The bellowing yawp of the cruise ships as they entered the channel and came in to dock was imprinted on my very being, as was the constant chatter of voices, the laughs and the shouts and the cackling of scampering children accompanied by the worried yells of nervous parents, and the clap-lap-chuck of the waves against the docks and piers, and the discordant, mischievous scree of gulls.
As I grew up I was sent to school instead of staying home to help Mom. Grade school, middle school, high school—see to your education, Juneau, they would tell me. Keep the grades up. You could go to college, they told me. You could be the first in our entire family to go to college, to leave Ketchikan, to get a job. You could even go the lower 48. Become something. Forget about art, baby girl—just focus on learning. Apply to UA-Anchorage. Apply for scholarships, student loans.
They’d scrimped and saved my whole life to send me to college. Even my sisters—all older than me, the next oldest was five years my senior—had contributed from their savings to send me to Anchorage.
How could I say no? How could I tell them I didn’t want a college degree, I didn’t want to go to Anchorage, much less to the lower 48. I didn’t want a job with the cheechakos. I wanted to make hedgehogs out of wood, jade, and lapis lazuli. I wanted to make necklaces from deer bone and driftwood and thread woven from hide and sinew. I wanted to work at Yup’ik Tattoo with Ink.
That was my dream, all my life.
Art—in whatever form—is all I’ve ever wanted.
We would talk about it, Ink and me, late at night, making plans as we huddled side by side in the pup tent outside my parents’ house, listening to Mom and Dad and my aunts and uncles and older cousins laughing around the fire.
“I hear you thinking, Juneau,” Mom said, not looking up from her whittling.
“I was just thinking about how much I used to love playing here as a little girl,” I said, running my fingers through the Tupperware container full of tiny pieces of jade and lapis lazuli.
“Always underfoot,” Mom said, a ghost of a smile on her weathered features. “But you had a way with the tourists, you did. A little smile, a joke, a question, and somehow they’d always buy something if you were around.”
“I loved it.”
Mom eyed me, then. “You’re thinking deeper thoughts than that—I can tell. Out with it, then.” Her lips thinned, then, pressed together as she anticipated what I was going to say.
I toyed with a piece of jade. “I never wanted to be anywhere but here.”
“I know, but you’re too smart to waste your brains and talents sitting making trinkets for tourists.” She carved at the hedgehog, a little too forcefully. “This isn’t for you. It’s not your future. You’re meant for more.”
“What if it’s what I wanted, though?”
Mom’s expression was hard. “Gonna waste all that money, all that time you spent at the university? Gonna waste the degree, and all that hard work interning for Daniel?” She shook her head angrily. “No. No. You’re doing good for our people, Juneau. You’re making a difference.”
“I know, Mom, but—”
“You’re spending too much time with Ink. You think making art is all there is.”
“I learned it from you, Mom!”
She gestured with the carving in her hands. “This is all I know.” She tapped my temple with the carving, then. “You know more. You’re not gonna waste it.”
This was an age-old argument between us. I don’t know why I even bothered trying to change her mind.
I was tempted to show her my tattoos—the band of traditional symbols starting under my breasts and angling down to each hip, which I’d done to myself, using a mirror—it was the product of weeks’ worth of work, done the old way: needle and ink.
It had hurt worse than any tattoo done using Ink’s gun, but it was worth it—it was worth every minute of tear-jerking pain I’d endured, knowing I’d created something permanent and beautiful, something which honored our ancestors and our traditions.
She should understand.
But she didn’t.
All she would ever accept was that I’m “meant for more.” For the law degree, the job at the firm. She’d been pestering me for months to start working toward the bar exam, toward becoming an actual lawyer, not just a legal assistant. That’s the dream she had for me.
No matter that the idea of studying for the bar made me nauseous, that the notion of spending the rest of my life behind a desk, or in a courtroom, or in a counsel’s chambers made me want to claw my eyes out. No matter that I hated the fancy clothes and the high heels and the stuffy courtrooms and the arrogant lawyers and the belligerent defendants and the convoluted legal language and the briefs and the…everything.
I didn’t want any of it.
But my entire family had sacrificed endlessly to send me to Anchorage. That degree sitting in a drawer in my office at the firm was bought and paid for by my family—weeks spent by my father in the bush, guiding elk and moose and deer and bear hunts, Mom spending eighteen hours a day under this awning making art and hawking it to tourists, my sisters scrimping and saving and stretching dollars to add their part. Even my aunts and uncles had contributed. The only one who hadn’t was Ink, and that was because he’d understood how much I hadn’t wanted to go, and had always believed I needed to take a stand for what I wanted for myself, regardless of the expectations on me.
But I couldn’t do that.
I couldn’t let them all down.
Could I?
“Are you going back to Anchorage soon, to take the bar?” Mom asked.
I sighed. “I haven’t applied for the program.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not ready to make that step. That’s a big deal, Mom. It’s years of work—it’s not like I can just pop over to Anchorage and take a little test, you know. It’s moving to Anchorage, assuming I get into the program there—and then spending years and tens of thousands of dollars on room, board, tuition, books…” I sighed, flipping my braid to the other side. “I’m not sure that’s what I want to do. Not now, and maybe not ever.”
“You’ve always wanted to be a lawyer, though.” Mom glanced at me as she began creating divots in which to fix the pieces of jade and lapis lazuli.
I groaned. “No, Mom—you have always wanted me to be a lawyer.”
Her eyes hardened. “I just want the best for you, and from you.”
Rather than get dragged down into the same futile argument yet again, I leaned over, wrapped her up in a hug, and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mom.”
She nuzzled me back. “Love you too, Juneau.”
“I have to go,” I said, and slid out from behind the folding table, collecting my purse.
“Okay. Everyone says hi.”
“Give them all my love.”
She waved as I walked away from the wharf. “I will.” She waited until I was almost out of earshot. “Take the bar!”
I just waved, not dignifying that with a response. Oh, just take the bar. Just like that, huh?
Right.
It was Sunday afternoon, and I didn’t really have much to do today—I just had to get away from the endless debate over my future. Izzy was working at the shop, and Kitty was helping Roman at the new saloon, which left me alone yet again. I decided to visit Izzy at the store, knowing she’d welcome a few minutes of gossip with me.
Couture Ketchikan was one of the high-end clothing stores in the city, and Izzy was the general manager, second in command only to the owner, Angelique Leveaux, a French native who had moved to Ketchikan a decade ago.
Izzy was alone in the store, her laptop open, keys clacking as she updated her blog. There were several racks of clothing behind the counter which she appeared to be in the process of sorting through. It looked like she was modeling them as she sorted through them, taking selfies and posting them to her social media accounts with hashtags that directed potential buyers to this store.
“Juneau! You’re just in time
!” Izzy said, closing her laptop. “I have several pieces I want you to try on.”
I frowned at her. “I’ll try them on, but you’re not taking pictures.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, yes I am. The last time you modeled for my Insta, I got a ton of likes, and several people actually came in to buy things.”
“We’ll see,” I told her. “I’ll try them on, but no guarantees I’ll even come out to show you.”
“You’re worse than Kitty!” Izzy said, bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You never show any skin! You’ve got curves, girlfriend! Work ’em!”
I blinked at her. “Wow. Somebody have an extra shot of espresso this morning?”
Izzy cackled. “Yep! The barista messed up and made me a quad-shot latte instead of my usual triple, so I’m basically on speed right now. You should see how many racks I’ve been through already. Angelique is going to freak when she sees how much I got done today. She’ll probably give me a raise just so I can afford a quad-shot latte every day!”
I frowned. “I’m not sure that’s too great for your heart, Izz.”
“No, probably not,” she said, shrugging. “My pulse has been racing for the last hour. But if I have a heart attack and die, at least I’ll die doing what I love: trying on clothes!”
I laughed. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“Yep. But that’s why you love me. I’m basically all the comedic relief you and Kitty ever get. You’re both so serious all the time.” She made a pouty face and spoke in a whining, sarcastic tone. “I’m Juneau Isaac and I dress like a grandmother. I never have any fun, and I hate being sexy. Somebody give me a paper bag to put over my head.”
I picked up a loose staple off the counter and tossed it at her. “Oh shut up—I’m not like that.” I glared at her. “I do not dress like a grandmother.”
She quirked an eyebrow at me, looking me up and down: I was wearing a loose-fitting floor-length black wool skirt, and a fuzzy peach cashmere sweater, with clunky black clogs on my feet.
“Okay, well it’s Sunday, and it’s chilly out, and wearing this sweater is like getting a hug from a cloud. I like being comfy.”
“Those clothes are utterly shapeless, Juneau,” Izzy lamented. “No one would know you even have such a banging body under there.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “So what? I have to show cleavage all the time?”
Izzy pressed the sweater against my chest, flattening it against my boobs. “I’m not even talking about cleavage at this point, I’m just talking about wearing a sweater that makes it look like you even have boobs. You look flat as a pancake in that thing, and considering how ginormous your boobs are, that’s quite a feat.”
I shook my head. “I don’t look flat. I’m just not showing off for anyone.”
“And let’s talk about that skirt,” Izzy continued, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “Sure, it’s probably warm and comfy, but you’ve got zero ass in it. You may as well be wearing, like, a curtain or something, for all the shape that thing has.”
“Not everyone wears miniskirts year round, Isadora,” I said, deadpan. “This is Alaska, and it does stay cool pretty much all the time.”
Isadora twirled behind the counter, showing off her midthigh-length white leather miniskirt, which she was wearing with a matching cleavage-baring white leather bustier-type thing…and not a lot else. She was, basically, all leg and boob and butt in that outfit. She could saunter down a catwalk in Paris and not be out of place. Not my thing, but she worked the look for all it was worth.
She rifled through the racks, plucking pieces and hooking the hangers on her finger—when she had a good dozen items, she sashayed from behind the counter in her four-inch stilettos, laid all the articles of clothing in my arms, and then shoved me toward the dressing room.
“I need to see at least one outfit,” she said. “I picked pieces that are a little outside your comfort zone, but aren’t into full slut territory.”
“Good, because I highly doubt I’ll ever be comfortable dressing like you.”
“It’s true—not everyone can pull off the high-class escort look,” she said with a faux haughty sniff.
“I’m not making any promises that I’ll show you anything, but I’ll at least try them on.”
I took the pile of garments into the nearest dressing room and went through them piece by piece as I hung them up. Mostly skirts I’d never wear because they were way too short or tight, and tops I’d never wear because they exposed my back and chest in such a way that you’d be able to see my tattoos. Which was a no-go, not ever. There were a few pieces I was willing to try, though—a knee-length skirt that was tighter than I usually liked, but would definitely be pretty sexy, and a top that left my arms bare but buttoned up to my neck and covered my shoulders and chest while still being cut to show off my curves. Izzy had also pulled a full-length dress that would flatter without revealing anything, and a sweater much like the one I was wearing but which would hug my curves instead of hiding them.
Just for fun, though, I decided to try on the other pieces first, the ones I’d never let anyone see me in.
First was a basic black miniskirt and a tank top blouse with a plunging neckline; I had to dance and tug and wiggle to get the skirt up over my rather generous backside, but once it was on and I’d sucked in enough to be able to button it, I had to admit I did look seriously hot. I almost looked like I had something like long legs—which at five-four was a tough thing to pull off. Plus, it was so tight around my ass and thighs that I could barely move, which made every movement a showcase of curvy jiggles.
Remington would die if he saw me in this.
Wait, crap! Did I really just think that?
The top was even more daring—it plunged down well below my breasts, baring most of my chest tattoo and the top of the one that started on my diaphragm. It was meant to be worn with some kind of support I clearly didn’t own, because you couldn’t wear a bra with it—the top was designed to show off sideboob…not just show off, but highlight; sideboob was the star of this piece. And even without any support—which I need like buildings need foundations—my boobs looked pretty amazing. My tattoos were on full display, especially my chest piece, which Ink had done using the stick-and-poke method. God, I loved this look. Deep down, I really wanted to dress like this.
But I didn’t dare.
No one would understand.
Kitty and Izzy would be confused and angry that I’d hid my tattoos from them for so long, and Mom and Dad would hate me for the tattoos and for the showy, flashy, skin-baring outfit—not mention I’d get all sorts of male attention I’m not used to and don’t know how to handle.
Just the way Remington looked at me when clothed modestly was more than I knew how to deal with.
No—nope. I couldn’t dress like this.
I took a photo of myself in the outfit, and then took it off and tried on another outfit that was more my style.
No tattoos showed, no skin, but I still looked pretty, and even sexy…I just wasn’t showing any skin.
Izzy’s smile as I came out in the outfit was bright. “Wow! You look amazing! See, that’s how you do a skirt and sweater, Juneau. You’ve got a butt and boobs in that outfit, but you’re not showing anything you’re uncomfortable with. See how that works?”
I rolled my eyes at her. “Yes, Izzy, I see what you mean. I do love this outfit.”
I went back into the dressing room and put back on my own clothing, deciding to buy the skirt and top I’d shown Izzy. I left the rest of the clothes in the changing room, knowing she’d put them away later. I hesitated in the doorway, though, staring back in at the miniskirt and tank top I’d tried on.
I could buy them, just to have them. Maybe someday I’d have the courage to wear that outfit. Maybe owning it would be the first step in developing that courage. Or, maybe it’d be a waste of money to buy an outfit I knew I’d always be too chicken to wear.
Izzy saw me hesitating, and came to stand ne
xt to me, following my gaze; her eyes went to mine. “I was hoping you’d try that on.”
“I did,” I admitted.
“And? I bet you looked fucking killer in it!”
“Yeah, but I could never wear it.”
Izzy sighed. “Why not? I don’t get that about you, Juneau. You’re not insecure; I know you’re not. I get that you come from a much different background than Kitty or me, and that clothing like that isn’t really natural for you, but…you have to get outside your comfort zone sometimes, babe. You can’t dress in grandma clothes your whole life. You’re beautiful, Juneau, and you have a beautiful body. You should show it off sometime.”
I shook my head. “It’s hard to explain.”
Izzy stared at me, and then rolled her eyes in frustration. “You’re impossible.” She leaned in, snagged the two hangers, and walked around to the counter with them. “You’re buying the outfit.”
“I am not!”
Izzy stared hard at me. “Fine. I’m buying it, and it’ll magically appear in your closet. I know where you live, you know.”
I laughed at her. “I’m not buying the outfit and neither are you. It’ll be a waste of money because I’ll never wear it.”
She scanned the tags, and then took the outfit I’d chosen and scanned those as well, and then punched in her manager’s discount. “You’re buying them. Because you never know—you may fall in love with a super hot and sexy guy who’ll inspire you to find your inner sex goddess, and you’ll start getting a little daring with your fashion choices.”
“Find my inner sex goddess?” I echoed, laughing.
“Yep. I know you’ve got one in there somewhere.”
“How do you know I haven’t already found my inner sex goddess? Maybe I just keep that kind of thing to myself.”
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