Maddie's Tattoo (3 page)

A few days later I took a break from DS calculus homework to check my messages. The chameleon popped up. I warily accepted his message.

I think you
would appreciate this. It’s a gallery website of my artwork. I use real paint, so the online pictures are never as good, but you’ll get the idea. You said you wanted to see something real. Well, I never lie.

I clicked on the link he attached
and each of my blank wallscreens filled with bright color. I stood up with surprise and turned in a circle. My body instantly became light, as if I just grew ten feet. From the angle the paintings were drawn, I felt like I floating in the sky, looking down. One of the walls showed the Three Sisters, a famous triplet set of mountain peaks that cut through Central Oregon. Two wallscreens showed a panoramic view of the Columbia River Gorge, cutting through a deep valley of tree studded hills between Washington and Oregon. The last wall depicted an aerial view of Mt. Hood, the tallest mountain in the state. Its sharp peak pierced through a mass of circular clouds like a giant tooth trying to devour the sky.

At the bottom of the screen was the artist’s name
, the yellow chameleon: Jax Viviani.

I felt hot and cold, frozen and thawing, alive and asleep. I
was slipping down a slope, between two worlds. This was real? I had seen digital photos of all of these places, but I had never seen them with my own eyes. I looked at the name of Jax’s gallery: My Eyes.

The pictures around my room made me wan
t to climb, move, fly. The images brought words to my head. I used my hand to write words along the top of each wallscreen. Flight. Freedom. Fearless. Future. I liked combining words with the art. I looked around and admired my new world. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was inside a place I belonged.

I knew I could trust
Jax. I knew he was real.

The door
suddenly knocked open and I turned around, panicked. My mom walked inside and her smile washed away, like water over dusty chalk.

She looked at the
murals and at the words floating along the top. Her eyes found mine. She wasn’t angry, but it was worse. She looked sad, as if she just walked in on a funeral, celebrating a life we would never get back.

“
Don’t be mad,” I whispered.

“
Did you do this?”

I shook my head.
“A friend drew it.”  The word friend slipped out too easily. I sucked my lips between my teeth and my mom raised her eyebrows. I usually called my online friends ‘contacts.’ Friend was too familiar.

“
They’re beautiful pictures,” she admitted.

“
It’s beautiful out there,” I said. “I know it is.” She didn’t answer me. “Mom, I want to know. I want to see it for myself.”

“There’s nothing to see, Maddie. The world I talked about doesn’t exist anymore,” she told me.

I looked at my
gorgeous walls. “It doesn’t mean we can’t bring it back.”

Her eyes panned
the room. “Erase these screens before your father sees them,” she warned me and closed the door.

I
stared after her, and ignored her warning. I didn’t want to delete the screens. I felt alive for the first time. I was just beginning to know myself. Our biggest challenge in life can simply be to know ourselves.

I walked into my bathroom and the light snapped on. I looked at my reflection,
at the greenish-gray eyes, the blond hair, and the thin nose. But there was a frown on her lips. There was anger behind her eyes. I was Picasso’s painting,
Girl Before Mirror
. I was starting to crumble under the surface. No wonder all the museums closed down and the only remaining digital ones were permitted through a censored class trip. They didn’t want us to see. They didn’t want us to know.

***

The chameleon wandered onto my screen. The bright yellow image was warm and stood out against the blue sky backdrop, like sunshine. I grabbed my flipscreen to message him.

I love your paintings
, I wrote.

Thanks.

They’re so inspiring. I was going to leave comments, but there’s no space.

That’s intentional,
he said.
I don’t want people to leave comments
.
Comments ruin the art.

That didn’t make sense.
Then why do you paint?

I guess it’s my silver lining,
he said.
What’s yours?

I
shrugged.
I don’t know
, I said.

I
used my index finger to draw the words SILVER LINING along the top of one of my walls. It would give me something to think about.

You weren’t
completely honest with me, last time we talked
, I informed him.

I was totally honest,
he argued.

Alright,
I said.
I have a question. What are your favorite prints in the art tour?
Something brings you back there. What is it?

He stalled to comment and I caught him.

I’ll take your hesitation as embarrassment?
I teased, smiling at the screen. I wondered if he was laughing or blushing or both. I remembered a few prints in the tour that leaned on the romantic side. I had a hunch.

Okay, you got me. T
hey’re not erotic or even sexual, they’re just…inspiring.
The Kiss
by Klimt,
Venus at her Mirror
, by Velazquez,
The Birthday,
by Chagall. And I like Renoir’s
The Promenade
.

They make you think?
I asked.

More like they make
me hopeful,
he said.
There, I admitted it. I’m a hopeless romantic. Can we move on? And if we ever meet in public, we never had this conversation. 

I could almost feel
the heat of his blush through my screen. I looked around at the outdoor scenes on my wall.

Have you seen these places?
I asked. I hit send and took a deep breath and held it in. I needed him to say yes.

Yes.

I exhaled.

I only paint what I see. It’s all real.

How did you paint these scenes?
I asked.
Were you up in a tree?

More like falling out of one.

Before I could ask what he meant, another message popped up.

I drew something
the other day that made me think of you. In a totally non creepy way.

I smiled.
It better not be a unicorn.

Please. That is so 2010.

A bird popped up on my screen. Its wings were stretched in flight. It flew alone, and its white body was outlined in black. I loved the simplicity of the design. You couldn’t make out a single feather or detail. I traced the outline with my finger and smiled.

What kind of
a bird is it?
I asked.

Kind?

Yeah, dove? Hawk? Raven? It’s hard to tell, it doesn’t have any defining details.

That’s the point.
It’s an original. One of a kind.

I
stared at the drawing and wished he could teach me how to paint. I wondered how we could meet. My head was spinning with ideas. I was dizzy from the sensation of imagining a life I wanted and daring to see it through.

I handed a piec
e of plastic paper to my mom. It was an online advertisement I printed out that I had designed myself.

“
Can I do this?” I asked.

She studied
the fake advertisement I made, to spray paint leaves and shrubs at a neighbor’s yard a few blocks away. It paid $30 an hour. They were looking for someone young who wasn’t afraid to use ladders.

My mom
opened her mouth to comment, but then she stopped and looked closer.

The trees I designed in front of the house were perfect, lush and green.
They didn’t need any paint. The shrubs that bordered the door were flowering. The apple tree was dripping with red apples, so large and ripe they made the branches droop to the ground. There were other details I added: an old gardening shovel and gloves sitting on the porch steps, and a bag of soil leaning against the base of a tree. My favorite detail was a bird’s nest barely visible through a batch of leaves on one of the branches.

She smiled
. “So, this is fake?” she asked.

I shrugged. “It depends o
n how you look at it,” I said. I thought about what Jax told me, that art is a lie so you can see the truth.

She set the print down on the t
able. She knew what I was trying to say. “You know, I found some sport leagues in town,” she said. “There’s a girls soccer team that meets once a week. They play outside.”

My eyebrows flew up. I loved soccer. I loved the idea of running in the open air, the sun on my arms,
the wind in my lungs.

“
Yes!” I said. “Please. When?”

She laughed.
“I’ll sign you up,” she said and studied the picture again.

“
I just want to go outside for a while,” I told her. “I knew I could lie about it, but I wanted to tell you the truth. Can I go?” 

She nodded
and looked up at me. “Yes.”

The wo
rd out of her mouth felt like a rush of wind blowing against me. I turned and grabbed a jacket in the hallway closet and practically flew out the front door, as if I was being released from a cage. I walked down the street, my steps fast, and I could taste excitement. It’s sweet and icy and it stings because you’re not sure if what you are doing is right or wrong.

I found the tattoo house that I
had researched online and turned up the sidewalk entrance. When I walked in the front door, I expected dim lights, black walls, and jarring music. Cave like décor. But it was light and the walls were painted a cheerful yellow. An old chime bell knocked against the door.

A girl walked in the room, young, probably in her early twenties. My eyes leapt to hers and I openly stared. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were as dark as tattoo ink. She stood behind a counter cluttered with binders full
of clip art designs. Tattoo sleeves covering both of her pale, skinny arms.

I
could only imagine how I appeared: anxious, excited, overwhelmed, pathetic. My hands were fidgeting so I stuffed them in my jacket pockets.

“
First time out of the house?” she asked me and I felt my cheeks flush.

“
Is it that obvious?”

She smiled.
“You’re looking so hard your eyes are steaming.”

I returned her smile.
“It’s like I’m using them for the first time.”

“
Not very many people are comfortable outside their walls. They shrivel.” She touched her throat when she talked. It was such a human expression. I felt like I was living inside one of those museum paintings. I was moving, fluid art.

“
I shrivel being inside,” I told her.

I
took a piece of paper out of my pocket unfolded it slowly like I was sharing a secret. I walked closer and placed it on the counter between us.

“I want this,” I said.
“On my wrist.” She looked down at the bird Jax drew.

“What kind is it?”
she asked.

I shrugged.
“It’s an original.”

The corner of her mouth turned up.
“I like it,” she said.

“
I don’t have an appointment,” I said and she laughed.

“
We don’t make appointments around here. We don’t exactly advertise this place.”

She
studied the simple design. “This won’t take long. Have a seat.” She ushered me into a small, side room and I sat in a reclining chair that looked like something out of a dentist office. She wiped my arm with cotton balls dipped in sanitizer. The alcohol was cool and the smell stung my nose. I blinked and liked the sensation.

She patted tissue paper over the design and traced it with a thick black marker. I watched her carefully dampen the tissue. She sat down next to me and I laid my arm on a counter, palm up. She pressed the damp cloth over my
wrist and when she took it away, the outline of the bird was there.

“
Do you like that placement?” she asked. I stared down and nodded. The bird looked like it was about to fly off my skin.

I bit my lips and prepared myself
for pain, but it didn’t hurt. Only when the needle passed over the center tendons of my wrist did it start to sting.

“
Are you a Dropout?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Dropped out when I was fifteen.
Never regretted it for a second. DS is great for some people,” she said. “You know, boring, programmed, lame, brainless, fearful, lazy assholes.”

I smiled.
“Not all of us are programmed,” I said.

She looked at me. “Oh, you’re still in DS? Sorry, my customers are
usually dropouts. My bad.”

“I don’t have the luxury to dropout. It’s a little complicated,” I said.

She set the ink pen aside and I looked down at my swollen, red skin. The fresh ink from the tattoo rose up like a vein thick with blood.

“If this tattoo is any indica
tion,” she said, “you won’t last very long in a cage.”

I looked at her and wondered if she was right.

I walked home with my shoulders high. It felt like there were springs in the soles of my shoes. The empty feeling in my head was lifting, being replaced with depth. I was releasing thin, wasted space and filling it with truth. I could feel my brain wake up, like wires finally connecting so electricity could run through. 

When I got home,
I swung my bedroom door open and lay down in the middle of my room. My heart was drumming and my blood felt like it was doing more than running, it was pouring. I couldn’t wait to tell Jax about my tattoo. I waited for my screens to turn on, ready to take in the panoramic view and the walls that felt like warm, familiar arms around me, but the screens were blank. An error message popped up over my desk. I sat up with a frown and crawled over to my computer, tapping my hand on the keypad.

This site has been temporarily disabled
for security purposes,
the message claimed.

“What?” I muttered. Why would there be a security block for an art site?

I sat at my desk and searched for Jax on the chat space we had used. His name didn’t come up. It claimed he didn’t exist. I went back to my art class, and searched for him there. His name had been deleted from the class list.

“Give me a break,” I said to the computer, as if my screen was playing a joke on me
. I scanned his name through the DS enrollment site, but nothing came up. For a startling minute I wondered if I had imagined Jax all along. I narrowed my eyes as a more realistic idea took shape, and video called my father.

“
Video request,” I told the computer. In a couple of seconds, my call was connected.

“
Access granted,” an automated voice stated, and my father’s face filled the wallscreen over my desk. His eyes immediately widened with concern in response to my death stare.

“What’s wrong
, Maddie?” he asked. “Is everyone alright?”

“
Why are you censoring my friends?” I demanded. “I don’t need your permission to have friends,” I said, my voice rising to a shriek.

“
Well,” he said slowly. “As long as you live under my roof, yes you do.”

“
What was wrong with him? We just talked about art.”

“
Madeline, who are you talking about?” my dad asked.

I threw my arms up in the air
. “Jax. The guy from my art class. The one you banned from my computer? Why did you delete him? Why did you block him, Dad?”

His shook his head.
“I didn’t,” he said, confused. “Maddie, I promise you. I didn’t delete anything. I haven’t touched your networks.”

I exhaled a deep breath to calm down and ran my hands through my hair.
It didn’t make sense. “But he’s gone,” I insisted. “His profiles, his sites. His links. They’ve all been deleted.”

“
Maybe he was using a false name,” he said. “People do it all the time.”

My dad’s calm, objective reaction
irritated me. This was more than just a contact.

“
No,” I said. “Not him. Even his DS profile was taken down. Everything’s gone.” 

My dad’s face
switched from confused to serious. “Then it’s probably a good thing you can’t access him. Only the government can completely delete a profile.”

“
Why would they?”

“
It’s usually a legal matter, when a serious crime has been committed.” He shrugged. “Somebody has to keep our streets clean.”

I smirked at the word streets. As if we ever walked on them.
“You’re saying he was arrested?” I asked.

“
I don’t know. But don’t be so quick to defend him. You didn’t even know him.”

I sighed and looked down at the floor.
“I thought I did,” I said.

He shook his head.
“You don't really know anyone in this world.”

I looked at my dad and nodded. He regarded my sad face and his own face was sympathetic. He opened his mouth and I stopped his words with my hand.

“Don’t,” I said. “I know what you’re going to say, that it’s better this way. That it’s safe. But that’s something we will never agree on,” I said. I ended the video chat and stared out at my room with eyes that didn’t see. My vision was deep inside my head, my own mental investigation for clues that Jax was a threat, or that I should have been suspicious of him.

I
started to search online for local arrests. It was public information. The DS Dropouts also listed arrests of kids eighteen and younger. In order to view the information, I need to join the Dropouts. I bit my bottom lip. My father would find out, but I didn’t care anymore. I was never going to be the perfect, obedient child in the family. That much was clear. It would give me and the behavioral counselor one more thing to talk about.

I set up a
DS Dropout profile and used a photo of my tattoo as my picture. I called myself FlyGirl. After I set up a password, I was permitted access to the arrest records. I checked local arrests in Corvallis and searched the past three days until his name popped up on the screen. My heart sank. My dad was right. Jax Viviani was arrested two days ago. I clicked on his name and my mouth hung open at the list of accusations. I scrolled and scrolled and it went on and on.

He was
charged with over five hundred accounts of profile identity theft, and unauthorized use of private information. But those were his minor claims. He was also charged with tampering with government files, corrupting government data, infiltrating legal records, stealing medical records and creating an illegal database. The allegations made him look like a terrorist.

I covered my hand over my mouth.
“Damn,” I breathed in my palm.

DS Dropout
members left comments below his arrest information.

RIP, my friend.

Sucks to be him.

Looks like somebody just won a
DC lobotomy.

Sorry for our cyber loss.

Great, my first online friend was a highly wanted criminal, and forever ex-convict. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I did need to see a therapist.

I looked down at
the bird on my wrist and I realized Jax’s drawing wasn’t just about me. It also represented him. And now I understood there was a risk with having wings. They not only enable you to fly, they allow you to fall from dangerous heights.

I
studied my profile picture. For the first time in my life I felt like I had an identity that fit, something to define me rather than hide me. But what I would learn is that flying isn’t the challenge. Flying is the easy part. It’s just running full speed ahead and having enough confidence to spread your wings and arch your back.

The secret to flying is in mastering a smooth landing. Eventually you have to look down. You have to slow down. You have to dive. The landing is what makes us brave because
we don’t crash from the flight. We crash from the fall.