Playground Curiosity by Zoë Lea

    They say he was born without fingernails.
    But he itches. His skin is on fire and he tears at it with his teeth to relieve the pain. They say his fingernails were taken by God; his skin is diseased by God.
    God is punishing him for sins in a past life; to give him an itch that he can not scratch. They say he is cursed. They say he has no mother and to keep away.
    He looks up to me with his hands in gloves.
    I keep my eyes to his face, although they dart from my control and skip to look at his hands whenever they can.
    I want to see his fingers; I want to see what the ends look like. The ends that peak into nothing, I want to be the only girl that has seen them. And I want to tell my friends what he has instead of fingernails.
    They say he once tried to make his own, out of broken glass and superglue, and that Mrs. Perkin saw him ribbon his shins with them. They say she rushed him to hospital howling, not because of his cut legs, but because they would take away his new fingernails. And they did.
     “What do you want?”
    His voice is quiet. “What do you want from me?”
    I expected anger; I had my reply ready, my taunts and my names. I did not think his voice would be calm. Gently asking me questions with a quiet nudge, like the slow lapping of the tide.
    I open my mouth and look back to my friends who are gathered by the railings, looking on at me with fascination; whispering. He is only my age, the boy with no fingernails and he is not dirty like they said.
    He is clean and smiling and I thought he would look older, and now staring into his green eyes I’m confused.
    I say nothing.
    I’m embarrassed to answer his question and ask him mine.
    He looks at me for a long time, and I feel hot under the collar of my dress. I look back to my group who are quiet now. There is a lull in the passing traffic and I stand in the silence; looking at the boy with no fingernails, and him looking up at me.
    I shrug my shoulders, shake my head and scuffle back to my group who are questioning and want answers.
     “They say he is an animal,” I whisper.
     “They say he is jaw is so strong, he can rip you apart like a wolf.” My wide-eyed group all nod and look on.
    I don’t believe what they say, but I nod with my friends and look on.

About the author:
Zoë Lea has been writing forever. She lives in the UK with three dogs, a young son and a PC permanently logged on to the internet.