Nails by Janet Moffatt

I want to paint my nails. My mother says no. She says the look is stupid, that I’m only ten. She does not understand my urgent craving for the magical shades of glittering red and pink, brushes that transform dull beige into a shimmering rainbow. My friend, though not really my friend, slips me her spare jar during homeroom. The liquid is bright magenta in a container decorated with small stars. I paint myself at home, slopping the dark red onto my cuticles and fingertips. My mother’s car pulls up in the driveway, two hours early. There is no remover.