Free Grief Girl by Erin Vincent Page A

white, with mirrors. The women in there look happy and pampered.
    I ask a manicurist with long orange nails to give me even longer dark purple ones. She’s not the manicurist I wanted—I wanted the younger one with spiky hair, but she’s home sick.
    I sit down in a white chair and the woman starts to file what’s left of my nails.
    â€œYou have lovely nails, but I must warn you, they have a tendency to grow upwards,” she tells me in a sweet, soft voice.
    â€œMy mum used to say that would happen if I kept biting them.” Then it comes out of me before I have a chance to stop it: “She died in a car accident just over two weeks ago.”
    The woman is quiet for a second before looking up.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” she says before looking back down at my nails for what seems like a very long time. At least she’s stopped filing me down to nothing. I feel like an idiot. Why did I have to ruin this potentially nice experience by telling her? Most people gossip with their manicurist, they don’t drop a bomb on her. Why do I always ruin everything? I decide to act extra happy so she doesn’t think I’m some poor, pathetic, needy, crazy person.
    â€œGee, these are going to look fantastic,” I tell her, smiling brightly. “Why do you have to file the top of my nails? What’s that funny smell? Will my real nails grow underneath? Will I be able to take these off one day and just have nice long nails of my own? Should I have pointy nails or square ones? I love yours. How long have you had them?”
    Now I wonder if she actually believes me or if she thinks I’m someone who goes around saying shocking stuff to get attention. I’ve never thought of that before. Maybe people will think I’m making it up. She seems to believe me, though, because she looks kind of sad and awkward. She tells me she has a daughter my age. She seems like she’d be a good mother.
    I pay and choose dark Morticia purple nail polish.
    She’s so gentle and fast with her brushstrokes that it’s all over too quickly.
    â€œCan I stay here while they dry? Do you have one of those nail-dryer machines?” She does, so I stay.
    She sets me up and then walks out the back with her colleague to eat lunch. It’s just me, the buzz of the little nail fan, and white, lots of white. And then I notice my reflection in all the mirrors.
    Me, looking like a stupid little girl trying to be all grown-up and sophisticated.
    I do feel like a new person, though. I can’t wait to get to school and show them off. Julie is going to just die. Oh, I shouldn’t say things like that anymore. It might happen.
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    I’m going back to work because I don’t want to lose my job. We need the money. And I need to get out of the house.
    I feel like an idiot putting my Cookie Man uniform on. I used to love it, but all of a sudden it seems so silly, so trivial. A frilly white apron over a blue and white checked tunic with puffy sleeves. And to top it off, a lacy white hat, like an old-fashioned candy seller.
    I take the twenty-minute bus ride to work and people stare at me in my uniform, the way they always do. I probably should just get changed when I get there, but that’s an even bigger hassle.
    When I get to the mall, I put on my “Selling cookies is fun!” smile and get started.
    My nice boss says he’s so sorry and I say I’m okay and then we open the metal rolling door at the front of the store. I love this store. It’s warm and sweet smelling and it’s attached to a bakery next door, which makes it even cozier. All the bakery staff take our cookies home, and we get to take as much bread as we can eat. That will come in handy now. No matter what, we’ll have bread and cookies. A family could live on that if they had to. People have done worse.
    â€œWould you like to try a sample?” Smile.
    â€œHere’s your