I find parking right around the corner from the shop. The breeze shifts as I walk up to Grand Avenue, bringing with it a rush of aroma from Sara’s favorite Thai place. Always dangerous to walk in this neighborhood on an empty stomach. There are restaurants and markets representing just about every country in Asia, my favorite diner in the world, and Italian so yummy you don’t even mind waiting forever to be seated.
I walk past the antique shop, where one of the owners spots me through the window and gives me a wave. I wave back before letting myself in Mom and Russell’s shop, The Family Ink.
“Hey, Kellie.” Jimmy, who works the front desk and cleans the shop and does all of the boring work no one else wants to do, grins as I walk in. Jimmy looks like a rock god from the 1980s, with black hair that grows wild. He’s always clad in T-shirts from concerts that are as old as I am. “How’s eleventh grade going?”
Jimmy is always so proud he knows what grade I’m in. Like that isn’t weird.
“It’s fine,” I say. “How’s your band?”
Jimmy is, of course, in this band that covers heavy metal hits, and even Mom and Russell can’t figure out if it’s ironic or not.
“Going good, yeah. We got a gig next weekend, but it’s twenty-one and up, so I can’t put you on the list.”
“It’s okay. Well, Mom wanted to see me, so…” I make my way to Mom’s station, where she’s engrossed in inking a naked Bettie Page on a guy’s bicep. “Hey.”
“Hi, baby,” she says without looking up. “I’m almost finished, then I thought we could walk down and get coffee.”
“Crap, don’t let her see this,” the guy says, as if I haven’t seen hundreds of naked Bettie Pages by now. She’s probably the person I’ve seen naked the most times, next to myself.
“I don’t think there’s anything about a naked woman that’s going to shock her.” Mom sits back for a moment and smiles up at me. “How was school?”
“I’m on the school newspaper. It’s a long story,” I say, even though it isn’t.
“I didn’t know you were interested in journalism.” She leans back over the nearly completed tattoo, the buzz of the machine only slightly drowning out her words as she presses it to Bettie’s butt, shading to bring out her curves.
“I’m really not. It’s a humor column. And, like I said, it’s a long story.” The guy is glancing up at me still, so I figure he didn’t imagine this moment, whatever symbolism the naked pin-up girl means to him, in such a literal family way. So I give them some space and take a seat in the waiting area on the plush red sofa. Two of the front walls (painted the same sunny color as our kitchen because the leftover paint took up space in our storage shed forever) are covered with framed sheets of predesigned tattoo ideas. I can’t imagine being so boring you’d just walk in and point to something on a wall that hundreds of people have already gotten. The other wall holds framed articles and awards for the shop, and a big photo of the five of us where Finn’s arms are covered with temporary tattoos.
A girl who looks like she’s my age at most but must be at least eighteen, considering how strict Mom and Russell are about the law, and also how savvy they are about fake IDs, sits across from me. She drums the fingers of one hand on the arm of the couch to the beat of the old-school punk playing overhead, while she grasps a piece of paper tightly.
I figure she might have a nervous breakdown if she sits here alone in her own world of fear any longer. “What are you getting?”
She holds out the paper, and I examine the hand-drawn flowers looped together in crisp black ink. “Do you think they’re stupid?” she asks.
“No, it’s a good design. Did you do it?”
She nods. “Does it hurt a lot? I keep hearing that people faint.”
“I don’t have any,” I say. “But my mom says the only people who ever faint are dudes. Women are built for childbirth and cramps, so you’ll be fine. Who’s doing yours?”
The girl digs through her purse for her appointment card. “Russell.”
“Russell’s awesome,” I say, as the Bettie Page–inked guy walks out, his arm wrapped in plastic, just in front of Mom. “Good luck.”
Mom and I walk outside, and she hugs me tightly and kisses my forehead. “You’re always so good with our clients.”
I shrug, because being friendly to other humans seems like a no-brainer. Ooh, but— “Maybe I could work the front counter, then. Jimmy probably needs some nights and weekends off to focus on his Mötley Crüe covers.”
“I’m sure you’d be great, Kell-belle, but you don’t need to worry about a job.”
“I’m not worried about one, I just want one.” I’ve been brainstorming to come up with the perfect job, one where I wouldn’t have to work too hard and I’d still not only make a lot of money but meet interesting people. This will totally do. “And I’m hanging out there so much, couldn’t I at least be useful to you?”
“You can’t be useful without getting paid?” Mom laughs, and I know the subject—and my hopes—have been shot down.
We take off down the cracked sidewalk back the way I’d just come. I rush to keep up with Mom, who always moves like she’s in a hurry. We walk all the way to the coffee shop across from the park, which we would have done regardless, but it’s nice on an October afternoon still warm enough we don’t need jackets. I’m not one of those people who hates winter. What’s not to love? There’s crisp air and snowflakes and random days off school and Christmas. Complaining about any of that is like complaining about, I don’t know, love or free money or cuddly puppies. Still, it’s impossible not to love the fall.
“Are you hungry?” Mom asks as we walk inside. When I was younger, Mokabe’s was totally a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, but now it’s two levels to easily fit all the people sitting around doing whatever people do in coffee shops: working on their laptops, playing games, and talking. Things have only changed so much though, because the décor is still kind of rag-tag/whatever must have been on hand, and the space behind the register remains practically wallpapered with bumper stickers that call for peace and equality and a bunch of other concepts I think are no-brainers but I guess are radical ideas to some. “We could split the quesadillas.”
“Hey, Melanie,” the cashier greets Mom. “Your usual?”
Mom has a usual everywhere we go.
“Thanks, Bonnie. That, an order of quesadillas, and whatever Kellie wants.”
I just want water, which I nearly drop because as Bonnie hands it to me, everything comes together: Dad at the house yesterday, Sara allowed to skip a meal, meeting Mom right after school. Something is going on.
“Mom?” I ask, feeling small and afraid. And I hate feeling either one of those things. “Is everything—”
“Let’s sit down.” She takes her dirty soy chai—which she claims is delicious but sounds too gross for me to even sample—and leads me through the noisy first floor to a table upstairs, alone, away from every other customer. Way to scare the crap out of me, Mom.
“You know Sara turned eighteen last month,” she says, which blows me away with its obviousness.
“I know how old my own sister is, Mom.”
“Eighteen is pretty significant for Sara.”
“Because she can smoke and vote? Won’t that be significant for me, too?”
“Because her adoption records are no longer sealed.”
A guy brings out our quesadillas right as Mom says it, and must have been listening in because he scurries off with this guilty-he’d-heard-too-much look on his face.
“Is that bad?” I ask, because I really don’t know. It was never this big deal that Sara was adopted and I wasn’t. Doctors told Mom and Dad there was a one-in-a-million chance they’d have a baby the old-fashioned way (not that I want to think about that), and instead of spending lots of money to beat the odds, they called a bunch of adoption agencies and ended up with Sara. I was the one-in-a-million baby who showed up a year later.
“No, it’s not bad.” Mom takes
a piece of the quesadillas, dips it in sour cream, makes this big show of taking a huge bite. “Heaven, huh?”
“Mom, shut up about food, this is huge.” I realize I only think it’s a big deal. Maybe she’s just being really dramatic. “I mean, is it?”
“Sara’s biological mother called Clay yesterday.”
I never tell her that it bugs me, but it bugs me that Mom calls him that when almost everyone in Dad’s life goes with Clayton. Mom had valid reasons for divorcing him and starting this whole new life, but that should have meant lost privileges. Wait, why am I thinking about something so random? “Seriously? She can just do that?”
“Well, baby, he’s in the phone book,” she says before helping herself to another piece. “You know if you don’t join in, I’m just going to eat this all on my own.”
“I don’t care. What did she want? Is she taking Sara back?”
“It doesn’t work like that. She just wants to meet Sara, that’s all.”
I try to picture her, as I’d done before, but considering Sara is tall like Dad and has honey-blond hair like Mom, I can’t. “Is Sara going to?”
“That’s up to your sister to decide. We aren’t putting pressure on her either way. I’m only telling you because, as you know, I don’t believe in family secrets. So tell me everything about the school paper.”
“What’s there to tell? It’s a school paper, what could be exciting about that?”
“Any paper with my daughter on staff is exciting.” Cheerleader Mom strikes again.
“God, Mom, this Sara stuff is a big deal,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about the stupid Ticknor Voice. So would you meet her? If you were Sara?”
Mom rests her hand on my arm. “This is her business, and I’m not going to sit here speculating with you. If there’s more she wants to tell you, she will.”
I imagine there are families where boundaries aren’t respected and gossip is encouraged, and the truth is that more than once in a while I wish we were one of them.
“I have a four thirty.” Mom looks at the time displayed on her phone. “So I should get back. But I’ll be home right after that, okay?”
I shrug. “Yeah, sure. Is Sara picking up Finn from daycare?”
“Russell’s done after this appointment, so he’ll get him on his way home. We thought Sara could use some time to herself.”
Mom walks me to my car and kisses my forehead and sends me home. When I get there, Sara is on the porch swing, flipping through a flagged and Post-It-ed copy of Crime and Punishment. She’s still wearing her school uniform, which means her long legs are hanging off the swing with only her plaid skirt keeping things modest.
Mom is really into letting us develop as our own people, so we were allowed to research and choose which high school we’d attend. We aren’t Catholic, but Sara liked the discipline and the curriculum and the lack of distraction thanks to the lack of guys at Nerinx Hall. I wish I could say that I appreciated the nontraditional ideals of Ticknor, but my reasoning for choosing it had less to do with that and much more to do with Kaitlyn’s parents picking it for her. And, really, I might not let my brain go completely crazy over guys, but I didn’t want to spend four years without them, either.
I plunk down next to Sara, pulling my feet up and hugging my arms around my knees. Of course I want to mention her biological mother, but I manage to hold it back. “I’m joining the school newspaper.”
“Doing what?” she asks.
“A humor column,” I say.
“People always seem to have fun working on our paper, so I’m sure yours is the same,” she says. “And you’ll be really good at that. Your Mark Twain paper I proofread was really funny.”
Wait, so that was possible?
“Don’t tell Dad, but maybe he’s right about putting something on my college applications,” I say. “Ugh, that’s dorky.”
“If that’s dorky, what am I?”
“Um, a hot dork. I thought you knew that already.”
Sara grins. “I’ll take that. So, you’ll be happy. I broke down and talked to Mom and Russell after all about Parents’ Night.”
“About—” I catch myself before bringing up her biological mother as I realize what she’s talking about. “So they’re going?”
“Yes. At least it’s my senior year and the last one.” Sara watches me for a moment. “Don’t say it.”
“I’m not saying anything! I just don’t think they’re embarrassing.”
“You don’t know what it’s like, with everyone staring.” Sara shakes her head. “I know over at Ticknor you probably earn cred for bringing our middle-aged punk rock parents—”
I don’t want to yell at Sara on a day when she’s actually dealing with more than being perfect in a weirdo family. “Totally, I’ve got cred written all over me. Is Dad coming, too?”
“He always does.”
Dad rarely goes to mine because he says they aren’t a huge priority. I can’t believe Sara’s are vastly different, except that at Nerinx Hall I imagine teachers gush about Sara’s grades and attitude and extracurriculars and therefore, make Dad feel good about himself.
“Do you think if Mom and Dad were still married that I’d even be allowed to go to Ticknor?” I ask.
“Who knows? Dad’s still paying most of your tuition,” Sara says. “And that’s such a big if my brain can hardly handle it.”
“Seriously.” I was only six and Sara seven when Dad calmly packed a bunch of bags and took up residence in a hotel by his office in Clayton (yes, Dad worked in a city named the same thing as himself). I’d hated that Dad was gone; he’d felt so far away at first. Still it wasn’t a huge trauma, probably because neither of them acted like one had gone down. Mom was happy to be free, and Dad’s not really into emotions outside of victory (court cases, Sara’s report cards and plaques and trophies) and disappointment (other court cases, me). I didn’t even know I was supposed to be that upset until Mom sent us to therapy and the therapist brought it up.
Dad didn’t change at all when it happened, except that he lived farther away. Mom, on the other hand, donated all of her old work clothes to Goodwill, signed up for a bunch of art classes, and began an apprenticeship at Iron Age, the most famous tattoo shop in the city. When we stayed with Dad, he assured us it was temporary, but back at home Mom was smiling more than ever before. By the time the tattoos began blossoming over her peaches and cream skin, I knew Dad was never moving back.
“Still,” I say. “I’m glad I’m not at Nerinx. I hate uniforms, and I’d miss guys.”
“It’s not impossible to meet guys just because you attend an all-girls school.” Sara only says things like this because of Dexter, but I make a little note of it anyway because maybe we’re only a step away from talking about Oliver after all. Today’s not the day to push it, though.
Sara opens up Crime and Punishment. “Sorry for being antisocial again, but I really need to get through this.”
“Accurate title at least.” I walk inside and up to my room. When Mom and Russell had bought the house, they’d given Sara and me two options: one giant, beautiful room to share, or two smaller rooms that would never feel spacious. Even though we sometimes still fall asleep in each other’s rooms, we’d picked privacy. What good is space when half of it isn’t really yours?
Of course Sara’s room is neat and orderly. She’d chosen tan walls and modern furniture that’s all dark wood and clean lines, just like classy people on TV shows have. It’s actually left over from the guestroom at the big house one town over in Kirkwood we lived in before the divorce. We’d both had big rooms then.
My New Year’s Day tradition is painting my walls, which means that my room has been grass green for more than ten months now. I’m sick of it anyway, but ever since Kaitlyn informed me it’s Oprah’s favorite color, I’ve been itching to change it. Still, traditions are traditions. My room is clean, because Mom demands it, but my books aren’t on my shelf alphabetically. I change what’s on my walls too
often to frame any of it, so the clean green space is littered with thumbtack holes. At night they look a lot like constellations.
I turn on my laptop and tell myself I’m going to do some homework, but really, I just message some people on Facebook and investigate Oliver’s profile. (I feel better checking it periodically to make sure his status is still “it’s complicated” with “counterculture movements.”)
“Kell?” Sara leans into my room, her overnight bag on her shoulder. I slam my laptop shut at lightning speed. “I’m going to Dad’s for the night. I just have a lot of studying, and once Finn’s home…”
“Yeahhh. I’ll let Mom and Russell know.”
“Thanks.” She pushes her hair back from her face, and I have to admit those cheekbones are definitely not of our genetics. “So…I was going to talk to you…”
I look up at Sara and give her my full attention.
“Mom said she was going to…tell you what was going on?”
“Yes!” I say. Whoa, self, take your reaction down a few notches. “Yeah, Mom mentioned everything to me. Just, you know…”
“‘No family secrets,’” we say in unison.
“What are you going to do?” I ask. “If you want to tell me. You can keep it private if you want, of course.”
She pulls a ponytail holder out of her pocket and winds it around her hair, getting it perfect and smooth on her first attempt. I need a mirror, a brush, and a comb, and still I generally look a little like an escaped lunatic until about the third try.
“I don’t know,” she says.
That’s it?
“Are you okay?” Was this, I want to ask but don’t, what made you text me on Saturday night when you never need me like that? Is this big and scary or new and exciting? Can it be all of those things at once?
“Of course. I’m fine.” Sara waves. “See you soon.”
Ink is Thicker Than Water (Entangled Teen) Page 3