Skater Boy (4 page)

I'd never been to this side of town and if The Evil Ones knew I was here now, they'd be freaked out beyond belief. Probably worry that some pimp would force drugs down my throat and I'd be a crackhead hooker by morning. But for some reason their imagined disapproval makes the whole experience even more thrilling.

Right now, no one knows where I am. I can do whatever I want and no one will see me. Judge me. Tell me what to do. I know it sounds completely melodramatic, but I feel free for the first time in my life.

The bus pulls up to a street corner and Starr jumps up from her seat. I follow her out of the bus in nervous anticipation. We're now leaving the security of a moving vehicle and heading out into unfamiliar territory. I tuck my Coach purse a little tighter under my arm, just in case.

“They supposedly hang out under this parking deck down here,” Starr says, pointing the way. “Until the cops come and kick them out, of course.”

Of course. The cops. “They won't, um, arrest anyone, will they?” I ask, a bit worried. I'm so not ready to make that one phone call to The Evil Ones to tell them I've been brought downtown for cavorting with juvenile delinquents.

Starr snorts. “Relax, Barbie,” she says, and I feel my face heat again. Why did I even ask that? I'm so uncool, it's not even funny.

We walk down the hill, sticking to the crumbling sidewalk, until we come to a two-story, concrete parking structure. As we step underneath its top floor, loud banging sounds echo throughout—like thunder claps warning of an approaching storm.

The skaters.

We follow the noise until we come to a group of about six guys, all dressed similarly in baggy shorts, colored sneakers and shirts with logos like “Independent” and “Alien Workshop” scrawled across them. Most have wild, colorful tattoos inked onto their legs and arms.

“Hey, guys,” Starr says as she picks a curb to squat down on. Several skaters nod and wave before continuing their tricks, as if they're used to girls coming down to watch. And they probably are. I'm sure skaters get a lot of groupies.

I sit down next to Starr, trying not to think about what the grimy sidewalk will do to my school uniform and whether I have a clean one hanging in my closet. I should have changed like she had. Not just for the dirt factor, but also the geekazoid factor.

“Dude, ollie up on that curb and grind it,” one of the skaters shouts to his friend. I watch as the friend steps onto his board with one foot, kicks up some speed, then bends his knees to jump onto the curb. He slides for a bit, the base of his board running against the curb, then pops off with a flourish.

But it's not the trick itself that impresses me. It's the boy who performs it who has captured my attention. I can't believe what a total hottie he is. Unlike some of the more punked-out-looking skaters, he has short, somewhat curly blond hair and a sweet, boyish face.

“He's way cute,” I say, nudging Starr. She gives me one of those I Barely Tolerate Your Patheticness stares.

“Yeah, he's all right,” she says, not really sounding like she thinks so. “But look at him.” She points to a scruffy-looking guy with a black mohawk, his arms completely sleeved in tattoos. A guy I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley and certainly not one I'd want to date. But hey, different strokes for different folks. At least I wouldn't have any competition for blondie.

“Yeah, he's cool,” I say absently, turning my gaze back to my new crush. He picks that moment, of course, to turn around as well, and he totally catches me staring at him! Ugh—how embarrassing!

I quickly look down, studying the ground as if I've lost an earring or something. After a few moments, I peek to see if it's safe to look up again. He's still watching me from across the way, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. But not an overconfident I Am Better Than You smile like the ones Starr indulges me with when she thinks I'm being naive and Barbie-like. Rather a curious, nice smile. Almost as if he's interested in coming to talk to me.

I hope he does.

Starr snorts. “I think he likes you, Barbie.”

My heart leaps at her words and I can feel my pulse kick up a few notches in anticipation. “You do?” I ask. “Should I go talk to him?”

“Nah, wait for him to come talk to you,” she suggests. “You don't want to appear too eager.”

True. I don't. And I'm not, either. As cute as he is, it's not like I'm going to try to hook up with him or anything. I mean, he's a skater from the so-called wrong side of town. The Evil Ones would never, ever let me date him and the whole thing would end up so
Romeo and Juliet
tragic.

The mohawked skater flips up his board with his foot and catches the other end with his left hand. Then he walks over to where we're sitting and squats down to face us.

“Nice piercing,” he says to Starr, motioning to her eyebrow.

“Thanks,” she says coolly, as if she gets complimented on it all the time and it's no big deal.

“I just did my tongue.”

I widen my eyes in interest as Mohawk sticks out his tongue, revealing a silver stud imbedded in its center.

“Wow, did that hurt?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Starr and Mohawk both simultaneously give me a look, as if to say, “A/B Conversation, Barbie. Why don't you ‘C' your way out of it?”

“Cool. I've been dying to get my tongue pierced,” Starr says, turning back to Mohawk.

“There's a place down the street that does it. Wanna do it now?”

“Sure.” Starr shrugs. As if he's asked her to get a soda and not jam a silver spike through her own flesh. She scrambles up from her sitting position. “Let's go.”

“What about her?” Mohawk asks, nodding at me.

“Wanna get pierced, Barbie?” Starr asks, her voice laced with sarcasm.

“Um,” I flounder. I want to go with them, but it's already approaching five o'clock. If I miss another session of Japanese tutoring, the guy's bound to tell on me and then The Evil Ones will start asking questions.

“Where you guys going?” The blond skater interrupts, effectively making my heart skip a beat. I hadn't heard him approach.

“Todd's Tattoos,” says Mohawk. “Tongue piercing.”

“Cool. I wanna come.” He kicks up his skateboard, grabs his baseball hat from the curb, and heads toward us.

“Okay, I guess I'll come, too,” I say, my stomach churning with spooked butterflies. I mean, how can one seriously pass up a chance to be up close and personal with skater hotness? Sure, I'm risking The Evil Ones' wrath, but I should be okay; how long can piercing take? Starr gives a little sniff, as if to say, “You're so obvious,” but I just laugh.

We head down the trash-lined street, Starr and Mohawk leading the way, talking animatedly about tattoos and other forms of body torture. Blondie falls in step with me, much to my delight.

“I'm Sean, by the way,” he says, glancing over at me with a shy smile.

“Hi, Sean. I'm Dawn,” I say, then can't help a giggle as I realize our names rhyme. If we got married, everyone would always tease us about it at dinner parties. “Sean and Dawn,” they'd say. “How nauseatingly cute.” And we'd lovingly smile at one another and then back at our guests. “Guess it was meant to be,” we'd say.

Not that I'm picking out china patterns quite yet, mind you. After all, I've known the guy for all of about five seconds. I don't even know if he thinks I'm cute or not.

“I've never seen you around here,” Sean is saying. “Do you go to Woodbury High? I'm a senior there.”

Ooh, a senior. An older man!

I shake my head. “I go to Sacred Mary's.”

A pause, then, “Oh.”

I cringe. It's hard to believe a single one-syllable word can contain so much condemnation.

“Not ‘cause I want to, obviously,” I quickly add. “The Evil Ones don't give me as much as a multiple-choice questionnaire when scheduling my life.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Evil Ones?”

I smile sheepishly. “Yeah, like, aka Mom and Dad.”

“Ah,” he says, grinning, condemnation gone. “The Evil Ones. I like that. I've got an Evil One at home myself.”

I can feel my cheeks heat again and I resist the urge to do the flippy thing with my hair that all girls do when they're talking to boys. I'm so glad I decided to wear it loose today and not bound up in braids as usual. Way too Swiss Miss for the downtown crowd.

I sneak a peek at him out of the corner of my eye. God, he's cute. Up close, now I can see he has the most sparkling blue eyes. And ears that stick out a little, in the most adorable way. He's probably about 5'11”, slender and muscular—must be from the skateboarding. And his smile is sweet. Genuine.

In short, major yumage.

We reach the back alley shack called Todd's Tattoos and go inside. The grisly, heavyset guy (Todd?) behind the counter seems to know Mohawk and addresses him as “Eddie.”

“Come on, Eddie,” he says with a chuckle. “You got nothing left to pierce, do you?”

Mohawk, err … Eddie laughs. “Nah, not me today, Todd. Starr here wants her tongue pierced.”

The man nods approvingly and motions for Starr to sit down in a red vinyl swingy chair. Then he rummages behind the counter for the appropriate piercing gear. I wonder how sterile his needles are.

Starr flashes me an excited smile and I smile back. Then, when Sean turns his back to examine the walls of tattoo designs, she nods toward him, then gives me a thumbs-up. I stifle a pleased giggle.

Todd walks over to Starr and rips open a paper package containing the hugest needle known to mankind. I stare in shock. They're going to put that through her tongue? I want to ask her if she's sure she wants to do this, but don't want to sound like a Barbie again.

Starr promptly sticks out her tongue, looking as if she doesn't have a fear in the world. I wish I had her confidence. Or tolerance for pain, at least. The man rubs numbing solution on her tongue, then readies the needle. At the last minute I turn away, not able to watch the sharp object penetrate her.

When I turn back a moment later, it's over. There's now a silver stud embedded in Starr's tongue. Eddie gives her an atta-girl woot and she smiles.

“Did it hurt?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nawh that mucthh.”

“It may be hard to talk for a day or two,” Eddie informs her. “But trust me, it's worth it.”

“Anyone else?” Todd the torturer asks.

“Dawhhn,” says Starr, pointing at me.

“What? No way,” I protest. “I am so not having my tongue pierced.”

“Bahhbie.”

“I'm not a Barbie. Just ‘cause I don't want a big metal spike jammed through my mouth does not make me a Barbie.”

“Hey, babe, chill,” Eddie says. “Give the girl a break. Even you gotta admit, a tongue's pretty hardcore for a first piercing.”

Yeah, I say, mentally thanking Eddie for his voice of reason.

“How about your navel?” Todd suggests.

“Navel?”

“Yeah, you know. Belly button,” says Eddie, gesturing to my middle.

“I don't know …” I wonder how many coolness points I'll lose if I run screaming from the piercing parlor. Probably all, since I don't have that many to begin with.

But still, I can't get anything pierced. Not even my belly button. The Evil Ones would kill me …

... if they found out, that is. And there's no way they could—if I play my cards right. It's not like they ever see me naked, so unless I wore a half-shirt or bikini in front of them, they'd probably never know....

“Forhget ith, Eddie,” says swollen-tongued Starr. She rises from the piercing chair. “She'th too scared.”

“I'm not scared,” I retort, sick of Starr's jabs. I plop down on the chair and pull my shirttail out of my skirt. “Go ahead. Pierce away.”

Starr, Eddie, and Sean look impressed by my random act of defiance. The tattoo guy chuckles, as if he's seen these kinds of dares a million times. He goes back behind the counter to get a clean needle.

Starr and Eddie, mission accomplished, wander off to go look at some silver and leather jewelry. Sean approaches and kneels down beside me, his intense blue eyes searching my face.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say firmly, even though I'm totally not.

“Don't let them goad you into something you don't want,” he says earnestly. “You've got nothing to prove.”

I appreciate him saying that, but I realize that in this case, he's wrong. I do have something to prove. To myself. This piercing will be more than just a hole in my abdomen and a new piece of jewelry. It's a symbol of me taking control of my life. Of doing things the way I want to do them, even if those things don't fit into The Evil Ones' plan. Even if they are looked down upon by my airhead friends. By piercing my belly button, I'm saying that I'm my own person. And I'll do things my way.

“I'm sure,” I say.

The man returns with his needle. It's even bigger than the tongue one and for a moment I feel like I'm going to pass out. He paints a black dot on my stomach with a marker and then places a clamp in the fold of skin.

At that point, the point when I'm ready to completely wimp out and beg for mercy, Sean grabs hold of my trembling hand. I look over at him and he smiles at me. A pure, beautiful, genuine smile of support and encouragement.

“Just look at me,” he says. “It'll be easier that way.”

The pain is hot. The needle burns through my skin and I bite down not to scream in agony. It's quite possibly the worst pain I've ever felt in my entire life—including the time I broke my arm in third grade. I squeeze Sean's hand tightly, my nails digging into his palm and I try to concentrate on looking into his eyes. Losing myself in their beautiful blue.

And then it's over. I survive. And I have a cool new piece of silver jewelry embedded in my body.