Page 40 of As You Walk On

Case in point: our nails should be polish-free. Dirty nailbeds might even get you bonus points if it gives people the illusion you’ve been working hard with your hands.

Real man stuff.

Everywhere I look, it’s acceptable for white, cis guys to paint their nails. Wear a dress or skirt for a photoshoot. To step outside the boundaries. It’s “trendy,” then. But if a Black or brown boy doesit, we’re being a word I refuse to use, but have heard enough times to hate and fear it all the same.

Suddenly, we’re “corrupting” instead of existing.

I adjust the crown on my head, then ask, “What does your mom say?”

Luca’s frown softens. “Things like, ‘Papá is old school, mijo. He’ll get better. Be strong.’ ”

“Words from the patriarchy,” grunts River.

Luca stares at his nails. “It’s not that I think he doesn’t love me. It’s that it feels conditional, sometimes.”

Every hint of synthetic starlight in the room catches on the sheen in his eyes. Reflections of pink and gold and sadness. I keep waiting for those stars to spill down his cheeks. But Luca doesn’t let them. He flashes a weak smile and that’s it.

This is him being their definition ofstrong.

I nod at his nails. “They look fire.”

It’s true—the black polish with his skin tone and silver rings is a vibe. But I feel a bit hypocritical. Deep down, I know I wouldn’t be brave enough to do the same.

If Jay or Darren saw my nails painted...

They wouldn’t unfriend me. Delete my number. Darren definitely wouldn’t. I’m mostly confident about Jay too. But my teammates—well, there might be several looks in the locker room. Whispered comments. Inappropriate jokes I’d take with a smirk. Because it’s what we do. We pick out each other’s flaws, roast one another, then bro-hug it out.

Except... I know I’d go home and immediately scrub the polish off to avoid it ever happening again.

While Luca’s being strong, I’m a fucking coward.

“Should I stop?” River indicates Luca’s unfinished hand. “I don’t want—”

“No.” He beams. “I didn’t come here tonight to bethatguy.”

River resumes painting.

My index finger lazily swipes over my playlist before selecting a new tune. It’s a good one. Last-dance-at-prom-worthy. I think of Christian. Whether it would matter to him if my nails were painted.

Would he be okay with it the way Luca seems to be?

Out of nowhere, a cool shiver tickles up my forearms.

Somebody walking over your grave, Granny used to call it.

The bedroom door flies open, smacking against the wall. It’s not the noise that startles me. It’s the girl standing in the entryway, tearstains on her cheeks.

When she sees me, she says, “God, why now,” her voice choked.

My frown and pinched brow feel oddly familiar.

So does the sudden urge to run.

9

THE PAST NEVER FORGETS YOU

People who winstaring contests have the fortitude of a god. The kind of strength it requires to maintain eye contact with anyone, unblinking, for long stretches of time is something I never mastered. Especially when doing it with someone who hates me.

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