When Bridget and I reach the oversized table, True is busy taunting one of the purple-haired guys.
She’s saying, “. . . and this from a guy who’s willing to eat chocolate that tastes like dog poo!”
“That was in a game of ‘would you rather’!” he yells. “You can’t take that out of context! The alternative was eating dog poo that tastes like chocolate.” The smile in his voice tells me the two of them are either a couple now, or they will be soon.
Czyre is busy working on a drawing that features an assembly line rolling out identical copies of football players. A guy with a clipboard and a badge that reads “quality inspector” is facing the woman running the machine. He’s saying, “Careful there. You nearly made that one unique.” The look of horror Czyre has drawn on the woman’s face indicates this would be an unforgiveable offense.
I look around at the group. It needs to be said. “But from the outside, don’t you think people assume we’re all the same? I mean, we’re all dressed pretty much alike, aren’t we?”
I’m suddenly being studied by a half dozen pairs of glowering eyeballs. The eyes slide from me to consider each other. For the first time since kicking Colton in the groin, I’m worried I’ll need to defend myself. Uniqueness is clearly sacred here.
Finally, True gives me a small smile. “Hey,” she says, “I’ll stop wearing black when they come up with a darker color.”
The rest of the group murmurs their agreement, but Czyre studies me more closely. “What were your friends like at your old school?”
I try to hide the panic in my chest by shoving it down as far as it will go. “My best friend and I were, you know, sort of outsiders. Although our school was so small, we were also kind of insiders too.”
Bridget says, “I think Czyre’s trying to ask if you decided to dress the way you’re dressed out of the blue this morning.”
“No, give her a chance to talk,” he says. “You obviously have some sophisticated ideas about social groups, Andie. I’d like to hear more about your definition of outsiders versus insiders.”
I consider trying to tell them the truth. If there’s any group that might believe the incredible reality I’m living, it would probably be this one. Instead, I come only partially clean to them and admit I didn’t always wear this type of outfit.
“There weren’t enough of us to have cliques at our old school,” I say. “So no one really bothered dressing differently. I usually just wore jeans and a T-shirt, and so did the rest of my classmates.”
Bridget squints at my face. “So, then, how did you get so great at doing eyeliner?”
“By spending a LOT of time practicing.” I laugh. “Actually, I got the idea from watching the movie The Breakfast Club. I decided I liked Allison better before her big makeover, so I copied her look.” For a moment, everyone stares at me, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to retry getting to know this group tomorrow, but then Czyre laughs.
“Do you make all your decisions based on movie observations?” he asks.
I grin. “I can think of worse places to seek wisdom.”
As we eat lunch, I share more about my favorite movies, but quickly realize I’m the only movie-obsessed person at the table. Bridget and I shift to comparing notes on our dad’s professions and how much they affected us growing up.
“My dad had an office at home where he would meet with patients,” I say. “I remember wishing he worked at a normal office when I was younger. I would wonder what each person’s damage was as they came through our front door.”
Bridget shrugs. “I’ve always thought it was kind of nice having my dad around in the mornings, sitting in his prayer chair and sometimes making us breakfast. But then when I started going to school, everyone began seeing me as some sort of Jesus freak.”
Czyre says, “You are a total Jesus freak, Bridget, always talking about how much God loves us all, and how we can lean on him and ask him for help when we’re hurting.”
“He does love us!” She laughs. “So bleeping much! If pointing that out to people makes me a Jesus freak, I guess that’s what I am.”
“Watch those bleeping ‘bleeps,’ Bridge,” Czyre teases, and I decide that bleep is my new favorite swear.
“Isn’t she adorable?” True says.
The purple-haired guy she’s been flirting with wraps an arm around her from behind and says, “You’re adorable,” and kisses her on the cheek. Apparently, they’re already a couple.
Bridget says, “I tried to fit in with the other social groups, but really this is the only gang who accepted me just as I am.”
“We like freaks here,” Czyre says with a smile.
She rolls her eyes. “I started dressing like this to make my mom mad, but it turned out she loves this whole group.”
“We all call Bridget’s mom, ‘Mom,’” says the guy hugging True, and a few others call out, “Mom!”
Bridget says, “She’s driving some of us to the mall later. You’re welcome to join us.”
I nod. “I’d love to come.”
Czyre has been working on a new drawing, and he turns it around to face me. It’s a sketch of a movie reel with a winding ribbon of film curling in a dramatic loop.
Bridget’s face spreads into a wide smile. “Now that would make an amazing tattoo.”
I pull the picture closer so I can get a better look. “That is fantastic,” I say. “Too bad I’m underage, or I’d definitely get that tattoo on my foot someplace.”
Bridget makes a face. “Your foot?”
“It seems like it wouldn’t hurt as much,” I say.
“It also doesn’t show as much.” She pulls up the leg of her jeans to admire her trinity symbol. “My next one is going right on the back of my neck, no playing around.”
Czyre says, “Nice. But not all of us have parents who are fine with visible tattoos.”
I turn to Bridget. “Your dad doesn’t mind?”
She shrugs. “Both my folks have tats. My mom loved this design so much, she got us matching tattoos for my sweet sixteen. Hers is on her inner wrist.”
“I can see why your mom is such a hit. It’s cool that she gave her permission before you turned eighteen.”
Czyre’s eyes actually sparkle a little as he leans in close. “Well, if you’re serious about getting a foot tattoo, I think I can help you out.”
I look at the design he’s drawn and swallow. If I’m being completely honest, I was mostly getting into the whole spirit of talking about tattoos here. I’ve never really considered getting one beyond deciding the foot would be a cool spot. But when I look up, everyone around the table is watching me. There’s no graceful way to punk out now. “Help me, how?” I ask.
Czyre says, “My guy works out of the basement at the mall, and he’ll be happy to do your tattoo without special permission.”
“I, uh, don’t have any money. Aren’t tattoos kind of expensive?”
Czyre says, “He’s actually an apprentice who needs the practice. It’ll be totally free.”
There are lots of things that are awesome to get for free. I do not think tattoos are one of those things, but I’m pretty much out of excuses, except for, “I don’t think I can get a ride to the m—”
“I’m giving you a ride, remember?” Bridget cuts in before I can even finish stating my excuse.
“Right, thanks.” I try to smile, but my face doesn’t feel natural.
“It’s settled,” Czyre says with a very natural-looking grin. “One other thing, though.” He puts a hand over mine. “Foot tattoos actually hurt the worst of all.”
My unnatural smile falls completely. “Great.”
chapter 11
Woodchucks! Woodchucks! Woodchucks!”
We’re walking inside the mall when the familiar chanting rises from the direction of the food court. I look over and see the football players surrounding Colton, practically lifting him onto their shoulders as Kaia and her friends look on.
I stop a moment and watch as t
he guys pound each other’s backs a few more times before all sitting down at the table piled high with food.
Colton grabs Kaia into a playful headlock and kisses her on the cheek as she laughs and feigns resisting. Everyone is obviously having a great time, and I realize something: Kaia fits in perfectly with Colton and his life and his friends. The two of them were clearly meant to be together. And she was never my nasty rival at all.
“Andie? You okay?” Bridget’s hand on my arm makes me aware of the fact that I’m standing in the middle of the mall, openly gaping at my sort-of ex-boyfriend kissing his perfect-forhim new girlfriend.
“I’m good. Really,” I say, and scamper a few steps to catch up.
Bridget and I are on our way to meet Czyre and the rest of the gang at the shop where his friend is an apprentice. Three of us are planning to get tattoos, but I’m clearly the most terrified.
We all rode together in the van, but she and I stopped to buy me flip-flops so I don’t have to put shoes over my new tattoo right away. Of course, I’ll still need to cover it up before my parents see it, but there’s plenty of time to worry about that after I’ve dealt with what promises to be an excruciatingly painful visit to a not-quite-ready-for-paying-customers tattoo artist. Awesome.
The rest of the mall isn’t as filled with Punxsutawney students as I’d expected. Bridget and I have walked from one end to the other, and the only people I’ve seen besides Colton and his friends are Tom and his odd tribe. Today, he gives me a friendly wave and mimes a few conga dance moves.
I mimic his conga from across the mall, but then Bridget looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “What are you doing?” she asks.
I shrug at Tom and keep walking.
As we enter the glass elevator, I ask Bridget, “Do you really think getting a tattoo at the mall is a great idea?”
She punches the B button and leans against the railing as we head toward the basement. “This is perfect,” she says. “Kind of like an ironic twist on the cliché of getting your ears pierced at the mall.”
“Not sure if that counts as irony, or if it’s just a plain bad idea.”
“It can’t be as bad as getting a tattoo at a carnival,” she says. “Or, I once saw a tattoo van that traveled around. This is way better than getting your tattoo in a van.”
“You speak truth,” I say.
“This guy is really nice. You have nothing to worry about.”
The doors slide open on the lower level, and Czyre is waiting there with the rest of the group. Bridget tells him, “I think she’s getting cold feet.”
“Well, then,” he says, “I guess we’d better get a little ink on those footsies to warm them right up.”
As soon as I see the entrance to the shop, two things become very clear to me. 1) Ironic or not, getting a tattoo at the mall is not remotely related to going to Claire’s to have my ears pierced, and 2) There is a good reason parents need to give permission for their underage offspring to get tattoos: so they can intervene and save them from themselves.
Or in this case, save them from severe peer pressure. I’m still trying to figure out how to extract myself from this situation when a young man covered in ink walks through the swinging doors that lead to some unknowable dark lair.
“Hey there, George!” he calls to Czyre, and I give Bridget a questioning look.
She tips her head toward mine. “Czyre is actually George’s middle name. Just go with it.”
Which seems to be today’s ongoing theme.
I “just go with it” as the tattoo guy introduces himself as Rodney and has me hop up into the red leather chair.
I “just go with it” as George/Czyre draws his design directly onto my foot.
And then I “just go with it” as I admire the movie reel image on my foot, which in truth does look sort of fantastic.
Trying not to think of the buzzing needle heading my way, I lie back with my knee bent so my bare right foot is set flat against the leather cushion. My toes wiggle in anticipation of the pain and Rodney tells me to relax.
“Here,” he says, handing me a pillow. “Hug this, and maybe George can hold your hand. Squeezing something will help you keep your foot loose.”
“Ha,” I say. “Footloose.” But nobody else seems to get the reference.
I sit up and wrap both arms around the pillow. Czyre hands me a stick of gum and I say, “Thanks,” and take his hand. I chew quickly and give a practice squeeze of his hand. He doesn’t flinch, and so I amp my grip up to a death hold.
The very first poke of the needle stings so much that I curl my toes and kick my whole leg out in shock. Bleep! that hurts.
“Whoa!” Rodney yells, and I nearly start crying. He rubs my foot and apologizes for his outburst. “That was my bad,” he says. “I should’ve warned you that I was about to start, and maybe do a few practice pokes to make sure you were ready.”
I squeeze Czyre’s hand even tighter and nod. “I’m ready for real now.” I want to get this over with.
Resisting my natural reflexes, I focus on holding myself still while Rodney leans in so close, his face is nearly touching my foot. I wonder for a moment if Rodney is half-blind or something, then decide I don’t really want to know.
As the tattoo needle works its way over the top of my foot, I gradually become numb to the pain. Though every time Rodney passes his needle over a bone, my pain level spikes—so at least my foot is completely filled with bones.
I say to Czyre, “I guess all the bones in the feet are what make this extra painful.”
He nods while keeping his eyes glued to what Rodney is doing. “Locations that don’t have much muscle or fat can be quite uncomfortable.”
I squeeze his hand and the pillow simultaneously. “Yeah, uncomfortable. That’s just how I would describe this feeling.”
“You’re doing great,” Bridget tells me from down by my foot.
To which I respond, “Ow, ow, ow. I need a break.”
“Hold still,” Rodney says. “I’ll give you a break in a minute. Just need to finish this outline.”
“Wow, you’re nearly finished with—” I look at my foot. “Oh.” Beneath the spots of blood and spilled ink covering my foot, I can see he’s not quite done with the thin, round outline of the movie reel. He hasn’t even started on the winding ribbon of film, not to mention filling in and shading the whole thing.
“Sorry. I’m new to this, so I move a little slow.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” I say. “Better than making a mistake.” My lip trembles as I try to smile. This is one way to dramatically slow down time.
When we finally take a short break, I notice Czyre is shaking the blood back into the white fingertips of the hand I’ve been squeezing. When it’s time to start again, he offers it back with a grimace.
“Are you sure?” I say. “You might need use of that hand again at some point, and I don’t want to cause permanent nerve damage.”
He laughs. “No worries. This isn’t my drawing hand.”
As Rodney continues making progress on my movie reel, I try to distract myself by going over the details of today’s time loop.
As a fresh stabbing pain emanates from my foot, I come to the not-so-startling realization that I am not a tattoo type of girl. This whole thing hurts way more than any benefits I can envision. It is taking every ounce of my considerable self-control to not kick Rodney in the teeth and run for my life right now.
I picture Czyre’s reaction to that and can easily envision him protecting me from Rodney’s wrath. He is a great guy, but as he gives me an encouraging smile, I come to yet another realization. One that is slightly startling.
This whole first-kiss plan to stop myself from time looping is turning into a total bust. Czyre is not my true love. I stave off a fresh wave of pain by squeezing his hand again, and he confirms everything I’m feeling by kindly brushing a lock of my hair out of my eyes. It feels like I’m being comforted by a brother or a cousin. Czyre is sweet, but there is zero c
hemistry between us, and I know he feels it too. Or rather, doesn’t.
“Breathe, Andie,” he tells me. “You can do this. Visualize the pain as something with limits that you can control.”
My eyes widen at him as I pump out short breaths like I’m a woman in labor. My mind wings back to Tammy telling me almost the same exact thing while she encouraged me to push through exhaustion at cheerleading practice. The two of them are similar in other ways too. They each lead their respective groups through gentle encouragement, wrapped in a steely, tough outer layer. In fact, the girls had called Tammy “the egg,” and Czyre seems to be just as soft on the inside.
“Don’t hyperventilate or you’ll pass out,” Rodney warns.
Czyre positions himself so he’s looking directly in my eyes, and he breathes slowly until I’m able to find his pace and match it. Which just confirms how much he and Tammy are alike, since she was always all about breathing properly while cheerleading.
I try to envision the two of them together, but know that under the current social conditions at Punxsutawney High, it could literally never happen. Maybe that’s my purpose in this whole thing. To break down the walls between cliques so that people like Czyre and Tammy can realize that they’re perfect for each other.
Maybe I’m supposed to Breakfast Club Punxsutawney High.
I give a whimper of agony that gets Czyre rubbing my arm with the hand I’m not crushing. Again, zero romantic sparks.
While I’m trying to manage the pain I’m feeling, True and her boyfriend, Zepher, walk up to Czyre with an open binder filled with tattoo drawings.
“Do you think you could maybe give this pair a little flair?” True asks, holding out a page of his-’n’-hers tattoos.
I lean up to get a closer look at the design she’s pointing to. Beside a drawing of an owl is a tree with an owl hole in it. I grin.
“That is so sweet.” I loosen my grip on Czyre’s hand.
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