Fresh Ink

by Lamar Giles

  “This your regular teacher?” Bill asked me. I nodded. “Does he really think we could screw up copying what he put up on the screen?”

  “Asking the wrong person,” Andy said. “Didn’t you see?” He pointed with his lips at my worksheet. He turned to me and smiled. “You like Seventh as much as Kindergarten? Just do what they tell you, Doobie. Not everything’s gotta be about proving you’re Indian.” They tossed their colored-in boys on Corker’s desk and walked out. I waited until everyone else left and set my sheet on top of the stack. Corker said thanks but kept his head down, recording names. Finally, after he could no longer ignore my lingering bulk, he looked up.

  “Something I can help you with?” he asked, irritation visible.

  “I wanted to show you my work,” I said.

  “Just leave it on the stack. I’m sure it’s—” He stopped when he saw what I’d done. I definitely had a Stomach Under Stress just then. Was mine pink like the one in our book, or darker brown like the various parts of my body? Whatever color it was, my stomach was bunched up and yelling at me to stop, but I’d gone this far. He probably knew I’d flunked at some point, but I didn’t want him thinking this was a screwup.

  “This color,” I said, tapping the box of Flesh on his desk. “Its name doesn’t cover everyone. Those other two guys from the Rez? They knew what you wanted to see. I’m not gonna do that.” I had used the Burnt Sienna lightly to color all the Naked Boy skin, tracing neatly around all the lines, like they showed me both times in Kindergarten, to Stress Your Intention. I’d retrieved my regular No. 2 and colored the assigned pubes in black, and the pit hair, and I gave Naked Burnt Sienna Boy a long black sneh-wheh, like my own. I even left some of the ends a little broken, like mine were.

  He glanced down at my paper. “I see. Hubert. But you know, the assignment wasn’t a self-portrait.”

  “It was, if you’re white,” I said.

  “My instructions were clear.”

  “I followed the instructions,” I said. If only Hayley could hear how tough I was now! I’d screwed up with her, accidentally making her feel gone. I hadn’t found the words to tell her what I meant. When I didn’t speak up in class, it wasn’t that I was afraid of Marco and Tom. I could pound their TV chimp asses if I wanted. But even not laying a hand on them, I’d be the one blamed for making trouble. They’d skip on through, like they always did. They didn’t get that bold overnight, in the same way Billy and Andy didn’t become Boy Scouts, Rule Followers, overnight either. I decided now to at least live up to the reputation I’d walked in with.

  “Your pencils only allowed for one kind of boy,” I said, tapping Andy’s Naked Pink Boy with Burnt Sienna Pubes. He and Billy always obeyed. Their older siblings and cousins had the same talk that my older cousins had with me in Fifth Grade. They’d been told how the teachers were going to look at them. They looked as Indian as I did, but they decided to make themselves into Exhibit A. Exhibit Apple, the mean part of my brain whispered into my ear. Red on the outside…I wouldn’t call them that to their faces. If they wanted to try proving they were Indian kids who didn’t make trouble, that was their business.

  “This kind,” I said, tapping my drawing. “This kind becomes a man too. Pretty much the same way.” That wasn’t exactly true. I was beginning to understand how easy it was to be silent, to think of yourself as a vanished Indian. Everywhere you looked, you weren’t there. I wondered to myself if the Resusci-Annie only came with blond hair and skin in one shade, the one the art pencil company simply called Flesh. But I didn’t bother asking Corker.

  I headed to the lunchroom, to catch Hayley before she sat with the white kids, not saving me a seat. Maybe she wouldn’t pass me by today. When she grew up, she could decide who she was, which blood she claimed. Now she still lived with us. I might slide her my beadwork Buck Head keychain upside down, revealing her aunt’s signature. I could imitate Mr. Corker’s voice, asking her if she knew how to Label the Parts Using the Correct Anatomical Terminology. It was a Rez-style joke. Her friends wouldn’t get it, or they’d act all shocked and offended.

  With luck, I’d get her to laugh with me at stuff she used to find funny. Then maybe her makeup would smudge, just a bit. In my fantasy, I’d offer her my hand, its knuckles dark like my elbows and other parts. Together, we’d bust into Corker’s classroom, and I’d snag the jar of Noxzema and the tiny Kleenex pack from his desk. Bill and Andy would have come prepared with both, but I was no Boy Scout. I could pass these things to her. Even beyond our Rez bus, maybe she’d wipe away the glittering pale layers she’d learned to build up, practicing on those giant Barbie heads. I’d glimpse the Indian girl I used to know. I’d look into those dark brown eyes, press my fingers lightly to her neck, where the makeup was thinner, and linger to feel a pulse.

  The thump of the bass and the riff of the guitar took Shirin to a higher plane, even if she was only listening to an opening act. At least, until Jeffrey Tanaka walked into the Fox Theater looking like a sex god after a particularly divine offering. He ran his hands through his dark hair, scanning the crowd. He pulled out a Chap Stick and swiped it across his lips. Like he’d decided to draw shining arrows to all of Shirin’s favorite parts.

  Helpless, Shirin could only stare. “What fresh hell is this?”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Francesca in total solidarity. Because Francesca understood, even if she was immune to Jeffrey’s charms.

  “Why is he at a Thousand Day Queens show? I know he’s not supposed to be out on a school night. He told me his parents wouldn’t let him. He’s a baseball player. Why would he get them to make an exception for this?” Because this wasn’t just an opener for any band. This was the Thousand Day Queens at the Fox, one of those preserved institutional theaters in downtown Oakland. Shirin had been bragging about her tickets all week. And the ability to be cool and relax while Jeffrey stood nearby was like knowing the speed of an electron and exactly where it was. Impossible.

  “Aren’t the Queens too girlie?” But Shirin knew the assumption was unfair as soon as she’d said it. The red pen she’d borrowed from him that morning bit naggingly into the back pocket of her jeans. She hadn’t used a red pen in her entire life. She’d only started borrowing things in homeroom to talk to him and she’d only started talking to him to prove to herself that he wasn’t as interesting as he looked. It hadn’t worked. Once, she’d even borrowed a protractor from Jeffrey and she hadn’t needed that, either. It was awful.

  “If rock is girlie.” Francesca shrugged. “Besides, they’ve just blown up.”

  True. That had cost them, too. Much more than the last time, back before the Queens were famous and before Shirin could go to a concert on a school night. She took off her glasses, cleaned them on her worn T-shirt, then put them back on, the way she did when she was in the middle of a difficult lab. The logic didn’t add up. The data was, well, wrong. Incomplete. Why was Jeffrey here?

  “What do you think of that roadie?” asked Francesca.

  “Who?” Shirin’s eyes were still glued on Jeffrey. He kept looking around the venue. A sickening thought bubbled through her—he was meeting someone here. Shirin was going to have to watch Jeffrey on a date while her favorite band played. She must have forgotten to think penitent thoughts about one of the Twelve Imams when she was at masjid last weekend, because Shirin was definitely being punished.

  Francesca nudged Shirin with her elbow. “Friend, you are blind. The one in the beanie? She’s back there. Stage right wing. And nobody helps her out. Perfect.”

  But Shirin was too busy following Jeffrey’s movements to pay much attention. He waded through the other concertgoers, his eyes hopeful and sharp. He gently tapped a girl with dark hair on the shoulder, but his expression fell when she turned around.

  And that’s when he looked up and caught Shirin staring.

  Shirin jolted, then froze, an electron trapped in the beam of a microscope. Her location known, she couldn’t move. Jeffrey walked toward her.

&nbs
p; “Deep breaths.” Francesca patted Shirin on the back. “Channel Anne Boleyn. Go after your man. Or throne. Whatever.”

  “Anne Boleyn lost her head.” Shirin looked away from Jeffrey, hoping to forget he was headed her way. She had the heart of a scientist. She wanted to be a physicist, a professional observer, a watcher. Not an explorer or a gambler. “And her throne.”

  “Didn’t say it wasn’t without its risks.” Francesca smirked. She was a pusher and an adventurer. The girl with the wild hair who could talk literally anyone into anything. The concert scene was her and Shirin’s middle ground—sound waves, freed from the safety of the lab, pushing against a pit of people.

  Of course Francesca had been the one to discover the Thousand Day Queens down one of her many rabbit holes in the Internet music forums. They had stage names and insane costumes and an ability to turn rock into art. The names had practically made Francesca convulse—they corresponded to tragic historical queens. Maria Antonio for Marie Antoinette, who had met her fate at the guillotine. Rana Jhan for the Rani of Jhansi, who died fighting for Indian independence from the British a hundred years before it actually happened. Ana Pembroke for Anne Boleyn, who was beheaded by her own husband. Women who had all reached for the stars and had crashed spectacularly back down to earth.

  The thought of crashing, of risking exposure, made Shirin dizzy.

  “I prefer to keep my head attached to my neck, if it’s all the same.” Shirin turned back to the crowd, but Jeffrey had disappeared. “And he looks like he’s meeting someone. Like a date someone.”

  Francesca laughed like Shirin had just told a good joke. “Try overreaching for once, friend.”

  “Overreach what for once?” Jeffrey popped out from behind the railing and stopped inches from Shirin. He shoved his hands casually into the pockets of his stupid jogger pants. He always wore jogger pants. Even before they were cool.

  Shirin stared. His V-neck was a little bit more snug and his hair was just a little bit more tousled than normal. Why couldn’t she have the decency to like a shy, nerdy boy who flew under the radar? Jeffrey looked like he should come with biohazard labels. Warning: may cause obsessive three-year crushes. “Francesca’s a reckless friend who wants my downfall.”

  “True. At least then you’d have tried something new.” Francesca nodded, then turned to Jeffrey. “I was talking about Anne Boleyn. Know her? Lost her head over a man.”

  Shirin could have strangled Francesca. Francesca offered a saintly smile in return.

  “You mean Natalie Dormer in The Tudors? She was badass.” Jeffrey pulled out his Chap Stick and used it.

  Francesca snorted.

  Shirin blinked. “She was queen of England for a thousand days.”

  “Damn,” he said. “It’s the band name. I missed that. That’s what you were saying. I thought—” He shut his mouth.

  “Well done.” Francesca offered him a sympathetic pat. “Most dudes never get it. Unless they’re obnoxious film bros.”

  “Bless Natalie Dormer, I guess.” Shirin’s sarcasm was aimed at Francesca, but its collateral damage landed on Jeffrey. Fine. Maybe he’d go and find whoever it was he had been looking for. Then Shirin could get back to being an observer rather than caught in the light of his electron microscope.

  Francesca elbowed Shirin in the ribs. “I think what Shirin meant was, super of you to give a shit about her favorite band.”

  Jeffrey’s mouth twisted. “I know it’s your favorite band. I’m not that clueless.”

  Onstage, the opener reminded the crowd of their name and thanked everyone for listening. The scraping and lifting of instruments was all there was to distract Shirin from the thrashing thump thump thump in her chest. She was going to have to make it through this entire concert right next to him. She was never going to last.

  * * *

  • • •

  Francesca narrowed her eyes. “Consider this your two-minute warning.”

  “For what?” Jeffrey asked.

  “She’s getting Denise a signed shirt,” said Shirin. A safe topic. Francesca had promised one for her girlfriend, Denise, since she was home studying for her calculus test tomorrow. No way to feel foolish talking about Francesca’s girlfriend.

  Jeffrey scratched his hands through his hair. “The shirt she’s wearing?”

  “No.” Francesca’s eyes didn’t stray. She was memorizing the rhythm of the roadies onstage. She wasn’t planning on waiting after the show like an ordinary fan.

  “What Francesca really wants,” said Shirin, “is to bring back a really good story for Denise.”

  Jeffrey flashed his lopsided grin. “She’s gonna get some serious purple heart emojis for that. I mean—it’s cool. That’s cool.”

  Shirin tried to smile, but the expression got stuck halfway across her face. There were apparently no safe topics with Jeffrey. Shirin was reminded of the time he’d said he loved The Fast and the Furious. When Shirin had said she didn’t get a movie about pointless car chases, Jeffrey had described the part where Paul Walker got all mushy over a tuna fish sandwich because he was so in love with Jordana Brewster. Like that was the best part. Like he was a hopeless romantic as well as an athlete and a sex god.

  Biohazard: may cause heart to burst.

  Shirin turned abruptly away from Jeffrey. The roadie who had been trailing behind all the others finally turned her back on the crowd. Without warning, Francesca hopped onstage, picked up a cord that was left behind, and walked into the wings. The stage was a full head above Francesca, security guards were posted on either side of it, and the theater was already packed with people. But nobody had seen her. And Francesca was not a girl who could get away with anything and everything. Her dark hair and dark skin usually ensured extra scrutiny. But Francesca acted as though she were invincible. As though she were Anne Boleyn reaching for the crown.

  Jeffrey turned, gobsmacked, to face Shirin.

  Shirin laughed so hard, she snorted. She clapped her hand over her mouth, a flush coloring her tan face. She lowered her hand and said, “She’s an observable phenomenon.”

  “You don’t have any secret hidden skills like that I need to know about, do you?” His hands went into the pockets of his joggers again.

  Shirin blinked, almost like fluttering her eyelashes. “I can kiss my elbow.”

  “Prove it.” A challenging glint entered Jeffrey’s eyes.

  Shirin couldn’t look away. A voice in the back of her mind told her she ought to. But her eyes focused on him as she grasped her right elbow with her left hand, then lifted it to her lips, giving a quick peck. Easy peasy. Minus the fact that her fingertips were tingling and her head was buzzing and she was still staring into Jeffrey Tanaka’s dark eyes.

  Jeffrey mirrored her movements. But he came up short. He craned his neck and tugged his elbow to no avail. He couldn’t reach. He looked up, defeated. “Damn.”

  Shirin laughed—without snorting this time. “I guess I just have to face it. You’re not totally perfect.”

  Jeffrey raised one of his straight eyebrows.

  Oh god. Shirin had admitted—out loud—that she’d thought Jeffrey was otherwise perfect. To his face. She’d violated the one sacred aspect of scientific observation. She’d changed the environment. She’d acted on her subject.

  Warning: known life-ruiner present.

  That’s when Francesca jumped down from the stage. She held up a signed Thousand Day Queens shirt—the one they didn’t sell anymore, with Marie Antoinette eating cake while Anne Boleyn played with a long saber and Rani of Jhansi sipped tea—and a backstage pass. Shirin looked pointedly away from Jeffrey. Jeffrey stared at Shirin. Francesca watched them both. Then the lights dimmed and the Queens walked onstage.

  There was only one thing left for Shirin to do.

  “Be right back.” Shirin grabbed Francesca’s pass and fled.

  * * *

  • • •

  Onstage, Ana Pembroke, the drummer for the Queens, was ripping through her opening se
t. The sound beat through Shirin’s chest. Nobody could drum like Ana. If there was any justice in this world, Ana was destined to be one of the greats. Unlike Shirin, who was next to a road case in a hallway backstage, hiding.

  The Queens were the first concert Shirin had gone to without a grown-up around. They were the kinds of musicians to put on a show. A show she was now missing. All because she couldn’t fully admit how she felt about Jeffrey. Maybe if she’d told him, he would have gone away and found whoever it was he’d been looking for from the start. And she would be watching the Queens right now, not sitting beside some unused band equipment that smelled like gasoline and slightly singed plastic.

  “Please. I gotta check on my friend.” It was a horribly familiar baritone, impossibly blocking out the sound of the drums.

  Shirin looked around the side of the road case. Jeffrey was talking to the backstage bouncer. Shirin slunk lower, winding her arms around her legs.

  “He’s cool, I swear.” This from Francesca. “And I think he’s the only one who can help. What if he closes his eyes? You’re not really backstage if you gotta close your eyes.”

  “Backstage is backstage,” said the backstage bouncer.

  “Aw, honey,” said a woman’s voice. “Cut the poor kid some slack.”

  There was a long silence. Shirin didn’t dare breathe.

  “Fine,” said the bouncer. “But you start any trouble and you’re out of here, you got it?”

  “Understood.” Jeffrey’s shoes squeaked as he walked.

  Shirin peered over the back of the case. Jeffrey was about to walk right past, when his foot caught on the edge and he tripped. Jeffrey caught his balance, but the case toppled into Shirin’s knee, causing her to yelp.