Nails on a Chalkboard

My new acrylic nails, captured on camera. Posted to Instagram, with a pretty filter and the caption, “nail day is the best day.” My nails click on the glass screen of my phone as I refresh the page, watching the number of likes soar. 15 becomes 349, which becomes 4,965, which becomes 982,283. I briefly considered those people who liked my photo. One million people want me to know how much they enjoy my pale pink coffin nails. The notion excites me, and scares me, a little. I push the uncomfortable thought aside, and my nails resume their clicking.

My nails drum anxiously on a thousand-dollar coffee table as I wait for my appointment. My manager called me in for an emergency meeting-- something that couldn’t wait, he said hurriedly over the phone. His portly assistant glares at me over her crooked purple glasses. She gives me a curt nod, a signal to go in. What a bitch.

John Cavanaugh, my manager and social media director, looks frazzled. He’s a prim, composed man who has a nasty habit of biting his nails when he’s worried. I’ve seen him do it right before he told my sister that her career was over. As I stride into John’s office and delicately position myself on one of his many Eames chairs, I notice idly that his fingernails were bitten to stubs.

“Welcome, Miss Jannings,” he managed to get out between nibbles of his pinky finger.

“John, I’m a busy woman. The world’s youngest billionaire can’t afford to take time out of her day to watch a grown man eat his fingernails, you know.” I tried to sound confident and bored, but my anxiously bouncing leg gave me away.

“Your pink nail photo. It’s gotten you in quite a bit of trouble.”

I blinked in confusion. I post a dozen photos a week, and this one was certainly the most innocuous. No bikini-clad photoshoots, no celebrity drama. Just my gorgeous fingernails. How could that, of all things, cause a PR problem?

“You posted during Instagram’s official Hour of Silence, commemorating last week’s victims. Your fans aren’t too pleased.” John eyed me carefully, steeling himself for my reaction. I remained stony-faced and silent, waiting for him to continue.

“Many people with Instagram accounts seem to have agreed that their support is best shown by logging off of social media for one hour today, between ten and eleven.” The white keratin around John’s nails was disappearing at an alarming rate.

“Okay, so? I posted when nobody else was posting, and now they’re offended. What do I do? Put an apology on my story? Puppy dog eyes? Should I cry?”

“It’s not going to be quite that simple. FuzzBeed wrote an article accusing you of perpetuating microaggressions that target the black community. And PuffHost seems to think your insensitivity towards matters of racial inequality borders on…”

I began to tune out his nervous rambling. Instead, I mentally started choosing YouTube celebrities that I might want to collaborate with. My job isn’t easy-- planning events, maintaining relationships, and fighting social media algorithms to constantly stay relevant. If John wants to imply I’m an airhead, that’s his business. I know my role in society. I work for the people.

I stand up, cutting John off. “I understand. I’ll let you prepare my apology statement. You’re the only person I trust, and the only friend I have right now. I’m just… under so much pressure right now.” I allow my voice to falter, and quiver my lip ever so slightly. John’s eyes well up with sympathy. He nods quietly.

“Of course. I’ll help out in any way I can. Goodbye, Miss Jannings.”

Over the next few days, I learn how to engage my followers in racial issues without going overboard. See, it’s quite complicated.

If I don’t post anything about the recent shootings, my followers will think I’m ignorant. They’ll begin talking about how our society needs active, conscious celebrities, and they’ll accuse me of being an empty-headed piece of ass. We don’t want that.

On the other hand, if I post too much, or use a controversial hashtag like #blacklivesmatter, my followers will tell me I’m too extreme and remind me that all lives matter. They’ll tell me I’m spouting nonsense and remind me that my role in society is to entertain. To get married and dramatically divorced, to appear on tabloids, to be beautiful. They’ll think I’ve chosen a side, and that I am trying to alienate part of my fan base. We don’t want that either.

So. I post a black screen. My flower-patterned fingernails click rapidly as I tell my audience that “change needs to happen.” I post the comfortably neutral apology that John wrote for me, and within two weeks FuzzBeed has gone back to telling people which Disney cartoon character I most resemble (it’s Belle from Beauty and the Beast). Everything was back to normal.

Another week passed, and I was back at the nail salon. I scrolled through Twitter with one hand while the other was being furiously manicured by a wrinkly old lady who didn’t seem to understand me very well. When I told her my battery was running low and I needed a charger, she just squinted at me. Rude. 

When my battery finally died I quickly grew bored. I ended up glancing at the dinky television mounted on the wall, which featured a panicked-looking man in his early fifties gesturing and waving in front of a crowd of people. I listened idly as the reporter explained how injustice wasn’t being given enough attention, and how the protests behind him were a symbol of rapidly approaching social change. The news report piqued my interest when the reporter was struck by a wayward water bottle and collapsed. The screen flashed back to the shocked news anchor, who began to jabber and wave his arms in what I assumed was an attempt to keep his viewers interested. I scoffed and looked at my nail tech, who had stopped filing my acrylics and was staring at the screen in horror. “Hey. Keep going. I don’t have all day here.”

My nails clinked softly as they closed around a champagne glass, and I took a sip of my mimosa. I was at brunch with some of my closest friends. My real friends-- not the ones I paraded around on social media for likes. Opportunities to spend with my favorite people were hard to come by, and I relished every moment with them. As I glanced around the table, surrounded by the people who loved me before I was famous, I felt at peace for the first time in ages.

Until my best friend, Melissa, stood up. “I’m sorry guys, but I gotta blast. I have to drive all the way to Springfield and I need to leave now if I’m gonna make the protest.” The other girls nodded sympathetically, as if they wished they could go, too.

I stood up too. “Mel, stay, would ya? Those protesters can live without you.”

Melissa smiled wanly. “I wish I could, but this is personal for me. I know one of the people who was gassed last week, and he died yesterday from complications.”

I grabbed her arm, desperate to convince her to stay. I wasn’t going to have another day off for at least a month, and there was no way I was letting this brunch fall apart. “Look, I’m sorry about your friend. But there’s nothing you can do now. Mel, those protests are full of crazy people. Come join us for a movie instead.”

Melissa’s eyes narrowed. “Let go, Ky. I have to do this. In fact, you could probably stand to come with me, instead of just posting a black square and lounging around your multi-million dollar mansion.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything? Mel I swear, you’re gonna wind up on the news or in prison. And for what? Look, these protesters are trying to guilt-trip us into giving them our wallets and putting our lives at risk. We already know all lives matter, and I’m not about to feel guilty for something I’m not in control of.”

At this point, Hailey stood up from across the table. She was struggling to keep her voice under control as she said, “Ky, quit being ignorant for a second and use your head. Mel is standing up for something she believes in-- something I’ve never seen you do before. Leave her alone.” 

I glanced over and saw Melissa had tears in her eyes. I released her wrist and scoffed. “Fine. Go join those looters and thugs. See if I give a fuck.”

At this, the entire table drew a sharp inhale. Melissa said nothing, and ran out of the restaurant sobbing. My friends looked at me with everything from fury to shock to hurt.

“What? What’d I say?”

John’s nails had begun to regrow, although his demeanor had changed from hopelessly anxious to simply hopeless. I sat down in front of him and buried my face in my hands.

“Don’t do that. There’s paparazzi outside. If they notice you’ve been crying you’ll get even more shit from the media.” He sounded more annoyed than concerned this time. I lifted my head.

“What do I do? Ever since Hailey posted that article my life has been a living goddamn nightmare.”

John stared at me, and I thought I detected a flash of contempt in his dark eyes. “Don’t make friends with reporters, maybe.”

Frustration threatened to morph into rage. I stamped my foot. “What the fuck, John? You’re supposed to fix this!”

He sighed, and rubbed his temple with his thumb and forefinger. “Miss Jannings, there’s not much I can do for you now. Too many people believe you’re a racist person.”

“But I’m not! I have tons of black friends! Hell, you’re black!”

John’s eyes narrowed, and I was forcibly reminded of Melissa’s cold stare that day at brunch. “Is it true you think the protesters are thugs?”

I sputtered, searching for the right words.

“My brother has protested police violence every day for a month. Is he a thug?”

“No! Of course not! Look, I’m not racist! I don’t know why everybody keeps thinking that.”

John sighed in resignation and leaned back in his chair. He seemed frustrated, defeated. “Have you ever done anything to prove that you’re anti-racist?”

A few days later, I was sitting on the living room couch in my mom’s room, clutching a tub of cherry ice cream with worn, unpolished nails. The cold, sweet mush numbed my tongue-- but not my brain. In an effort to forget about my collapsing career and crumbling social status, I switched on the TV. The same reporter popped up, the one that I had watched at the nail salon. He had a bandage on his forehead, but he was still speaking with passionate fervor.

“Hank, I’m afraid to say that the police show no signs of stopping. This protest has remained entirely peaceful, yet members of the state and local police continue to provoke attacks. Just yesterday a young Melissa Weisman was hit by a slough of rubber bullets, despite holding up a sign reading “I fight for peace” and kneeling in front of the cops. She later died in the hospital from blood loss. In Los Angeles, tensions are rising as…”

I tuned out the news broadcast once again. The pint of ice cream slipped from my sweaty hands. My breathing came in short gasps and I fumbled for my phone.

My nails were chipped and discolored, but they gripped the cardboard sign like their owner’s life depended on it. My eyes stung and watered, and my heart pounded from fear. But I kept marching.