Kiss the Morning Star (8 page)

Casey and Sammi exchange a look, grins spreading slowly across their faces. “We could go see Shaggy,” Casey says, her smile growing even wider, a little sigh escaping her lips.

Oh, god, a tattoo. Of course Katy
would
come up with something like this. Something to test me, to find my limits. Three sets of eyes turn on me, waiting for my reaction—there is no question among them who is the lamest, the most likely to chicken out of this plan. Well, I can play this game.

“Sounds awesome.” My tone gives away none of my uncertainty. “What kind should we get?”

“Is he any good?” says Kat.

Casey nods dreamily. “Shaggy went to high school with us. He’s the real thing.”

“An artist, like for real,” adds Sammi.

“An anarchist,” says Casey.

“An anarchist?” Kat twists, twists her pigtails. “So what?”

Casey leans against the back of her booth, her eyes half-lidded. “Oh my god, but he’s good,” she says. “At more than tattoos.”

Damn this stupid blush. “I have to use the restroom,” I say, nudging Kat. “You?”

Kat smiles. “Be right back,” she says, and the two of us head around the corner to the bathroom.

We stand close in front of the dingy mirror, two girls, two little dharma bums. Best friends? I look into Katy’s deep blue eyes and wonder what she sees.

“Are we really going to get tattoos?” My eyes are locked on the eyes in the mirror, and it reminds me of that strange feeling I get when the phone rings but nobody is there except a sort of echo of my own voice saying “Hello?” again and again. I can barely bring myself to hang up, to leave that echo of myself out there in the void.

In the mirror, Kat nods. “A lotus, turning, following the sun. Wandering west, like us.”

I don’t know what meaning Kat has attached to these words, but I drink them in, savoring the sound in my ears. “You kissed me.” I tear my eyes away from the mirror to face her. We are close, so close standing here. My lungs might be carved out of granite, cast from bronze, the way they refuse to expand, to fill with air.

“You kissed me back,” says Kat softly.

I nod. There’s nothing more to say.

My first crush was this boy in fifth grade named Earl.

The popular kids in my class, who had trendy names, of course—Austin, Parker, Caden, Ashley, Madison, and Cole—called him a sissy because he played the piano and had long, dark eyelashes that could make my heart stop with one flutter in my direction. To me, he was every bit as noble as his name, and I thrilled at any small, fifth-grade chance to show my affection for him. I strategized carefully when we lined up so that I would be opposite him. I put an extra stick of cinnamon gum in his valentine. At recess I made dandelion voodoo dolls of his tormentors and pinched their heads off each time they called him “Earl the Girl.”

He was oblivious, and of course that was part of his charm. His complete lack of interest in girls was as cute as those smoky gray eyes or his rumpled curls or his long and dainty fingers. I filled my time around the edges of the busywork, the time when I was finished but the rest of the class still plodded along, with sweet daydreams of Earl.

Until the day of the Milk Joke. This was the day I looked over during snack time and watched Earl take a big swig out of his carton of milk just as Madison Miller leaned in and said something funny. To begin with, Earl My One True Love was not supposed to laugh at jokes told by pretty little blonde girls with trendy names. This was bad enough, a grievous betrayal. But possibly even worse, Earl simply wasn’t perfect anymore once I saw milk shoot out his nose.

Ever since the day of the Milk Joke, I’ve tried to remember this about “true love”: how mutable it is. How it can disappear in an instant, especially if that instant involves mucus or betrayal. Most decidedly if it involves both.

And yet here I am in this tattoo shop, and I’ve agreed to leave here with a permanent reminder of Katy etched into my skin. Luckily, she hates milk.

Shaggy’s arms are a sketch pad, showing the evolution of his art. He leans over the drafting table drawing, sandy blond hair tangling around his ears. A bright desk lamp illuminates his painted arms—a jumble of images and techniques fading into and out of one another like a crowd of strangers who are forced by circumstance to work together.

He nods at us as we come in, smiles a little around the hand-rolled cigarette that hangs from his lips, unlit. “I’m workin’ in the back right now, ladies, but I should be ready for ya in about ten minutes. Take a look around.”

With that, he disappears, sketch in hand, pencil stuck behind his right ear. The walls are hung with glass cases filled with page after page of tattoo renderings, some in black and white, some full color. Skulls. Roses. Tropical fish. Hearts of all sizes and accompaniments. Frogs, tigers, hieroglyphics, and tribal patterns merge into an eclectic display. Katy and I browse while Casey and Sammi giggle over a book full of butterflies and care bears.

“Do you see any?” I halfway hope we won’t be able to find the right picture. It would give me an easy out, a way to back away from this precipice. But the rest of me hopes for the perfect image, the one that will strike me speechless and make me certain this is the right thing to do.

“I don’t really like these lotus blossoms,” says Kat, pointing to a wall display. “But I like his original designs.”

“
You
could draw one, Katy Kat. I love your drawings.”

She nods. “Oh, I know I could draw one, and it would be awesome.” She laughs. “But see…it’s like this. Shaggy will draw us a lotus, and I’ll love it. I’ll love it forever. I could draw us a lotus, and I’d love it. But then…I mean, I’m trying all the time to get better as an artist, you know? To evolve. And having my own art permanently etched into my skin? I feel like…” She trails off.

“You’d be making comparisons.” I understand, even without being an artist. It’s the reason I don’t show anyone what I write. “You’d be embarrassed of its flaws.”

“Well, it’s more complex than that, but yeah.”

The door to the back room opens, and Shaggy comes up front, stripping off a set of gloves. “All right, ladies, I’m all yours. Oh, hey, Casey, what’s up, girl? Haven’t seen you in a while!” He goes to her and wraps her in his arms for a tight hug, then looks her up and down. “Lookin’ good, lookin’ good,” he mutters, smiling.

Casey laughs her perfect laugh. She bounces a bit. “Came in for tats! All of us!”

Shaggy nods in my direction. “New friends?”

Casey rolls her eyes. “Refugees from Minnesota.”

“No kidding?”

Kat steps forward. “Katherine Amundsen,” she says. Shaggy shakes her hand, flicking his fingers off of hers and bumping her fist. Kat follows his lead perfectly. I hope he keeps his weird handshake things to himself so I won’t humiliate myself. He does, merely smiling at me. His eyes are strangely compelling, and he holds my gaze for a little longer than seems usual.

“So what’s it going to be, then? Are you all getting the same thing?”

“We’re thinking of getting a butterfly, or maybe some of these little daisies on the back of our neck?” Sammi points to a page in the book she is looking at.

“Sammi Richards? Seriously?” He laughs. “Wow, you have changed!”

I see the flash of shame that flickers across Sammi’s proud features. “Yeah, well, that was a long time ago,” she says.

Casey is oblivious. “I know! Isn’t she hot? Gastric bypass, baby!”

Sammi’s eyes narrow and flick over in my direction. “Anyway, about the tattoos?”

Shaggy nods. “Sure. So, butterflies and daisies all around, then?”

Kat clears her throat. “Can you show us any lotus blossoms that are a little more…delicate?” She gestures up at the gaudy magenta and blue designs, all full of bright flames and glowing jewels. “Something smaller, lighter? I’m thinking sort of wispy and a little stylistic.”

Shaggy’s face is thoughtful. “Sure, yeah…hold on.” He slides into a rolling chair and rolls over to his computer. Within moments, he beckons us over to see some images on the screen. “Maybe find a particular angle you like in one of these photos, and then I’ll do a drawing based on that.”

He moves out of the way, and we share the chair to look over the images, scrolling through the pages in silence. My chest is so tight I can barely draw in a full breath. “Are you sure about this?”

Kat smiles and doesn’t even move to twist pigtails into her dark hair. “I think it’s a great symbol.” She pauses and then reaches for my hand. “It will be our vow to each other. Forever friends.”

My phone beeps, and I pull it out to discover a text from my dad. It’s late, but that doesn’t surprise me since he’s always been a night owl.
You won’t be alone anymore
, he says. For a second I’m confused, but then I see that he’s responding to my text about God refusing to leave me alone. Still, it’s kind of funny the way it arrives right now. I hold the phone up for Kat to see. “Dad says go for it.” I glance back over my shoulder at Shaggy, hoping he won’t ask for my ID, since I’m not
quite
eighteen. And I doubt this cryptic text message would count as parental consent.

“Have you two settled on a butterfly, then?” asks Shaggy, moving to the other side of the desk to where Casey and Sammi are poring over the book. They point and discuss the relative merits of several pictures while Katy and I peruse the lotus flowers.

Kat clicks on to a new page, and the image that pops up on the screen makes both of us catch our breath. We look at each other.

“It’s perfect.” I can’t find any other words. “Absolutely perfect.”

Casey is right. Shaggy can do much more than trace a pattern onto skin. He transforms the photo of the lotus blossom into something almost ethereal—delicate, yet containing the promise of strength within its mysterious depths. He finishes the drawing with a subtle rendering of the om symbol from Tibetan Buddhism, a nice touch. The curves of its strokes melt into the petals of the lotus as though he just discovered them there, outlined in morning dew. It isn’t the least bit tacky; it’s the merest suggestion of a tattoo.

“That’s amazing.” My words are muffled, both hands pressed up against my mouth. All my doubts fall away, and I turn to Kat with a grin.

“I’m ready,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

Shaggy starts with me. I recline, tilted to one side, while he outlines the design in the soft flesh above my left hip bone. Kat is getting the mirror image, on her right side.

At first the needle hurts, but after a while the sensation deepens into something else entirely, something almost living, and I imagine that the lotus is actually rising up from my insides—tiny points of my bones and sinews rising to form an intricate mosaic on the surface of my skin. This thought rushes over me like a wave, and Kat presses her hand to the side of my face. I’m dizzy.

“Easy, babe. You’re looking a little pale,” she says. “Can I get you a Coke?”

Shaggy chuckles. “I get so many people in here all worried about whether or not they’ll be able to deal with the pain. Pain is one thing. What people can’t take is feeling so much, so much of anything.” He pauses, blotting at my skin with the edge of the paper sheet he has draped over his skinny jeans. He nods. “You’re doing great, though. This outline is the hardest part.” He blots my hip again and then the roaring drone of the needle is back, rattling my core, but now it’s as though he has softened the blow, pulled out the tiger’s teeth.

So what I’m afraid of isn’t pain. It’s feeling. My chest expands, breath flooding through me. I can do this. Kat is here beside me, holding my hand.

The sound, the feeling, sinks into my body. I close my eyes. This is forever.

It feels as though several millennia have passed since the garage in Gillette. My left side is sore, and my brain is tired and droopy. Shaggy finishes Kat’s tattoo, and even in its red freshness it is beautiful. There’s only a hint of color, a blush of soft pearl on the lotus petals, a touch of pink highlights. Kat’s light olive skin gives the image a duskier feel than my own pale cream, lightly dappled with freckles, but the blossoms are still mirror twins, and my face burns at the thought of our hips touching, skin to skin. Has she thought of it, too?

Shaggy snaps the needles into the sharps bin and peels off his gloves carefully. “All done, you two. Here, stand side by side so I can see them together. Easy does it, Katy.” He holds her arm. I’m surprised at the brief surge of jealousy that flares in my chest when he uses her nickname.

Kat stands, a little shaky at first but smiling, and I go around to her right side so our tattoos are close, our arms around each other’s waists. I stare into the mirror, trying to make this new image fit into my vision of myself.

“Can I take a photo for my wall?” Shaggy asks, pointing over to the bulletin board full of smiling patrons displaying his artwork.

I bite the inside of my lip, feeling a little shy, but then I nod. It’s not as if anybody knows me here, anyway.

Shaggy snaps the photo, and I look at it in the display on the back of his camera with a kind of wonder. “There we are.” There I am. With a tattoo. And…a girlfriend?

“There you are,” he repeats. “And here are your after-care instructions. You can cover it up lightly, like this, to keep your clothes from touching it. They look nice, ladies. Really nice. That was fun.” He smiles.

We all troop out to the front room, but it’s empty; Casey and Sammi are nowhere to be seen. “Maybe they got bored?” says Kat. We walk to the front door and peer up and down the street, which is dark except for the occasional neon splash. The sky has a faint brush of violet across the black, and I wonder once again what time it is.

“I guess they’ll be back soon,” says Kat. Her voice is bright, but I can sense the uncertainty beneath the confident words. Where are they? Why didn’t they say something if they were going to leave?

We go into the back room, and Shaggy packs a bong. I accept it when Kat hands it over, but it feels less like an exciting adventure and more like an amplifier for the anxiety building up in my belly. We smoke mostly in silence. I pass on the last couple of rounds, but it keeps going back and forth until both Katy and Shaggy are practically catatonic. I look from one to the other, and I hate it. I feel trapped.

“What do we do if they don’t come back?”

“They’ll come back,” says Kat. “Why would they just leave?”

“Because that’s who they are,” Shaggy says, his voice dark. “They’re just the kind who would find it funny to abandon you two here.” He shrugs. “I’m not sayin’ that’s what happened, you know. I’m just sayin’ that girl Casey is classic mean. Way back even as far as middle school, she ruled this little crew of mean girls with a combination of charm and brute force. Sammi was her sidekick, the desperate fat girl. The one who took the brunt of Casey’s abuse and kept coming back for more, just for the privilege of being included.”

Kat nods. “Yeah, I can see that,” she says. “But Casey definitely likes you.”

“Bad boy complex,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “I was two years ahead of her in school, had a motorcycle, you know. She was always hanging around, looking for danger and something to piss off her parents. Luckily, I was good friends with her brother-in-law, and I knew better than to mess with her.”

“You know Leroy.” The mention of our mechanic fills me with relief somehow. Leroy feels like an old friend, and if Shaggy knows him, well, there’s hope of us getting back to our car, even if Casey and Sammi did abandon us.

“Yeah, Leroy and I grew up together. His wife, Casey’s older sister, now she’s a classy girl. Donna got all the goodness, all the sweetness in that family.”

“But you don’t really think Casey would just leave us here, do you?” I can’t quite believe in this kind of mean. Like, in the abstract, sure. I know there are people who are that mean. But to me? To Katy? “They probably just went out to get some coffee or something.” My confidence runs out. “Don’t you think?”

Kat twists her hair. “How far away are we? From Gillette, I mean.”