By Enola Jones

Peter came into the Pad whistling a happy tune. He set a small bag down on the table and went to raid the refrigerator for some juice.

Micky heard the door open and came out of the bathroom. “Hey, Peter, welcome home!”

“Thanks, Mick.”

Micky picked up the bag on the table and frowned at the ‘clink-rattle’ that emerged. He tilted it and several small bottles of nail polish tumbled onto the placemats. “Nail polish? Peter, what on earth…”

“Nothing you need to worry about, Micky,” Peter smiled. “It’s for a project.”

A sly grin played across Micky’s face as he gently separated the bottles. “Peter, there must be at least ten here! All different colours…. You got something on the side we don’t know about?”

Peter drained his juice and put the glass in the sink. “It’s just for a project and it doesn’t concern you. I made a promise I wouldn’t tell.”

“Aww, Peter’s got a girlfriend he won’t tell us about? Or…wait! These are for you, aren’t they? What, you sing in clubs without us?”

Peter’s face grew dark and he scowled. "That's right, Micky, I'm a drag queen every second Saturday and the reason you never see the money I make is cause I spend it all on booze and drugs and loose women! Satisfied?"

Micky took a step backward and held up his hands. When sweet, gentle Peter slipped into Mike-ish sarcasm, that was a sure clue Micky had pushed things too far. “Sorry, man.”

“You should be, man!” Peter sighed as he gathered up the small bottles and put them back in the bag. “I told you it wasn’t something I could talk about!” He retreated into the bedroom, leaving Micky standing there confused.

And determined to find out what Peter was up to with nail polish, of all things!


Mike groaned when Micky filled him in. “I really think if Peter told you to back off—“

“Well, he didn’t. Not in so many words…”


“C’mon, let’s just go ask?”

Mike snorted. “Fine. We’ll ask. And then you’ll eat your words!”


They climbed the back stairs and entered through the sliding glass door beside the bandstand. They’d barely come down from the bandstand when a perfect ‘G’ chord rang through the Pad.

A full minute later, an ‘A’ chord sounded. A full minute after that, a ‘C’ chord.

Mike and Micky looked at each other, frowning. They crossed the room and Mike raised his hand to knock on Peter’s bedroom door. The hand never made contact. Instead, they heard Peter’s voice clear and strong.

“Very good, Davy! That was really good! Now – put your fingers on the blue dots and try that.” A ‘B’ chord sounded, and Peter laughed. “Great! That’s a B.”

“B for blue….” Davy’s voice now, touched with wonder. “Red dots for D…” The named chord sang out. “….White for A….Yellow for E…. Green for G….” Davy laughed. “Peter, I take back all those times I ever called you a dummy! It was a stroke of genius, using nail polish to mark where me fingers go for the chords!”

“Figured it’d make it easier for you to learn that way.”

“It does. Thank you so much!”

Mike smiled at Micky. “There’s your answer,” he whispered. “He couldn’t tell you cause Davy asked him not to.”

Micky shook his head, an awe-struck smile on his face. “Amazing. Peter sure can surprise me.”

“All of us,” Mike amended. “I’m so proud of him.”

“Me too, Mike. Me too.”

The End

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