And here I am, like Andy was that night. What would he have been thinking? I walk around the store, wondering what things Andy paid attention to while he was out here and I was back there with the other woman.
Did he know yet he would go through with it? Was he looking at everything like it was the last time he would see it?
There are healing crystals, tarot cards, incense burners, books on palm and tarot reading, and little sculptures of moons and hearts and gargoyles. I pick up a book about gargoyles and read how they’re supposed to scare away evil.
Did Andy read this? I wonder what he thought about all this New Age stuff. Did he believe in it? Was he looking for something to believe in that night? Did I let him down?
Maybe Andy and I shouldn’t have come here. Things might have been different if he hadn’t run into me. If the old woman hadn’t given him a doomish future. Maybe she confirmed that dying young was his destiny. Is that why we came here? In this tiny shop on Orange Avenue, did Andy really expect to find his destiny here? Or was this just the beginning of a cause and effect, like dominoes. And once we set that first domino into motion, there was nothing to stop all the rest from falling.
Colin comes out from behind the curtain and I can hear him thanking the woman. I head back to the front of the store.
“Your turn,” he says.
“No, I don’t . . .”
“Come on. You made me do it, so now it’s your turn.”
“Fine,” I say and take out my wallet to use the emergency credit card my parents make me carry. I can only imagine what Mom will think when she sees the statement with this psychic shop listed on it.
But just then, the woman stares at me and says suddenly, “Put that away. Come with me.”
Before I can refuse, she’s already heading toward the back room and I feel like I have no choice but to follow. I sigh and head to the reading room.
We sit down, and I find myself just as fidgety and unsure as last time. Especially when she studies me and doesn’t say anything or ask for my hand.
“Your aura . . . ,” she says. Then she sits back and looks at me some more. I wait for her riddles.
“I’m not going to give you a reading,” she finally says.
“Okay?”
“That’s not why I brought you back here. A reading wouldn’t be good for you,” she says and shakes her head decidedly. “But you’ve been here before,” she says. I swallow the lump in my throat. “That boy”—she says as she points her finger at the closed door and I know she’s referring to Colin—“he’s not the same one as before.” She leans toward me. “There was another one.” She’s not asking me. She knows. “He’s gone, isn’t he?” she says.
I nod.
“My mother came home upset four months ago. She knew.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach when she mentions this.
“And now, I’ll tell you the only thing that matters. It’s that you make your own future. People come here for answers, looking for something, looking for hope or promise. He came here looking for confirmation.” She looks down and shakes her head again. “Confirmation is something we can never give you. Warnings, perhaps, but never confirmation. I can’t confirm anything. Because the future is like clay, every day you mold it, every day people leave impressions that change its form. It’s never concrete, it’s always changing. We might see some things, possibilities, but you are the one who decides what form your life takes.”
I take a deep breath and try to wrap my mind around what she is telling me.
She sits back and looks at me. “What are you looking for?” she asks.
Answers. Andy. Myself.
I shrug.
“But if your mother saw, then . . .”
“She saw trouble. She warned him. He chose his own future,” she finishes. I shake my head because I’m not sure I believe that.
“You will see,” she says. “With time, you will see.” And with that, she motions for me to leave.
I head out of the room and back to the store. Colin is flipping through some books. He notices me, but I’m already heading outside. I need some fresh air, even if it is stifling, humid air.
“What’s the matter?” he asks as he follows me. I stand on the sidewalk, wondering what the hell I’m doing. The psychic’s words stick with me but I feel like I missed something. Part of me wants to go back inside and demand to know what I should do, what I should have done.
I close my eyes. “I don’t know. I just, I guess I was hoping for more of an answer.”
Colin looks at me. “But you didn’t want to get a reading,” he says.
I nod. “I know.” I run my hand through my hair in frustration. “This totally sucks.”
“I’m sorry,” Colin says.
We stand there a while longer, watching people head in and out of local bars and clubs.
“So,” I say finally. “What’d she say to you?” The question echoes in my ears.
Somewhere, I hear the echo of my laugh from that night, but when I look at Colin, the laughter is coming from his mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says. “But I’m not telling.”
“That’s probably better,” I say and start walking.
Colin follows next to me, saying something, but all I can think about is if the psychic is right.
I cut him off and face him. “Do you think we really make our own future?”
“Of course,” he says without hesitation.
“How are you so sure?” I ask him, shaking my head. “I mean, don’t you think that on some level there are these paths to your life, already mapped out, that you follow?”
He thinks about this for a minute. “I don’t know, that just seems so final. I mean, I honestly think of life like this big wilderness. And maybe you’re on this path, but I always think you have a choice. To stay on that path, or to venture out into the wilderness and make different paths.”
“Oh . . .” is all I can say. His answer has made my head feel full.
Colin smiles. “I’m taking a philosophy class right now at the community college. Don’t be too impressed. Every class is a discussion like this.” Colin and I make our way down Orange Avenue and cut through rowdy crowds of half-drunk people downtown. There are homeless people slumped on the sides of the sidewalks, little dirty heaps that blend into the buildings. A tall girl in a shimmery gold top is walking toward us. She links arms with the guy next to her and is close to one of the dirty little heaps before she realizes it, and then just steps right over him—literally.
“What about him?” I ask Colin who has noticed the same thing. “And her? Do you think she is this wise person who chose all the right paths and he chose all the wrong ones?”
“I think that’s the gray,” Colin says. “Some paths are more available to some while they’re more hidden from others.” He looks back at the guy. “Some people get tired of fighting through to better paths; some people get lost.”
I nod, having the image of a huge jungle in my head. Some people strolling on by, while others fighting like hell. And some just giving up.
I push the image out of my head and look at the buildings as we walk.
“Last question,” I say. “If you knew you were going to die tonight, what would you notice about this?”
“What? About here, like downtown, you mean?” he asks, giving me a funny look.
“Yeah, sure. This, or anything, or everything,” I say.
“Oh, well thanks for narrowing it down,” Colin says, but he stops where he is. He turns slowly in place, looking at everything carefully. Then he looks up at the sky, then finally, back at me.
“Do I have to be honest?”
“Please,” I say.
“I guess, at first, I would try to notice everything, take everything in, you know? But I’d probably realize that’s impossible because there’s always something I’d miss. So then I’d focus on one cool thing,” he says and moves in closer to me.
“One cool thing?
” I say. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
He nods. “Yeah, so when it happened, when I’d die, I could just think about this one cool thing. . . .”
I close my eyes and breathe in the humid air. “Right.”
“Are you okay?” Colin asks.
“Yeah,” I say and walk past Colin quickly. “Let’s just go. We have to keep going.”
I lead us to Black Chapel Tattoo just a few blocks down and go in without explaining anything to Colin. He follows behind me. There are a couple of people waiting around, looking at the various designs on the wall. Some, I think, working up the courage to get one, and others that are so tattooed, I wonder where else they could manage to put more.
On the wall there are a bunch of tattoo designs to choose from.
“Know which one you’re going to get?” Colin asks me.
Chapter 21
THAT NIGHT
“Know which one you’re going to get?” I ask Andy.
He walks the length of the wall. “None of these are right,” he says. He looks disappointed.
“How about some stars?” I suggest.
“Nah . . .”
“Maybe you should think about it and come back another time,” I say.
“No . . . I want to get it tonight. I have to get it tonight.”
“But why?”
“Because . . .” And I’m not sure he’s going to say more as he walks to another wall filled with images. I follow him. “It’s gotta be about now,” he says. He looks around like he’s searching for something. “Because you know what, Frenchie? Now is really all that we’ve got, right? The past is done. The future . . . the future is just too . . .” He shakes his head and I kind of understand what he means.
“Too big?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. The future doesn’t exist. The future never actually exists.” I’m about to ask what he means by that when he cuts me off and says, “But these all suck.”
He shakes his head in disgust, but then his eyes meet mine and there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel stripped. Like he can see too much of me. Like he can see that I’ve been in love with him since ninth grade. Even though I don’t want to break the connection, I can’t keep looking at him this way. I can’t let him see what I don’t want him to see. I laugh nervously and look at the wall again. A fairy with a wicked smile gives me the finger.
“It has to be about now,” he says. I nod without looking back over at him. I can feel him staring at me and my face feels hot.
I concentrate on the pissed-off fairy.
A minute later, he’s at the counter. I breathe easier without his eyes on me.
“You coming?” he asks when a woman starts leading him to one of the ink stations. I follow, but I’m confused, because I didn’t realize he had made up his mind already.
A guy with a tattooed neck stands up, introduces himself as Kaz, and shakes Andy’s hand. “What are we getting today?” he asks Andy. Kaz has an English accent and he seems like a contradicting mix of formality and antiestablishment.
Andy looks my way. “I just want a name, over here,” he says, grabbing his right shoulder.
“Right, then. What name do you want?”
“Frenchie,” Andy says without hesitation. He looks at me and grins.
My mouth drops open as I realize what he’s doing. “Are you insane!” I yell. “You can’t do that!”
Kaz looks back and forth between the two of us. “A bit of a shocker for the girlfriend, I see,” he says.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I say, even though my stomach gets fluttery over the assumption.
“Oh, well,” he says and sits there, looking between the two of us. “She’s right, bloke. You’ll probably regret it someday, especially if she’s not your girl. Cool name though. What exactly does it imply?” He grins at me.
“It implies that my name is Frenchie,” I say slowly and deliberately. I resist the urge to add “dumbass” to the end of my sentence.
He laughs. “Right, then”—he says and then looks over at Andy and says—“well what’s it gonna be?”
“Andy, you can’t do this. You really can’t. A tattoo is forever.”
“I promise you, I won’t regret it. And nothing is forever, Frenchie.”
“This is really stupid, not to mention . . .”
“Just do it,” Andy says to Kaz.
“You’re sure then?” Kaz asks. Andy nods and takes off his shirt. Seeing Andy there, his shoulders and his skin, makes me lose my ability to rationalize. I look away nervously because all I can do is imagine what his skin would feel like against my lips. And then, the thought of my name on his shoulder kind of thrills me.
I shake my head. “You’re crazy, you know that? Some day you’ll have to explain yourself to your wife.”
“I will never have to explain myself to anyone,” he says. Kaz pipes up and says, “Right on, bloke. So you want this name in what kind of lettering?”
Andy shrugs. “Whatever you think. I’ll leave it up to chance.”
“Ahhh, lettering left up to chance. Impossibly impulsive,” Kaz jokes. “Well then, give me a minute and I’ll be right back,” he says. Andy nods and lays shirtless on the chair. I sit at a nearby chair wondering why the hell he would tattoo my name on his shoulder. My name. It seems ridiculous and stupid . . . and on some level, incredibly touching and lovely.
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want something more . . . ,” I say. I look down because selfishly, I do want Andy to tattoo my name on his shoulder. Shamefully, it would thrill me even though I would scoff at any other guy doing the same for any other girl. “Don’t you want to get something more meaningful?”
“It is, though,” Andy says. He smiles and I think I’m going to melt into the floor. I sit next to him and watch as Kaz draws up the sketch of my name in the back.
When he comes back, Kaz sets my name on Andy’s bare skin. He peels away the stencil to reveal a most beautiful sight. My chest fills with giddiness and I feel like I’m atop the Swiss Alps breathing the freshest air.
“That’s going to look quite fucking right,” Kaz says. “Take a look.”
Andy cranes his neck to look into the mirror that Kaz holds up by his shoulder.
“Perfect, man,” he says. Then he turns toward me and says, “What do you think?”
I think it is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It makes me want to ask Andy if he wouldn’t mind never wearing a shirt again so everyone can see my name on his shoulder and understand what it means, even if I don’t. All I can say, though, is, “But it’s . . . permanent.”
“Frenchie,” he says, shaking his head from side to side and letting out a low chuckle. “Nothing is permanent.” And the way he says it makes me suddenly feel foolish. And I just want us to leave, but the buzz of the gun has already started and all I can do is watch as Andy sits there, with his eyes closed, taking in the pain of the incessant needle.
Chapter 22
TONIGHT
“So?” Colin looks over my shoulder. “Please tell me you’re not going to get that one,” he says staring at the pissed-off fairy.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“Well, which one then?”
I shrug.
“Maybe you should wait,” he says.
“No, it has to be tonight.” The words echo in my head. And I’m suddenly quite certain, irrationally certain, that if I close my eyes and just think hard enough, think back to that night and recall every detail, then maybe I can conjure up Andy and he’ll be standing here next to me, and that night will never have happened. Or maybe I’ll suddenly time travel back and be able to stop him. I concentrate harder, trying to conjure up the people that filled this place that day. The three annoying girls that were giggling about getting the same tattoo on their lower backs. The girl with blue hair that looked disgusted when she walked by them. The normal looking guy with white sneakers that was passed out on one of the c
hairs in the front. And Andy, standing here, looking at the wall.
If I concentrate, I can hear his voice. I can hear my voice.
What about this one?
It has to be about now. I rewind and replay that word.
Now. Again.
Now.
I think I hear something in it—something I didn’t hear then. I thought it was impulsiveness, impatience, excitement. But maybe . . . that was desperation? Was Andy desperate that night? But for what?
“Frenchie?”
My eyes flutter open and the moment is over. The portal to then closes, and I’m stuck in now.
“You okay?” Colin asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. I bite my lip so I don’t yell at him. So I don’t blurt out, “You ruined it!” Because that’s stupid. Thinking these things is stupid, and I wish I didn’t believe them. I take a deep breath. “I just have to do this. Tonight,” I say.
“Okay,” he says and puts his hand on my shoulder. I don’t even cringe or squirm. “Come on,” I say and we walk over to the counter.
The girl at the counter asks to see my ID.
“Shit, I . . . left it at home,” I say, suddenly realizing that not being eighteen presents a huge problem.
“Right,” she says, “Well, come back when you have it then.”
“Really? Come on. I’ve been here before.” I know it won’t help to get pissed, and I probably seem like a big joke to her because she’s heard it all before. But the idea of not being able to do this gets me desperate and irrationally pissed. “You have to let me. . . .”
“I don’t have to let you do anything, sweetheart,” she says.
I see Kaz in the background and realize he’s been watching the whole thing. He gets up and comes over.
“Hey, it’s Frenchie,” he says to me, and then turns to the girl behind the counter. “What’s going on?”
“She doesn’t have ID,” the girl says, looking back at me like I’m some kind of trash.
“Darling, why didn’t you bring your ID?” he says. Shit, now he’s going to get in on the fun too.
Death, Dickinson, and the Demented Life of Frenchie Garcia Page 9