by Robin Mellom
That’s al .”
“Superfun happy!” the girls yel ed, charging the door.
Mike led us inside, and the smel of incense, deep and woody, washed over me, causing an instant headache, the same kind I get when my mom goes crazy with the coriander; but then I get used to it. It was the same with this incense—
within a moment I hardly even noticed it.
The hardwood floors were the only bare item in the store—the wal s and ceiling were smothered with tapestries, posters, and beads. The air was dense. Thick.
“The Mikes!” A half man/half wooly mammoth with a long braided gray beard emerged from the back of the store.
“’Bout time you stoners got your asses down here. I was about to lock up.” He stopped and looked us up and down.
“Whoa. What the—”
“Prom.” Mike spun around, al proud of himself but slightly off balance. “Check out the duds.” He patted himself 186
to make sure his buttons were buttoned and his fly was up.
The guy side-hugged and fist-bumped Mike, then introduced himself to me. “I’m Fritz.” He stuck his Jol y Green Giant hand out. He was wearing a pink tie-dyed shirt, loose pants that looked suspiciously similar to pajamas, and no shoes on his pudgy feet. The long, gray, frizzy hair on his head looked like the source of how he got his name—like he’d been hit by lightning and . . . Fritz!
“Justina.” I extended my hand, which disappeared inside his. “I’m . . . just . . . driving these guys around.”
“No ‘just’ with these guys. Driving them around means having an experience.”
I nodded. “True.”
Fritz glanced around, adding up the numbers. We were obviously one person short. His eyes landed on me. “No date?” Serenity stepped up and answered before I could. “We’re not talking about him. One of those off-limit things.”
“It’s okay. I can talk about it.” I stiffened my posture. “Ian, my date, my so-cal ed best friend, left me at the dance. He’s doing something il egal. He keeps cal ing Al yson Moore on her cel phone. He is an ass,” I said, as if it were a mundane grocery list.
Fritz nodded slightly, like this was no unusual story to him, then turned to the Mikes. “What’re you guys browsing for tonight? I gotta a new shipment of glass. Beautiful pipes.”
“The girls want tattoos.” Mike tilted his head when he looked at me, like I was the goofy mascot. “I mean, Serenity 187
and Bliss want tattoos. Justina has plenty of flair going on with that psychedelic dress of hers. And matching corsage.” He shot me an I-feel-sorry-for-you-but-don’t-want-to-say-it-type smile.
I smirked. He was being funny/sweet/supportive, but I wanted to chuck both the dress and the roses down a sewer drain.
Fritz slipped on his reading glasses and dug around behind the counter for tools. “What kind tonight, girls?” They had clearly thought this through, because they both squealed, “Hearts!”
Fritz led the four of them through a beaded curtain behind the counter while I waited in the front of the store.
Witnessing the dril ing and the blood and the pain was not something my oh-so-empty stomach could handle. I could hear Bliss squeal and laugh as Fritz worked on her upper arm. She was handling the pain wel . Maybe even liked it.
I had heard that rumor about Ledbetter girls, too.
Funny how no one at my school ever mentioned the part about Ledbetter girls being just plain awesome.
The store was pretty standard for a head shop, or I mean, a happy fun sticker shop. There was a counter ful of hemp paper, hemp candles, hemp toilet paper, hemp, hemp, hemp.
And then there was the pro selection of lava lamps. I mental y added the green and blue one to my Christmas wish list. But I was a little surprised by the separate counter area devoted completely to carvings of dragons and gargoyles.
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Their carved faces were gothic and gnarly. Like how I feel without proper blood sugar flow. Man, I’m starving.
Right next to the dragons was a rack ful of clothes. They were al goth-looking shirts—black with skul s and flames.
I spotted one perfect al -black girls sweater that would’ve made Hailey proud for its skintightness, and made me happy for its al blackness.
The price tag read $65.
Yikes. That would wipe out almost ten weeks of my clothing al otment.
Ian knew why I bought al my clothes secondhand, and even though I’d told him nearly every detail of my ridiculous life, I’d never gotten the nerve to tel him why I only bought black. I guess even as comfortable as he made me feel with his old clunker of a Mercedes and love of 7-Eleven nachos, it couldn’t erase my embarrassment.
The truth was, the thrift store in our town rocked.
Seriously rocked. The majority of the clothes were donated by girls from my high school. Correction . . . their mothers donated their clothes after they went through their daughters’
closets and yanked out last year’s designer clothes to make room for this year’s designer clothes. Some people drove a long way to shop at the thrift store in my town. Oscar de la Renta for $4.99?!
But a few years ago I made the mistake of buying a Chanel print blouse on half-price orange-dot Tuesday for $1.99. Brianna Portman—sweetheart that she is—stopped 189
me in the hal with a scowl on her face. “That’s my shirt. My mom gave that away to charity. Why are you wearing it?” I lied. I told her my mom had bought it at the mal and that I didn’t know what she was talking about. But her eyes fel to the one little stain at the hem of the shirt—a sure indication I was a complete liar. And cheap.
So the day after Brianna confronted me about wearing her shirt, I only bought black. I used a black Sharpie marker to touch up any stains, and made sure there was nothing unusual about it—no ruffles, no prints, no intricate embroidery. No one could argue with that—a black shirt was a black shirt.
I don’t think anyone ever caught on to my black Sharpie trick. I walked the hal s of Huntington High wearing all their black hand-me-downs and they didn’t have a clue. I guess everyone just thought I was dark and emotional.
And tonight, I definitely was. Because more than anything, I missed Ian.
There had to be an explanation. I needed to talk to him.
I pushed the on button on my phone and when the display came up it said I had four voice mails.
My heart triple-flipped. The first one was from my mom.
Annoyed, I fast-forwarded through it, and the next one was from Ian. He had been trying to cal me!
—Running a little late. Where are you?
—Stil trying to get there. Don’t be mad. Get a snack.
—Oh man. Can you turn your phone on, Justina??
I listened to the messages, hoping to get an explanation, 190
but no, they were worthless. Just his soothing, even voice trying to smooth it al out—as if I were some “buddy” he might catch up with at a party later.
I just wanted him to be honest. Was that too much to ask? Did he think I couldn’t handle knowing he was sel ing drugs or making meth or burying bodies or whatever il egal stuff he was into?
I had to know what was going on. We needed to talk.
I hit 2 on my speed dial, but immediately it went to voice mail. None of this made sense. Why wasn’t his phone on? Had he taken Al yson’s advice? How could he make me believe he was a handle-first type of guy—for months!—and then in one night become someone else completely?
Baffling.
I decided I’d better listen to Mom’s message. It was on the worthless side, too.
—Just got home from the fundraiser. There was a little problem when I got home but I’ve figured it out. Don’t worry about me . . . I didn’t want you to think I was getting too involved again. That’s why I didn’t bother you with it. You’l be home by two, right? Did everyone love your shoes? I knew they would!
No, Mom. They didn’t al love my shoes.
And why would she cal me with some ho
usehold problem? It was my prom. I couldn’t fix a toaster or whatever from the dance floor! Not that I had danced with anyone.
Not intentional y, anyway.
But at least she’d figured it out on her own.
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My mind drifted back to Ian. This was exactly the type of thing I’d talk to him about—my wel -intentioned, overbearing mother figured out her own problem.
But I couldn’t talk to him—for some reason his phone was off. It didn’t feel like I’d ever get closer to the truth.
“I love it!” Serenity yel ed from the back room.
Through the beaded curtain I could make out the silhouette of her and Mike in the far corner. Hugging.
Swaying. Him gazing at her new tattoo, her gently resting her head on his shoulder.
Them—ridiculously sweet.
Me—total y jealous.
I had imagined Ian and me standing just like that right before we kissed. But he had been wil ing to give that up for a flag twirler who told stories with dramatic hand gestures.
Maybe Al yson was more interesting. Maybe he liked that she’d joined the flag corps. That she was the head of the prom committee, as embarrassing as that would be. That she had a Journey song for her ring tone—by choice, not force.
And that she didn’t care what anyone thought about any of it. She did what she wanted. No worries.
She wasn’t like me at al .
I pushed my way through the beaded curtain. “I want a tattoo.”
“What?!” Serenity herded me over to the corner for a quick lecture. “I know Ian’s being a dick and al , and lord knows I’ve made life-altering decisions in the name of 192
hunger, but do you real y want to do this? Be rational, okay?
Eat some peanuts.”
Her argument was understandable, but for the first time that night, my mind felt clutter-free. “I’m not doing this because I’m hungry. I want to do something without worrying about the consequences.”
She nodded. “Okay, okay. That’s solid.” She gave me a quick hug. “Just making sure you have a clear head.” She guided me by the shoulders and led me into the chair opposite Fritz.
He was on a stool next to a bright work light, cleaning needles.
Gulp.
Serenity clamped down on my shoulder. “Want me to stay with you?”
The Mikes were out in the store playing air guitar to Led Zeppelin, making Bliss giggle almost to the point of hysteria. “No, you go hang with them. I can do this.” She waved sweetly as she pushed her way through the beaded curtain, and I was alone with Fritz. He continued to clean his tools. He whistled. He did not talk.
“So, can you show me some pictures or something?” My toes bounced, eyes darted, nerves rattled.
Fritz glanced at me over his glasses.
“Of tattoos,” I added. “Some choices?”
“So you want to be the risk taker tonight, huh?” He crossed his legs in a deliberate fashion, as if he wasn’t so convinced.
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“I need to take a risk. And I need to stop caring.”
“So which is it? You need to take risks? Or you need to stop caring?”
“It al sounds good to me. Can’t I do both?” I pushed down on my knees to get my toes to stop bouncing.
He shrugged and motioned to my stomach, which was grumbling loudly. “They’re your needs.” True, maybe al I needed was a veggie burger. But I knew I needed Ian, too.
At least his friendship. That was one thing I couldn’t bare to lose.
Ian was the guy who would cal to check in on me three days before my period started because he knew I’d be acting erratic, even though I explained it was perfectly normal for a girl to curl up in bed with a hot water bottle. One day, he final y realized I didn’t need his emotional support, I just needed licorice and Motrin.
But what I loved most about our friendship was the way he said my name . . . always dripping with adoration. And annoyance. I had always figured that’s what had drawn Ian to me. My adorably low tolerance for PMS mixed with my annoying al -black wardrobe. It was sexy to him.
Probably.
“Give me a tattoo.” The words came out, but then my heart did that jumping thing and my head did that annoying weighing-of-consequences thing. Ugh. “But don’t give me a real one,” I blurted.
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“You worried about what other people wil think?” I lowered my head. “Yes.”
Fritz flashed me a smile, though it was barely visible behind his wooly beard. “Wasn’t planning on it. It’s my policy to never dril on people who haven’t eaten. Hungry people make bad decisions.” He pul ed a drawer wide open. “Pick one.” There were lots of choices. Hearts. Lions. Disney characters. “That one,” I said, pointing to a punk Tinker Bell with ripped wings and fishnets and combat boots. She was the spitting image of me. She was supposed to be sweet and beautiful, but she was ripped and torn. Al I needed were combat boots. Which would have been an improvement over these shoes.
“Nice choice.” Fritz pul ed out a towel, a bowl of water, and a damp sponge. It didn’t take long, but he did have to press pretty hard.
I can’t say it was painless.
While he worked his magic, I explained everything to him. How Ian and I met, how he handed me the bat handle first, how he brought me the licorice and Motrin when I was on my period, how he wore that green shirt, how we flirted and dipped our toes in the water but never plunged. And then I told him how Ian ditched me, and about Al yson.
He shook his head. But didn’t say anything.
“What?” I asked.
Fritz put his tools away. “Sounds like you don’t have all the pieces to this puzzle.”
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“Like?”
He shrugged. “Al I know is the best buds come straight from the plant. The source. Not from some guy on Lexington Avenue sel ing it to you in a dirty Ziploc. If you want to know how he real y feels about you, you gotta go to the source.”
“Lexington Avenue?”
He tilted his head down, looking at me over his glasses, and blinked heavily.
“You mean Al yson? I’m not about to waste one second talking to that—”
He raised his hand, stopping me. “Ian.”
“But al I seem to be getting are excuses—”
“I don’t think he’d go from being a handle-first kind of guy to a ditcher in one night. Find the puzzle piece. Go to the source.”
I breathed in deeply. “You sound like one of those ninja wise men.”
He pointed behind him to a display of bumper stickers.
One read: go to the source. “Instant wisdom,” he said,
“for only a $1.29.”
“Thanks, Fritz.”
When the tattoo was dry, I joined the girls and the Mikes in the poster section, where the guys were discussing whether one of the skeletons in the posters was actual y speaking to them.
Serenity and Bliss ran over to check out my new tat. I couldn’t bring myself to tel them it was only temporary.
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They’d know I was a poser. A fake risk taker. A loser in all caps.
But Bliss grabbed my arm. “Oh my gosh!” She covered her mouth, then said, “Serenity, this is the most bitchin’
press-on!”
Serenity rubbed my arm gently. “It rocks, Sweetness.”
“Aren’t you guys gonna make fun of me? It’s not a real one.”
She pul ed up her strap to the side and pointed to her heart. “Temporary.” She threw her arms in the air. “We’re not that stoned.”
I smiled. “Solid.”
Just before we left, my eye caught something in a display sitting on the counter top. Silver and shiny. A ring. A huge Muppet-looking daisy ring, two fingers wide.
Ohmygosh, ohmygosh.
Fritz stepped up to the counter. “Like it?”
“Yeah.” My fingers shook as I flipped over the tag. It read: handmade, one of a kind.
for someone special.
>
$350
My stomach plummeted to the floor.
Oh. My. Sweet. God. I had no idea.
“Some guy bought that ring a few weeks ago.” Fritz shrugged and sipped on a Capri Sun. “But he returned it the next day.”
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I whipped my head up at him. “Did he say why?”
“Said his girlfriend was too worried people would make fun of it.” He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “He was pretty choked up about it. Why would his girlfriend care that much about what other people think?”
Fritz slid the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly. My eyes fil ed with tears—I couldn’t hold them back. My words sputtered out. “He cal ed me his girlfriend?” Fritz nodded. “Did we just find a piece of the puzzle?” I wiped my face. “Yeah. We did.”
Without a moment of hesitation, I pul ed out the credit card Mom gave me for thrift store shopping and placed it on the counter. I knew Mom would read my statement and see how much I’d spent—an entire year’s al owance.
But Ian Clark had cal ed me his girlfriend. In public. At a head shop!
I final y knew how he felt—and it was before he had ever even kissed me. Apparently he didn’t need to know how I kissed to seal the deal—he had tried to seal it with this ring.
And I wouldn’t accept it. I pushed it away . . . pushed him away. That’s what this was al about.
Me.
Fritz rung me up and said, “Here’s the box. . . .” I shook my head. “I’l wear it out.” My voice cracked.
“Thank you, Fritz.” I studied the ring again, knowing I would never take it off. Wel , maybe for showers . . . Oh, what the hel —no, I would never take it off.
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My eyes wandered to my royal blue watch. One a.m. “Oh my god.”
“What’s wrong?” Serenity spun me around.
“It’s so late. I have to find him. We have to go!” I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out toward the parking lot, the Mikes and Bliss fol owing—adorable magnets that they were.
We al piled into the Cadil ac, which didn’t take long because I practical y shoved them in while apologizing for groping them, but we had to go! I gunned it out of the parking lot, making the tires squeal. I was hel -bent. And yeah, total y crazy crackers.