending him. “I work here.”
The girls’ eyes widened, they exchanged glances and giggles. “I told you,” Bree said.
“She thought she saw you coming in here last week.”
Megan posed, extending one bronzed leg near Cort for his appreciation. It was the dead cold of early spring, but that didn’t stop her from wearing her plaid miniskirt and short-sleeved shirt. “I told her no way.”
Cort leaned confidently against the door. “Wel , I do.”
“You do nails?” Bree asked.
“Sure do—great ones.”
“I’m having a set.” And with that, Bree was the first to enter the salon with a flip of hair over her shoulder.
“Me too.” Shaylee was fast to fol ow.
Cort grinned, and trailed the girls in.
Miss Chachi scurried up, al sunny smiles as Misu, Tiaki, Abby and Jasmine quickly filed to their respective tables and sat.
“Welcome, welcome to my nail salon.” Miss Chachi extended her arm in invitation. “You are here for nails or massage or manicure or pedicure or —”
“Yeah.” Bree nodded, looking around. “We want Cort to do our nails.”
“Very good.” Miss Chachi put her hand on Bree’s arm and gently escorted her to Cort’s table in the back. She sat her down in a chair with a pleasant shove.
“He do good nail for you. Cort!” She clapped her hands and Cort was there, sitting across from Bree, his face blushing red.
Miss Chachi fluttered over to the other girls. “You want nail too?” They nodded, shifting awkwardly. “Tiaki or Misu can give nice nail.”
“We’l wait for Cort,” Shaylee said.
Miss Chachi took them both by the elbows and led them to the big, fat pedicure chairs. “You sit. Have free pedicure while you wait. Jasmine and Abby do good pedicure for you, you see.” She assisted the delighted girls by setting aside their handbags and shoes, then helped them situate in the large, comfy chairs.
Jasmine and Abby were ready to begin before she clapped for them. They turned on the swirling warm water and gestured with their hands for Shaylee and Megan to lower their feet into the tubs.
Shaylee giggled. “Cool.”
“I’ve never had a pedicure,” Megan gushed.
Miss Chachi took one look at her feet and nodded, muttering something in Vietnamese that both Jasmine and Abby agreed to.
Bree sat forward with a flirtatious smile, both of her hands extended to Cort. “So, when did you start doing nails?”
Cort’s hands were trembling. His first client— scary—
but he could do it. She was only Bree, and they were friends after al . He took her hands in his. They were cool to the touch. “You cold?” he asked.
Her smile broadened. “Not anymore.”
He tried to keep an air of professionalism. She wiggled her fingers, rubbing them over his.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“About two weeks now.” He started sanding.
“So, how’s it going?”
He wasn’t about to tel her how dead the place had been.
“Great. Busy.”
Bree glanced around at the empty tables. “Yeah?”
“Tel me if I’m too rough,” he said, running the sander over her pinkie.
Because he was concentrating on her fingers, he missed the way she grinned and shot a look over at her friends.
“Did you see the way Carmen was dressed today?” Bree asked both girls, now having their feet scraped.
“Hideous,” Shaylee said.
Bree whipped out a laugh. “Those scarves tied everywhere were just too strange. She looked like a retarded gypsy.”
Megan nodded, watching Jasmine rub the scraper over her heel. “Like some gay fairy or something.”
“I heard she asked Kyle to the dance this weekend.”
“Nu-huh.”
“Yeah. Can you see them together? Fairy freaks.”
“She thinks she’s so hot.”
“When she’s real y just a loser.”
“But then so is he.”
“Total y.”
The girls laughed and continued their gossiping.
Cort was shocked. He kept his head lowered, his eyes on Bree’s hands and nails, but his ears were sponges, soaking up everything. He’d heard his sister talk about boys, life, and the angst of being a teenage girl, but it was nothing like this.
He thought he knew these girls; he’d even hung with them on occasion. But he’d never heard anything more than flirty syrup from their mouths. This was black tar. Did al girls talk so viciously about their friends? What did they say when they talked about people they hated?
They didn’t keep any of it quiet, he noticed. They laughed—loud, as if they were at a footbal game. Not that it mattered, the salon was empty.
“Ty’s such a loser.” Bree flung some hair over her shoulder. “I swear, the guy is so dense, he thinks I’d actual y go with him after he’s ignored me for three days.”
“So you’re not going with him to the dance?”
“I’d go.” Bree lifted a shoulder. “But he’s been so lame lately, and he’s so careless, I’m just going to let him suffer it out.”
Bree was dating one of the guys on the footbal team, Ty Morgan. As Cort began forming the first pink acrylic nail, he glanced at Bree. He used to think she was pretty cute but this was starting to bug him, the way she talked about people, his buddies.
“You talking about Ty?” To keep from being too nosey, he kept his eyes on her nail.
“Yeah. He’s been a real jerk lately. It’s been, like, three days since he’s cal ed me.”
Cort often let that many days go by between communications of any form with a girl. Had he been wrong al this time? He stopped forming the last nail on Bree’s hand and looked at her. “Maybe he’s busy.”
“So,” she said. “We’re, like, going out. That means texting if nothing else.” With her free hand, she dug into her purse, pul ed out her silver phone and pressed a few buttons. “See?
Not even a message. Creep.” She shoved the phone back.
Cort was confused. He knew Ty had a job, had gone from footbal team to basketbal team and was throat-deep in senior stuff. “He’s got practice after school, Bree.”
He formed her last nail and she leaned over and hissed,
“No matter what, I should come first.”
“You go girl,” Shaylee piped. Her toenails were being filed. “Careful there,” she told Jasmine.
Cort looked from Shaylee to Bree. “But the guy doesn’t even know—”
“—Exactly,” Bree said, tossing her hair back and looking her nails over. She smiled sweet as corn syrup. “They look awesome, Cortie. You’re amazing.”
He almost rol ed his eyes, too irritated with her to enjoy the compliment. He took her fingers. “I’m not done yet.” He began to sand the surfaces.
“Al I’m saying,” he started, “is give the guy a chance. He can’t help that he’s buried.”
“And al I’m saying,” Bree’s tone mimicked his, “Is that I should matter more or it’s over.”
“For sure.” Megan held up one foot, wiggled red-painted toes. “There’s tons more cocks in the barn.”
Bree and Shaylee nodded. “Like Chad or Ben.”
“Or John,” Megan added. “Wait, he’s with Jennifer now, isn’t he?”
Cort nodded. “Since the play.”
“That’s gay,” Bree said. “I wanted John.” Shaylee jangled her bracelets before running her hands through her hair, fluffing it. “Oh wel , Chad and Ben are plenty hot. I’m going for it if Derek doesn’t ask me.”
“Who you taking, Cort?” Bree smiled her white teeth deceptively clean and pure looking.
He shrugged but it was Rachel’s face that flashed in his mind. He wanted to ask her. But after hearing these girls talk like dogs in a junk yard, he wasn’t going to tel them anything. “I don’t know yet.”
Bree leaned close. “You could ask me. I may not be going with Ty.”
“Maybe, yeah.” He didn’t want to hurt her feelings—if she had any. He kept his eyes on his fingertips, feeling the smoothness of Bree’s nails. “You want color or white-tips?”
“That feels good, Cortie.” Immediately he stopped, and set up to paint. “It’s so cool that you do nails,” Bree cooed.
“You’re, like, the coolest guy ever, touching girls and stuff.”
“Yeah,” Megan agreed. “The coolest.”
Cort wanted to laugh. He had no idea that it was al about strategy, gossip and guys. Who was hot, who was an idiot. He didn’t know what he thought girls were about. He’d never thought about life from a girl’s perspective.
After he’d done al three of the girls’ nails, taken their twenty-eight dol ars apiece and their five dol ars each in tips, he felt like he needed to fal into one of those pedicure chairs and sleep. His brain buzzed with the high-pitch of girly chitchat, Miss Chachi’s enthusiasm for their very first sale, and the zipping hum of the sander.
Cort walked into his house and let out a sigh. Being home had never felt so good. The spicy scent in the air instantly comforted him. He’d often seen his mom look the way he felt—dead to the world tired—and for the first time he understood what it was like for her to go to work al day.
He dropped his backpack to the floor, peeled out of his coat and plopped on the soft linen-white couch in the living room. He wasn’t al owed to set foot in the museum-quality room his mom had decorated and set aside only for guests, but he was the only one home so he took advantage and it felt wickedly good.
Until he heard somebody clear their throat.
His sister, Lizzie, was smiling through narrowed eyes.
“Get lost,” he told her and shut his eyes.
“Fine,” she said. “I’l just tel Mom that her only son, who’s old enough to know better, was sprawled on her favorite couch when she gets home in three seconds because she just cal ed me on her cel phone and told me to open the garage door for her.”
Cort jumped up. “You would.” He straightened the pil ows, fluffed the couch. “Garage door broken again?”
“Uh-huh.” Lizzie fol owed him into the kitchen like an annoying gnat. She sniffed. “What
is
that smel ?”
Cort stopped and lifted his arm pit.
“Not
that
,” Lizzie said, coming around to face him.
She stepped close for another whiff before putting amicable distance between them again. “Like…nail polish.”
Afraid his face would give him away, Cort went to the refrigerator and opened it. “Your nose needs an overhaul.”
“No, that’s definitely nail polish.”
Seeing carrots and celery, surrounded by apples, oranges and bananas, he shut the door with a groan. He needed real food, chips, salsa, bean dip and cheese. “There’s nothing to eat.”
“Why do you stink of acetone?”
“Why don’t you stick your head in a hole?” He rummaged through the cupboards. His mother breezed in wearing her usual navy suit, navy hose and navy shoes. Her briefcase was in one hand, her cel phone in the other, pressed to her ear.
“Yes, Celia. Fine. We’l talk tomorrow.” She clicked off the phone and let out a sigh as she set her briefcase on the counter. Having caught Cort’s food search she said, “Don’t bother. I got rid of everything unhealthy.”
Cort shut the last cupboard and leaned his brow against it with a loud sigh.
“What kind of mother would I be if I let my children feed themselves garbage?” she reiterated. “I might as wel pul up the trash tote and plunk you both down in front of it for dinner.”
Cort turned, folded his arms. His mother was on another one of her jags. This time it involved food—what not to eat.
Rarely had her various jags affected him. There was the time when she made them al rise at four in the morning just to go running together as a family – something about early exercise and family togetherness. That lasted until winter set in and her mascara-covered lashes had frozen like spider legs.
And the time she insisted they buy a hot tub for therapeutic reasons. Some study she’d read said hot water cleansed the spirit as wel as the body.