Page 15 of Tilly in Technicolor
“Alright, Oliver, let’s hear what you’ve got.”
A buzz of excitement hums across my system, and I can’t stop my smile. This is the kind of thing I live for.
I fill Amina in on my ideas, mapping out the best route for the day and pulling up a few sample photos of sites to give her a better idea of what I’m thinking. Amina scrolls through them, taking her time to analyze each carefully.
“Brilliant,” she eventually says, shooting me a wide grin. “I love the Gloucester Road station idea in particular. Ornate but a touch gritty, all with the polish highlighted… it’ll be perfect.”
I smile, fingers tapping at my side. “Exactly. You get it. Glad the idea translated.”
Massively relieved is more like it. It’s so hard to morph the swirls of my concepts into actual words, and when I try to articulate them, I often get too excited and dart around from idea to idea. Then I realize how circuitous it all gets, which makes me hyperaware of my talking and it all ends up making my tongue feel thick and awkward and like my throat’s choking on the rambling sentences.
Such fun.
“Are you excited for fall term?” Amina asks.
I clock this as a segue into getting-to-know-you talk and shift my brain for the new topic. This is a conversation with a colleague, so I remind myself that I need to keep it interesting, but surface level enough that no one feels uncomfortable.
“Thrilled,” I answer honestly. “A bit overwhelmed, too, I guess. There’s so much to learn, and I’ll finally get to focus on what I’m actually interested in instead of wasting time in things like maths.”
Amina gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’d be careful, intern, you’re saying such blasphemy to an engineer, mind you.”
Oh no. I fucked up. I blink rapidly, trying to figure out how badly I just offended my boss, but she smiles again, patting my shoulder.
“Oh Christ, I’m only joking. Don’t look so worried.”
My tense muscles sag in relief.
“I remember the summer before I left for university,” Amina says wistfully, moving around the kitchen to get a glass of water. “I was so nervous. But you meet loads of people right away. You’ll make some of the best friends of your life.” She flicks a quick glance at Mona across the room.
I shrug, finishing off my espresso. Making friends is the least of my concerns when it comes to school. I can’t really be arsed to put in all the work, if I’m being honest. I already have my best friend, Marcus, who I’m sharing a flat with, andmy twin sister, Cubby, who texts me enough to be worth five friendships. My world is small, but I like it that way. Making new friends requires so much brainpower—figuring out how much to tell people without infodumping, constantly missing social cues, second-guessing every interaction—and I’d rather channel all of that into exploring the endless influences of color.
“This is the blandest nail polish I’ve ever seen,” Tilly says from across the room, interrupting us as she holds up her hand, looking at the sandy-beige color from various angles.
I’m tempted to open my mouth and tell her how wrong she is; that it’s a beautiful beige that likely will elicit sensations of calm and luxurious relaxation in wearers, but I decide it’s not worth whatever biting disagreement she’d subject me to.
“Thanks,” Mona says sarcastically. “It’s called Bae-ge,” she adds, emphasizing thebae.
“At least the name is clever,” Tilly says. “But do you really want a bunch of pictures with this polish as the focus?”
“I have my MBA,” Mona says, straightening her shoulders. “So I won’t be taking advice from you.” There’s a pause as Mona studies her own nails. “And Oliver said he can Photoshop different colors over it.”
Tilly gasps like Mona just told her the pope is toying with Protestantism. “But that’s a lie!”
“No. It’s an efficient way to get photos without dissolving your skin with an enormous amount of nail polish remover between locations.”
“You are ever the loving and considerate sister,” Tilly says, uncurling her long legs and standing up from the floor.
Amina tries to hide a giggle behind a cough, then claps her hands. “Alright, let’s get a move on, darlings,” she says. “Time is money, blah blah blah.”
“You aren’t planning on wearing that, are you?” Mona says,gesturing wildly at her sister and confirming that I’m not the only one… um… distracted?… by Tilly’s exceptionally tiny cotton shorts.
“I like to embrace showing my whole ass,” Tilly says, walking to her suitcase. “Literally and figuratively.”
“Tilly.”
“Obviously I’m changing,” Tilly says, shaking the clothes in her fist at Mona. “Would you chill?”
“Don’t smudge your nails,” Mona says, eyes bugging out of her head. “And don’t talk to me like that, I’m in charge of you.” Mona stomps after Tilly as she heads toward the bathroom.
