"My fingernails are so ugly," whined Harold B. "Let me see them," said Henrietta, Harold B's best friend. "Yeah... they are ugly."
"Uglier than Mrs. Sheryl?" asked Harold B. Henrietta nodded solemnly. Mrs. Sheryl was Harold B and Henrietta's third-grade teacher. She was too strict, too serious, and, according to Harold B and Henrietta, probably a repressed lesbian.
"Ugh!" groaned Harold B. "Stop it," ordered Henrietta. "Don't get your undies in a twist. I have just the thing to make your fingernails as pretty as a Kardashian."
"What?" asked Harold B. "Just a sec," replied Henrietta. The girl rummaged around her not-very tidy room. "What are you looking for?" asked Harold B.
"Oh... found it!" screamed Henrietta. She shoved a tiny bottle of blue nail polish in Harold B's face. "I can't wear nail polish," he moaned. "I'm a boy!" "So? It's not 2007 anymore, stupid. Besides, it's blue."
Harold B scratched his cheek. He then made a weird sound and scratched his forehead. Then his eyes went back and forth between his ugly nails and the pretty blue nail polish. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll do it."
With extreme joy, Henrietta carefully applied the blue nail polish to Harold B's nails. "Ooh," purred Harold B afterwards. "Yeah," said Henrietta. "I told you boys can wear nail polish."
Later that night, Harold B watched a sentimental zombie movie with his mom and dad. Halfway through the movie, Harold B's dad noticed something. "What's on your fingers?" he asked.
Harold B looked at his fingers, then at his dad, then at his fingers again. He was scared. "Is that what I think it is?" his dad asked. "Hey," interrupted Harold B's mom. "Leave him be." Harold B's mom and dad exchanged harsh looks, and his dad hushed up.
Later, right before bed, Harold B desperately tried to scrub the nail polish off his fingers. But he couldn't, so he started to cry.