Tug of War 8

The next day, as soon as Timothy left home, he undid his high ponytail as he had done the day before, and ruffled his hair to get his usual messy look. At school, he found his best friend, Martin, standing at his locker gathering his books. 

"Hey, Tim" Martin said, as Timothy opened his locker. "What's wrong with your nails?" Martin was a relaxed guy who always had a dreamy expression on his face. If someone told him that the house was on fire, he would probably say: Cool! Let's have a barbecue! He was taller than Timothy, with a muscular body for someone of his age; he had brown, curly hair, and light brown eyes. 

"My nails?!" Timothy cried out, terrified. "What the hell you mean?" 

Another person would think that Timothy was overreacting in front of such an unpretentious observation. Martin, however, just thought it was a fun and peculiar way to start the day. 

"They are shining, man!" 

Now Timothy was truly desperate. Susan had assured him that no one would notice that his fingernails were polished! "I think you have lost your mind!" he said, trying to sound as if it were a great argument. 

"Whatever, man..." Martin replied, shrugging his shoulders. That conversation was quickly becoming tedious for him. He had more important things in mind. "Are you hungry? I think I could eat a whole cow right now..." 

"Didn't you have breakfast?" 

"I'm not sure... Why?" he asked, failing to realize what one thing had to do with the other.

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Timothy spent the rest of the day with his hands in his pockets. If even Martin – the most distracted person he had even known – had noticed something different about his nails, other people would certainly be able to do the same. He was so concerned about this that he was even forgetting something very, very important about that day…

The boy was supposed to have basketball practice late afternoon. Unlike Martin, Timothy wasn't a very good player, and his height wasn't particularly helpful. Still, since he was forced to take part in some physical activity at school, he chose basketball, just because his best friend was on the team. He played as point guard, and he obviously was one of the second-string players. 

As Timothy was walking toward the locker room, he had a bad feeling about something, but he couldn’t say what was exactly going on. However, everything became clear when he began to take off his shoes, surrounded by all the assholes of the basketball team… His toenails! Everyone would be able his pink toenails since he would have to change his shoes and socks.

"What's wrong, man?" Martin asked, realizing that his friend had the expression of someone trapped in a cage full of hungry lions. 

"I... I... I think I forgot my sports socks."

"No, you didn't. They are right beside you." 

"Y-yeah, but I..."

"Why are you taking so long, girls?" said Mr. Smith, the basketball team coach, entering the locker room. "I want to see all of you on the court right now!" 

Coach Smith had short, black hair, and an athletic body. Needless to say, he was extremely authoritarian and demanding. Timothy had always thought that he and his father could become great friends – If they didn't kill each other the first time they sat down for a beer, of course. 

The other boys began to put on their uniforms hastily, but Timothy didn't move, completely paralyzed by fear. 

"What are you waiting for, Foster?" the coach shouted.

"I... I can't train today, sir." 

"Why not?"

"I'm not feeling well."

"Do you have a sick note?"

"Hmm... No... In fact… Well… I think I twisted my ankle coming over here." 

"Let me see your ankle."

"No!" said Anthony, more harshly than he would have wanted.

"That was not a request, Foster! Let me see your ankle right now!" 

"I'm... I'm sorry, sir. But I think I should go to the nurse's office. My ankle is really hurting, you know…" Timothy then got up quickly, and left the locker room limping, before Coach Smith could stop him.

"Fine! But if I find out you're lying, you're in trouble, Foster! Remember that!" 

----------

The school nurse was a beautiful and busty middle-aged woman called Monica Grant, who treated all students as if they were her own children. The boys, however, didn't see her as a mother, at least not their own mother, since barely all of them lusted after her all the time. 

When Timothy entered her office, he saw that the woman was sitting at her desk, engrossed in reading some papers. She was wearing a low-cut red blouse, a black pencil skirt, pump heels, and a white lab coat. 

"Umm... Hello, Mrs. Grant." 

"Hi, Timothy" the woman greeted him, sympathetically. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm not feeling very well. I'm nauseous and my head..." 

"Oh, poor little thing" she hugged the boy tightly, compressing his head against her ample cleavage. Timothy liked to think that he was different from other boys, who saw women only as sex objects. However, being a teenager, his hormones behaved like those of any other guy, and he immediately got aroused. It was hard to think straight with such lustful boobs glued to his face… 

"But that's weird" the nurse continued. "Mr. Smith just called me saying that you claimed you had twisted your ankle." 

Timothy got terrified again. Why had that son of a bitch called the Mrs. Grant? He probably was truly convinced that Timothy was lying about his ankle, and wanted to prove his theory… 

"Umm... I think Coach Smith got it wrong, Ma'am." 

"Oh, really?" Nurse Grant raised an eyebrow. "Then why did you come in here limping?" 

Dammit, Timothy thought, hardly believing how stupid he was. "My ankle is fine, Mrs. Grant" he insisted. "I just..."

"Don't be silly, my dear" the nurse said, pushing him to the bed. "I have to take a look at it, but I promise it won't hurt. If you behave like a good boy, I’ll give you a lollipop at the end. How does that sound?" she added, giggling. 

Before Timothy could try anything, the woman took off his shoes and socks. The boy then just closed his eyes, knowing that it was inevitable now… 

"Well" the nurse started, after a moment of silence, "your ankle is indeed perfectly fine… and I have to say that your toenails look dazzling!"

"T-that's not what you're thinking, Mrs. Grant!" Timothy said, wanting to die. He didn't remember ever feeling so embarrassed. "It was just a stupid bet with Julia, my girlfriend! That's why my toenails are painted." 

Timothy's girlfriend wasn't called Julia. In truth, he didn't even have a girlfriend. However, he had to think quickly of an excuse for the fact that his toenails were polished. 

"I can see she has such a great taste, sweetie! This color suits you wonderfully. Does she attend our school, too?" 

"Oh, no! Megan attends... Umm... A school far, far away from here... You've probably never heard of the place!" 

"Megan? But I thought her name was Julia." 

Timothy had done it again. He was so nervous that he was unable to create a minimally convincing lie. 

"Y-yeah, her name is Julia, but I call her Megan sometimes... It's kind of a..."

"Stop it, my dear. You don't need to lie to me," saying that, Mrs. Grant hugged the boy again, and began stroking his hair. "You don't need to be ashamed" she continued, with a sweet voice, as if she were talking to a little kid. "Many people in your age like to try different things. You're just discovering yourself."

"No, Mrs. Grant, it's not that!" 

"If you say so..." she said, clearly not convinced. 

"Please, Ma'am, don't talk about it to anyone. I beg you!" 

"Okay, sweetie. This will be our girly secret. I'm going to help you this time, but be awake that I can’t keep lying to Coach Smith forever."  

"Thanks, Ma'am! I really appreciate this" said Timothy, unraveling himself from the woman's arms, and leaving the place as quickly as he could.