French-Tipped Nails
by Pilar García Guzmán
University of the Incarnate Word
Pilar García Guzmán is a writer and occasional poet from Santiago, Dominican Republic. She has a Bachelor of Arts in English with minors in Creative Writing and Finance from University of the Incarnate Word. She is currently working on her first novel and aspires to be a book editor at a publishing house. This upcoming Fall semester, Pilar will begin a new journey at Florida Atlantic University to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.
Charlie is beautiful. Pure, unsullied beauty. It’s hard for me to keep it in most of the time, how much I admire her. How my body aches to be one with her. How I wish, at times, to be her. Sometimes I pull at the skin of my hips to see the indent of my pelvic bone, like Charlie’s during last week’s school assembly, when she wore those jeans that were much too baggy on her. I could’ve fit my entire arm down her pants, if I’d been close enough.
It’s upsetting really, how gorgeous Charlie is. Like that time Tony Henderson went up to her and asked her to go with him underneath the bleachers and he tucked her hair back from her face, his bulky, chapped fingers, cutting at the softness of her cheeks. But Charlie said no, of course. It was Gemma Fiendstein instead who joined him. She is a whore.
The first time I speak to Charlie, I don't expect her to be the one to make the first move. She sits by me during free period, takes in the row of earrings along both my ears. “Is that one new?” she asks, pointing at my cartilage. My hand itches. I want to rub her earlobe, see if her piercings are as crooked as mine. Feel if her skin there is fuzzy like peach rind. “Yeah, I got it a few nights ago actually,” I reply. And it’s a lie. It’s been three months since I got it done, but I can’t tell Charlie that it’s my fault and that the swelling and itchiness are all because I always forget to wash it twice, and that when puss comes out as I change out my earrings I just ignore it and pretend I can’t feel the oozing and dripping down my neck. “It looks great, make sure it heals right,” she says, “I can give you some tips over lunch.”
**
When Charlie eats her chocolate bar at the cafeteria, her lips pucker with every bite. I watch her from the edge of my seat, entranced by the practiced movement of her fingers, how she sucks at them as she eats. She stares at me in between bites. Charlie never says anything when she notices I watch her. Instead, she shakes her head a little, her mouth tilts a little, and I know she likes the attention more than a little. “You’re very quiet,” she says, “I'm not used to quiet. My friend Barb never stops talking.” Charlie leans over the table and grabs a handful of fries from my tray, her purple-tipped, French manicure coated in the excess oil of the food. I wonder if Charlie minds that she’s messing them up. Because Charlie likes being different. She likes it when people notice these things. And I always notice. “It's fucking annoying if I’m being honest,” Charlie says. “What is?” I reply. “Barb’s blabbering,” she says, “I like you better than her already.”
Since then, Charlie always sits with me during lunch. She knows she never needs to ask.
**
Keeping up with Charlie is harder than I expect because Charlie is not as forthcoming as I hoped. She never really tells me the things about her that I ought to know. So, when Charlie invites me for a sleepover, I make sure to brush my teeth twice and pack the new magazines I started reading, the ones she likes, in case she goes through my bag. Make my intimacy evident to her in any way I can. Show Charlie how innocuous my familiarity with her would be. That she can trust me.
Charlie and I play house. I throw away the trash from the takeout we ordered, as she searches for a movie for us to watch. Her bedroom is the one furthest down the hall, and when we settle on her bed, Charlie sits right next to me. Our thighs touch. Hers are smoother than mine, though with stubble and ingrown hairs she complains a lot about. I pretend to readjust, rub my skin against hers, feel the heat of her blood through her skin as it courses through her limbs.
Charlie falls asleep while watching the movie, and I go through the trashcan next to her desk. One movie stub, fourteen ripped pieces of paper, and fifty three MilkyWay bar wrappers. I turn to Charlie as she lies on her bed, focus on her tummy and the indenture that sits right above her belly button, the pink hue of her skin there makes me think she touches it a lot — I wonder, for a moment, if someone besides her has caressed the wrinkles that fade in and out as she breathes. But I can’t picture Charlie eating that much. I didn’t know she liked sweets that much. Charlie is not sweet.
Charlie is the sour smell of the rain as it soaks on the ground, the aftertaste of blood after you suck on your most recent paper cut, the burn in your mouth as you hold back bile and rejoice in the satisfaction of never letting anything out. Charlie is all and none of those things.
I grab one of the candy bar wrappers. I am sure Charlie won’t notice. I stash it on the front pocket of my bag and make plans for it, for later on.
**
The funny thing about people is that they are always worse than they seem. We are good at hiding who we are and, eventually, the act is up. There is always a chip in the glass. A smear on the canvas we carefully craft. I never thought that would happen with Charlie.
Charlie, who doodles on napkins when others are talking. Charlie, who never comes over to my house after school because she is always tired. Charlie, who while laying on the grass underneath the bleachers of the football field, as we skip fourth period, asks me if I think Benny Fredrickson is into her.
Benny, who wears wrinkled T-Shirts of bands he’s never listened to. Benny, whose teeth are yellow from the coffee we can always smell on his breath, because fucking Benny sleeps around with any girl that will put out and spread her legs long enough for him to get his business done.
That’s who Charlie is asking me about right now. That’s whose attention she’s seeking out now. “Why do you care?” I say, the annoyance in my voice tinging each word. “Because I’m trying to get laid, Amaya, keep up.” Charlie says.
Charlie’s interest in me clearly does not last very long. It is evident that I am nothing to her — nothing like her. Charlie doesn’t notice how I always throw away the trash she leaves on the bottom of her backpack, how I always make sure to remove the pickles they put on the cafeteria sandwiches or else she won’t eat them, and how I’ve gotten used to the smell of her neck the rare times she hugs me, and I hold myself back from licking her pulse, the light blue vein I can always make out at the base of her neck.
But Charlie won’t let up, and the next day she asks me again. Whether he flirted with her earlier at the cafeteria. And I say, “I’m not sure,” while Dutch-braiding Charlie’s hair, making two, one on each side of her head so we match, “I've never really talked with him before.” That’s a lie. Benny hit on me once too. Licked his front teeth with the tip of his tongue while he did so. Charlie doesn’t question me though, and I’m not sure if that means she believes me or not. “I don’t think he’s good for you. You can do better than him,” I say. Charlie smiles.
I’m not sure what that means either.
**
Benny’s street is quiet at night. And dark. There aren’t many cars or people around. But I can make out Benny’s house. I can make out Charlie on the front porch as she kisses his chapped, dry lips good night.
She stands there for a while, I’m not sure why, and frankly, I don’t give a fuck because why would Charlie choose him out of all people instead of someone who listens to her when she talks and talks and reassures her as she stares at the bathroom mirror with her top half off and complains about how her waist is too wide and her hips too small.
I focus on Charlie as she finally leaves. Benny doesn’t even bother to walk her to the curb as she waits. I wonder who is picking her up. Maybe someone else she hasn’t told me about, another secret she decided to keep from me that blankets her like barbed wire, keeping me away. Stopping me from getting too close. Though Charlie doesn’t know that I am willing to bleed for her. I will cut myself up and leave the pieces behind. For her.
I don’t make any noise as I approach her, grabbing her roughly by the arms as I pull her back, covering her mouth with my forearm to keep her from crying out.
I hold her against the side of the porch and Charlie sees my eyes for the first time. She relaxes, which makes me feel good, just a little. Though her comfort enrages me more than a little.
So it’s easy for me to push her to the floor— it’s soothing as I hook my legs around her arms so she can’t move around. And Charlie doesn’t do much as I wrap my hands around her neck, focusing on my thumbs at the base. My fresh, purple french-tipped nails that I got done specially for her glistening against Charlie’s skin. They match, as her neck bruises and purples. Her body numbs and eventually stops fidgeting underneath me.
I don’t let go for a while. I wonder what Charlie would think of this. Of me on top of her, for once. Me, in power.
But I know Charlie. Better than anyone. So I know Charlie would understand. She would understand if she knew how she made me feel. Charlie would know that this wasn’t really my fault at all.
I stand up quietly and pull out the MilkyWay wrapper from my pocket. I lick the inside, the subtle smell of curdled milk nauseating, though revealing. I press it against Charlie’s cheek. It sticks. The reflection of the moonlight against it brings out the color of her eyes.