by BB Easton
My mom remembered Knight from when she was his art teacher. It had been sweet to watch him squirm as she gushed about his talent. I think I even caught him smiling once or twice. When he left, Knight had told me that it was the best Christmas of his life.
I tore through my drawers until I found what I was looking for—a framed picture of two teenagers standing in front of a puny fake Christmas tree. Both had freckled faces. Both had shaved heads—one with bangs. And both wore matching half-assed smiles. It was the first picture that had ever been taken of us together—one of the only pictures of us in existence. So much of our time together had been spent alone. There was never anyone around to say, Smile, you two!
I might not have been able to display it anymore, but I would be forever grateful to my mom for taking that photo.
Placing the frame on top of the brown paper, I wrapped it diligently, making sure to pad the glass side the most, then I flipped it over and wrote on the back.
Dear Knight,
She liked you too.
Merry Christmas.
Love,
BB
Seeing that picture again for the first time in months sent my guilty conscience into a tailspin. Not only because it forced me to admit that I was carrying on some kind of long-distance relationship with my ex-boyfriend, but also because it reminded me that I still hadn’t introduced Harley to my parents. We’d been dating for six months. Six months. That’s like six decades in teenage-relationship years. My mom knew I had a boyfriend—mostly from the errant hickey here and there and the fact that I was never home—but I didn’t talk about him much. What would I even say?
Sure, Harley got kicked out of high school at seventeen, but he’s super resourceful. He even spent a few years squatting in Little Five Points with a band of homeless gutter punks! You gotta be pretty smart to live rent-free, am I right?
Harley might be a mechanic, but look! He drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car! Just don’t open the trunk, okay?
Harley is old enough to buy me cigarettes and alcohol! Isn’t that great? Now, I don’t have to steal yours!
You like art. Harley’s covered in it!
But if I could bring a skinhead home for Christmas, whose knuckles were still bloody from beating his stepdad’s face in the night before, I could bring Harley home. Right? At least Harley was charming. And that face. And that hair. What wasn’t to love?
When the doorbell rang I bounced down the stairs, skipping the last three steps altogether, and tore open the front door. My eyes went straight to Harley’s outfit, hoping he’d at least worn something that covered up his tattoos. He had on a long-sleeved white thermal Henley that hugged his hard chest and disappeared into his dark gray Dickies, which were held up with a studded belt. My mouth watered. Sliding my eyes up to his smirking face, I noticed that he hadn’t taken out his lip ring, which was fine. I guess. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d asked him to.
Then I noticed his hair.
Or lack thereof.
Harley hadn’t just cut his hair. He hadn’t just buzzed it off, like Knight’s. Harley was bald.
Bic fucking bald.
I hadn’t seen him in a week—the longest we’d been apart since we started dating—because I was grounded for breaking curfew again. What the fuck had happened while I was gone?
Harley didn’t look bad with a shaved head, just…different. More sinister. He’d gone from looking like James Dean to looking like a James Bond villain.
I didn’t have time to ask what had happened because my mom was already standing beside me, gesturing for Harley to come in. I stood in my parents’ modest foyer with my mouth slightly agape as she ushered him straight back into the kitchen where she had a cheese ball and some Triscuits set out to look fancy.
As I followed several feet behind, I watched in horror as Harley took a seat at the kitchen island, revealing the reason why his beautiful sunny-blond sex hair was missing.
He had a tattoo, on the top of his head, the size of a fucking salad plate.
Time slowed to a crawl. I couldn’t feel my socked feet as they moved across the linoleum floor. It was as if I were floating above the entire situation. From my vantage point, I could see Harley’s tattoo perfectly. It looked like the top of his skull had been removed like the lid of a cookie jar, revealing a network of tubes and gears and pistons inside instead of brains.
I get it. You’re a motorhead. Real clever, asshole.
I remembered Harley saying something about having a tattoo on his head when we’d first started dating, but this work looked fresh. The ink was jet-black, and the skin around it was red and raised. That motherfucker had gotten his head tattooed, or re-tattooed, right before coming to meet my parents. If he had at least warned me I would have told him to just stay home, made up some excuse. Now I had a grown-ass man with a facial piercing, a head tattoo, a trunk full of guns, and zero high school diplomas sitting at my kitchen table, eating my mama’s cheeseball.
That wasn’t my problem though. Because I wasn’t there. Sure, my body was there. But my consciousness was watching with detached amusement from the other side of the room, wearing 3D glasses and munching on a bowl of popcorn like, Oh, shit, girl! Your mom looks mad as hell! Did you see that look she just gave you? Just wait until your dad sees. He’s probably gonna make you start wearing a chastity belt. You are so fucked!
“Am I on peyote, or is there a ’69 Boss 429 in my driveway?” My dad’s voice was coming from the living room, which was next to the kitchen and behind the garage.
I’d assumed he just hadn’t bothered to get up and come say hello, but evidently, he’d snuck outside to scope out Harley’s car.
Weirdo.
Harley’s mouth pulled to one side in a cocky smirk as he got up to greet my dad. He loved nothing more than showing off that damn car. I wanted to follow him but not badly enough to risk reentering my body. Even my mom’s hippie pacifism had its limits, and I did not want to be there when she finally lost it and smacked me in the mouth.
Making direct, searing eye contact with me, my mom downed her third glass of merlot, then set the empty stemware on the counter with more force than was necessary. I winced as she stalked toward me, then sighed in relief as she passed, gripping the handle on the refrigerator door instead of my neck.
Pulling a massive honey-baked ham out of the fridge, my mom set it on the counter and said, “Set the table,” without looking at me. Then, she turned and walked out of the room.
Shit.
I got my ass in gear. We only used our tiny formal dining room three times a year, but when we did, it was always my job to set the table. Probably because I was the only one who knew how to do it correctly. I’d learned how in Girl Scouts, right before I dropped out at the age of eight. As I arranged the silverware, I looked out the window to my left and saw my dad climbing out of Harley’s passenger seat with a giant, stupid grin on his face. Then I looked out the kitchen window and saw my mom puffing on a joint on the back porch.
Maybe it’s going to be okay, my dumbass optimism suggested. Maybe they’re not going to put you up for adoption.
When everyone came in for dinner they were all in chipper moods, except for me. My nerves were fucking shot. My mom giggled at things that weren’t jokes and ate with her eyes almost completely closed. My dad and Harley spoke in some car-guy language that was barely passable as English. And I remained silent, pushing my food around on my plate and hoping that nobody noticed it wasn’t going into my mouth. I hated holiday meals because I felt so much pressure to eat. I would always end up binging just to avoid the scrutiny, which meant I’d have to spend the rest of the night hovering over a toilet with my finger down my throat to undo the damage. Not a great way to end Christmas. But with Harley there, nobody even noticed me.
Maybe having him over wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Of course, as soon as I got used to the idea of having him in my house, he wasn’t. Harley dipped out right after dinner, giving me nothing more
than a quick peck on the cheek at the door. As I closed it behind him, I realized that we hadn’t exchanged presents. We hadn’t gotten a picture in front of the Christmas tree. I don’t know if he’d even seen my Christmas tree. It was ugly, but my mom and I had made all the ornaments ourselves when I was a kid.
Just as I was about to turn and sprint up the stairs to go smoke and overanalyze his behavior in my room, I felt a small, firm hand squeeze my shoulder.
“Punkin,” my mom slurred, tightening her grip almost painfully, “I hope you’re using protection with that man. He looks like he’s been to prison.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
January 1999
Ninety-eight pounds. That’s fine. That’s totally fine. It’s still double digits. So what if you gained a few pounds over the holidays? That’s norm—
“BB!” my mom bellowed from downstairs. “You got a package!”
Shit!
I hopped off my bathroom scale and shut off the water in the shower. Wrapping a towel around myself, I flew down the stairs. My mother was waiting at the bottom with her arms folded over her chest and a manila envelope in one hand. I’d been so good about checking the mail before my mom got home from work every day, but Saturdays were tricky.
I don’t know why I cared, but I hadn’t wanted my mom to know that I was still talking to Knight. Probably because I hadn’t wanted anyone to know that I was still talking to Knight. Probably because I shouldn’t have been talking to Knight at all.
My mom arched a suspicious eyebrow at me as I snatched the envelope from her hand and turned to run back up the stairs.
“It’s from Knight,” she said, her voice dropping an octave at the end. She said it the way you would say, The president’s been shot, or, The test results came back positive. Like there was grave danger afoot.
“M’kay, thanks!” I yelled, turning the corner at the top of the staircase without looking back.
Dashing into my room, I slammed the door shut behind me and tore into the package. Whatever was in there felt thick, like a magazine. I pulled out a stack of white paper and began unfolding and unfolding and unfolding until I was holding a life-size outline of a human body before me. The center of the paper man’s chest was riddled with bullet holes—in the shape of a perfectly symmetrical heart.
That sweet fucking psycho.
I wonder if they can tell I’m not twenty-one.
I giggled, out loud and to no one, then took another sip of the Cuervo 1800 shot Harley had ordered for me before he split to handle some kind of “business” outside. I couldn’t drink it all at once. Shit tasted like hellfire and tarnation. Harley had no problem with it though, judging from the three empty shot glasses sitting next to mine.
BB, you’re sixteen and boobless. Everyone in here knows you’re not twenty-one.
It’s fine. It’s totally fine. I mean, they let Knight work here bussing tables when he was like, seventeen, right?
I shuddered, remembering the stories Knight had told me about his time working at Spirit of Sixty-Nine—the skinhead/rockabilly bar down the street from Terminus City Tattoo. How the only girls he’d ever been with before me were skin chicks he went home with after the bar closed—one-night stands that usually ended in bloodshed.
Knight.
I took another sip and grimaced.
I hope he’s okay. That target he sent last week didn’t come with a letter, and the letter he’d sent last month was, like, two sentences long. That’s a bad sign. Knight always writes to me. Even when we went to school together, I think he wrote me more notes than we had actual conversations. If he’s not writing, that means he’s not talking about the shit he’s going through to anyone. At all.
I should write him back.
What would I even say though?
“Hey, if you’re reading this, that means you probably haven’t gotten blown up yet. Good job. How’s the weather in Iraq? Still deserty? It’s cold as shit here. Not much else to report. I love my psychology classes, and I’m still dating that guy who pistol-whipped you. He shaved his head and got kind of mean since he started doing coke all the time, but I secretly like it because it reminds me of you.
M’kay, bye!
Love,
BB”
“Oh my God! BB! What are you doin’ here, hon?”
I swiveled on my barstool and saw Miss July and a rockabilly guy named Jason, whom I recognized from the track, walking over to me. Tracey had Jason’s black leather jacket wrapped around her shoulders, and her usually perfect blonde victory rolls were sopping wet.
“It’s fuckin’ pouring out there,” she said, handing Jason his jacket as she plopped down on the barstool next to me.
He gave me a little nod and took the seat next to her. Guess he was still embarrassed about betting against me all those months ago.
Good. Asshole.
Tracey pulled a red bandana out of her purse, and in two seconds flat, she had it tied around her head like Rosie the Riveter. That bitch couldn’t be uncool if she tried.
“Where’s Harley?” Tracey said, looking around. “I know you didn’t drink all these shots by yourself.” Her mouth was split wide in a calendar-girl smile, but her eyes were questioning. No, seriously. Where’s Harley? You shouldn’t be in here by yourself, sugar pie.
“Oh, um, he had to run outside and get something real fast. He’ll be right back.”
“He ran outside in this bullshit?” Tracey gestured to her soaking wet 1950s-style dress and fluffed the tulle under her skirt, exposing her tattoo.
“You still haven’t gotten your thigh piece finished, huh?” My voice came out sounding sadder than I’d intended. Like I was consoling her.
“No,” Tracey said with a sigh, accepting a froufrou-looking pink martini from Jason. “I called the shop and asked Bobbi if she’d do it, like you said, but she said that Knight’s ‘punk ass’ needs to do it himself.” Tracey made finger quotes around the words punk ass. “She promised that she’d make him do it for free when he gets home in May, if I can just wait that long.”
May.
Knight will be home in May.
“BB?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry. That’s awesome. Free tattoo! Bobbi will make him do it, too. Even Knight is scared of her.”
“Who’s scared of who?” Harley’s voice rumbled behind me, making me jump.
I swiveled on my retro vinyl barstool from Tracey on my right to Harley on my left. He was standing against the bar with streams of rainwater cascading down his black leather jacket, over the pistol-shaped bulge in his pocket, and onto the concrete floor. His wet hair, which had grown back maybe an eighth of an inch, looked darker than usual. And the two-inch scar running down the side of his head that I’d never noticed until he shaved it stood out like a sore thumb.
“Oh my God, you’re soaked!” I exclaimed, changing the subject. “What took you so long?”
“Yeah, what took you so long?” Tracey asked, leaning around me with her spokesmodel smile. “Jason and I were startin’ to get sick of chasing all the guys away.”
“Oh really?” Harley smiled back, but his grin was anything but warm and playful. It sent shivers down my spine. “Well, I guess I just need to let them know who the fuck she belongs to then. Don’t I?” Harley downed what was left of my shot of tequila and reached for Tracey’s half-empty martini glass. Standing up straight, Harley tapped the side of it with a knife from the bar so hard I thought the damn thing was going to break.
The rabble of the rowdy patrons fell away as every skinhead, rockabilly, metal head, and biker in the joint craned their necks to look at my boyfriend.
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
“Everybody, shut the fuck up,” Harley commanded. “I got something to ask this little lady.”
No! Damn it, Harley! What are you doing? Not here!
Harley made direct eye contact with me as he pulled something out of his pocket and slowly sank to one knee. His gaze was harder than usual. Threate
ning. Harley usually looked delightfully amused during his bullshit proposals, like he enjoyed putting me on the spot. But there was nothing teasing about his narrowed eyes, dilated pupils, grinding jaw, or that tattoo on the top of his head, which I could still see through his super-short hair.
“BB”—Harley held up two fingers, the ring pinched between them—“will you marry me?”
Without turning my head, I scanned the faces in the bar with my eyes, all of which were gawking at us, before returning my gaze to Harley’s challenging stare.
Then I erupted into a fit of nervous laughter.
Grabbing Harley’s wrist, I pulled him to a standing position and wrapped my arms around his waist. I pressed my cheek into his sopping-wet jacket, making sure to face Tracey instead of the confused crowd.
She held her palms up and shrugged, mouthing the words, What did you say?
I grimaced and shook my head a little bit.
Then Tracey grimaced too.
The dickhead bartender with the goatee who’d been eyeballing me all night came over and said, “Well, what’d she say?” loud enough for everyone in the whole damn place to hear.
“She said, Hell no,” Jason replied, just as loud.
The entire place erupted into hysterics. I glared at Jason, who was sipping his Pabst Blue Ribbon next to Tracey with a smirk. I didn’t even know that bastard could talk. He’d probably been waiting for an opportunity to bust Harley’s balls after all the times he’d taken him for his hard-earned cash at the track.
Not that Harley would normally even care. That was his superpower—not caring. Harley was untouchable that way. You couldn’t hurt him. You couldn’t break him. You couldn’t rile him up. Harley was rubber, and everyone else was glue.
That was why I was so surprised when he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me through the tables of laughing tattooed misfits and into a hallway in the back corner of the bar.