TBPA summer edition gold medalist 2016.
Alistair Flynn is a walking anxiety attack/accident waiting to happen.
Ridden by nightmares and peer pressure of being the jock of the block, his life takes a confusing turn when a hazel-eyed boy invites him...
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"What color do you want?" The nail technician asks.
"I think," I examine the rows of nail polish displayed for me. "I've never gone with a design."
"Do you want little stars or footballs?" She asks, painting my pinky nail with the base coat. "I'm so sorry, I don't usually paint a boy's nails."
"No, it's okay. I'm probably the only boy to have his nails painted," I excuse humorously.
"It is a first for me," she admits. "How about a base color with white blocks on it," she offers, picking out her next tools.
"That sounds good," I shrug.
"What shade?"
"The lightish-dark blue one," I point at a bottle containing glaucous polish, not glittered, not matte.
She picks out the chosen bottle, examining it right in front of her nose. Her face scrunches up at my choice, flickering her eyes between the bottle and me.
"That's a bit tacky for you, don't ya' think?"
"Why?" I sit back, kind of offended by her retort. I'm a boy—of course I like blue. I'm more into green and purple [not together], but I like blue too.
"It's so," she bites her cheeks, her eyes running over my body, "generic," she finishes. "You're gay, right, so you're supposed to like...like, pink."
"I'm not gay," I defend, corrugating my brows at her.
She guffaws from the core of her stomach, every echo of her diaphragm pushing air back into her mouth slicing into my skin deeper and deeper.
"Oh, dear boy, then why are you here, doing your nails? Manicures are for girls."
"Boys can get their nails done too," I argue, but my words don't come to her. Instead, she hears a whirl of air, nothing close to a voice.
"No darling," she argues, "only girls get manicures."
"So?"
A loud knock on the display window breaks my attention away from the bitch painting my nails, to Dani's face pressed to the window. He's laughing, plastering his putrid breath's moisture on the face of the glass.
"Alistair, is that you?" He laughs, his football buddies breaking out laughing behind him. "You're doing manicures? With your mom? Jesus, you should've been born with a pussy."
My jaw sets and my muscles clench. Even though I wish the walls were soundproof; they aren't. Instead, I can head every mocking name they can possibly call me, shattering the thin piece of glass protection layer I had left, exposing every cardinal part of me.
