Ink Is Thicker Than Water (10 page)

Obviously, within thirty-five minutes, I’m walking inside The Family Ink.

“Kell-belle.” Mom beams up at me from her workstation, where she’s sketching out the city skyline. “I’m so glad you could make it. I know it sounds like a lot of work to be the only one making appointments and getting the phone, but I know you can handle it.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want me to have the job. I also know I can handle it.” I walk into the tiny back room just long enough to dump my purse on the floor and help myself to a jelly-filled donut. “Where’s Russell?” I walk back into the main shop area after having shoved the donut into my mouth in two and a half bites. Disgusting but impressive. “Doesn’t he have appointments?”

“He’ll be back soon,” Mom says. “Did you do anything fun last night?”

I lick the tips of my fingers, still coated with sugar, and wait for Mom to scream about cleanliness and respect for the work environment. She does, I wash my hands at the sink, and I mention the movie like maybe my whole social circle didn’t just shift.

Russell is there within a few minutes, with coffee for him and Mom and hot cocoa for me. Hopefully it’s just my imagination, but Russell’s expression is kind of downturned today.

“Full beverage service!” I announce, and he laughs and claps me on the back.

Russell’s first appointment is a lady around Mom’s age and a total mom type with a nice little helmet of highlighted hair and a sweater featuring three embroidered autumn leaves, who is getting a totally clichéd butterfly on her back. I take her deposit and copy her ID and get her to fill out her paperwork like I’ve done this a million times before. As far as jobs go, I haven’t hit the proverbial jackpot or anything, but it’s still a pretty swank gig. Mom and Russell don’t care if I kill time on the computer as long as I’m attentive when there are actually people who need my help.

“You’re free until noon.” I walk over to Mom’s station after checking the appointment book. Her station is decorated mostly with pictures of all of us, but also some of the designs she’s working on (currently a flaming cup of coffee and a quote about a mortal coil I’m pretty sure is Shakespeare). “You know what you could do? If you’ve got extra time to tattoo…?”

“No,” she says firmly, taking down the coffee design and erasing the top section of flames before redrawing them. When Russell draws, his movements are slow, methodical, but Mom’s pencil just flies across the paper.

“Well,
I
have an idea,” I say like I didn’t hear or understand her. “You could give
me
a tattoo. You can even take it out of my first paycheck.”

“First of all, Kellie, your first paycheck isn’t going to cover my rates. Secondly, you know how I feel about this. It isn’t happening.”

“Why not?”

“What tattoo do you want?”

I shrug. “Something cool, maybe on my ankle, even though I know that’s totally a sorority girl place, only slightly better than your lower back—”

“If you aren’t one hundred percent sure, baby, I’m not doing it.”

“It isn’t fair. Don’t millions of people come in here and just pick out something crappy off the wall? Do you question all of them?”

Russell looks up from the butterfly that was picked out from the designs on the wall and mouths
we don’t insult the flash customers
, which is one of his big policies. Flash is what all the ready-made designs are called. Since Mom and Russell prefer to do their own designs, it’s cool of them to make boring people feel at home, too.

Still, I am making a point.

“Kellie Louise, the difference is that I’m not any of those people’s mothers. When you’re eighteen, you can go to anyone and get something on the spur of the moment, but I won’t be the one to do that for you. When I ink you someday, it’ll be for something you know you’ll want forever.”

The thing is, even though I don’t want to admit it, Mom is right. Not long ago I thought it would be cool to put a line from my favorite Beatles song around my wrist, and then after sitting in Oliver’s car after our awkward non-sex, I’m pretty sure I’d hate to look at those words every single day.

“It’s so cute your whole family runs this shop,” says the woman mid-butterfly. “I just love family businesses, don’t you?”

“They’re my favorite.” Mom tacks up the coffee cup sketch before getting out a fresh piece of paper and pulling down a book of fonts from her reference shelf. I’ve pointed out only twenty-seven million times she could be using a computer for stuff like that, but she swears it’s better this way. “I count my blessings all the time that Russell and I made this place work.”

Mom says that a lot. It’s even quoted in the article from the
Riverfront Times
that’s framed here and also at home, “The Family that Inks Together Stays Together,” which features a huge picture of Mom and Russell at work in the shop, as well as them with all of us at Tower Grove Park, down the street.

The article had unintentionally stirred up tons of drama, considering none of us knew Dad had kept pretty quiet about the subject of his divorce. It made it tricky for him to explain why his supposedly current wife was in the pages of the local alternative weekly next to his daughters, another man, and a punk rock toddler who wasn’t his.

Mom is in the midst of telling Her Story to the butterfly woman, something else I’ve heard millions of times by now. “I’d just left my paralegal position because I couldn’t imagine doing that a minute longer. I was still sorting out my life, looking for my
raison d’être
, you know. One afternoon after I had lunch with my sister at a café off Delmar, I was walking around, passed this tattoo shop, and just found myself going in.”

At this point Mom always pulls back the left shoulder of her shirt, shows off the bluebird in flight inked in exuberant blues. I’ve asked Mom about the meanings of a lot of her tattoos (which is how I found out the snowflake on her forearm is for me, both because of my January birthday and apparently, my uniqueness, and the owl on her bicep is for Sara: wise and beautiful, I figure) but I never needed to with this one.
Freedom
.

“By the time my artist”—Mom and Russell share a smile here—“had finished, I’d sorted it out.” Mom knew what she wanted in life: both the job and Russell.

One part of the story she always leaves out was that she was still Melanie Brooks then, had still been Dad’s wife, had only been gone a day from the law firm where she and Dad had met. At home she’d prepared dinner like it was any other day.

I can’t blame her for editing; the story is much sweeter her way.

Russell jumps in right where he always does. “I had ten years of experience on her, but no one’s a natural like Mel. Most talented artist I ever worked with.”

That’s actually my favorite part of the story. If Mom hadn’t known her real talent until she was over thirty, maybe there’s hope for me, too.

“And you fell for her!” exclaims the butterfly woman, like this is the best love story she’s ever heard. Lady, see more movies.

“How could I not?”

I roll my eyes, because even though of course it’s the sweetest thing in the world, I understand the part I play at the shop. And teenagers are supposed to roll their eyes upon such utterances.

After he puts the finishing touches on the butterfly, Russell and I walk down the street to pick up lunch. Even though it may not be my business, I decide to ask about the sadness that I swear has settled on him again.

“Thanks for asking, Kell,” he says. “It’s good of you to take notice. Don’t know if you remember about Chrystina…”

“Of course, yeah.”

“Today’s her birthday,” he says. “
Would
have been her birthday. My ex and I, we always visit her grave, say a few prayers. Makes for a rough day.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wouldn’t have asked if—”

“I don’t mind talking about it,” he says. “Just rough. She’d be twenty-one today.”

I think about that, how many years of her life Russell has missed out on. Also, I wonder what she’d be like if she were here. I could use someone who’s twenty-one, who’d been through things with high school and guys from local colleges. Maybe Chrystina would know how to handle the Oliver situation.

Okay, wait. Have I really somehow found a way to make the subject of Russell’s dead daughter all about
me
?

My cell phone rings as we walk back, loaded down with bags of Vietnamese food, and we juggle until Russell has all the bags, and my hands are free to retrieve my phone from my bag. Dad. Crap. “Hello?”

“Kellie, where are you?”

“Working,” I say, like I’ve had a job for a million years already and he’s well aware of my schedule.

“Working? We haven’t discussed you getting a job.”

“It’s just with Mom and Russell at the shop.”

“I don’t feel great about you working in that part of town in that kind of environment,” he says. “All those roughnecks coming in and—”

I laugh so hard my eyes tear up, and Russell joins in without even knowing what I’m laughing at. “‘Roughnecks’? Dad, what are you talking about? Russell’s last client was this forty-four-year-old lady. Mom’s working on some frat boy right now.”

“Your mother and I will have to discuss this,” he says. “Will I see you tonight?”

“I have plans, so, probably not. Some night next week, okay?”

Dad agrees, and even though he snubbed me from my own frigging family breakfast this morning, I still feel bad I’m not there. He just makes it really easy for me not to be.

Chapter Nine

Sara’s at the house when I get there after work. She’s wearing jeans and a blue sweater I’ve never seen before. Since she’s in her school uniform so much, I always notice what she’s wearing when she isn’t.

“Did you guys go shopping today?” I ask.

“Just for a few things, yeah,” she says. “I’m so sorry for how he was earlier.”

“I know. It’s not your fault anyway. And I’m fine.”

“Dad wanted to buy you pants because he said yours were ‘ragged,’ but I talked him out of it.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though I probably could use some new pants. It’s super nice of Sara to keep Dad from acting like everything about me needs to be upgraded. “You know I don’t blame you for how he is. You shouldn’t have to feel bad for being so perfect.”

“One, I’m not perfect, two, I don’t feel bad about
myself
, and three, I do still feel bad. I just don’t know how to fix it.”

“No one can fix Dad.” Standing in front of Sara, I feel stupid that I’ve been so secretive about Oliver. There’s nothing to really even be secretive
about
. True, Sara and I don’t really talk
generally
about guys, and I guess there are lots of
specific
reasons I don’t want to talk about Oliver. Again, he’s Dexter’s brother, so is that weird? Again, he’s smart and at a good college, and I’m sure everyone expected if I started going out with anyone he’d be a goof-off like me. And…okay, actually, I guess I still feel better being secretive.

“Anyway, I should go get ready.” I’m glad Sara isn’t the kind of person who’ll make me say what I’m getting ready for. “Talk to you later? Are you going out?”

“Well, I’m hanging out with Dexter while he and his friends play something on his PS3. Does that count?”

“Hmmm, maybe not. Is that like a thing you have to do as a girlfriend?”

“Generally speaking, who knows? Specifically speaking, yes, for me it is. See you later, Kell.”

I’m in front of my closet before it hits me I don’t know what I should wear for this. Luckily, Adelaide answers as soon as I call her. “Go.”

“What? Oh, hi. It’s Kellie. What am I supposed to wear tonight?”

“Brooks, what have we been discussing?”

“Guys are just people and stressing too much about clothes and other superficial items is pointless?”

“Exactly.” She pauses. “But jeans and your purple shirt, if I had to pick. Have fun. Report back tomorrow.”

Oliver is already at the coffee shop when I get there. In my opinion, he’s much cuter than Dexter, though I guess having the same red hair and brown eyes and being approximately the same height means it’s probably a pretty close race. Still, there is something in Dexter’s eyes that gives away that he is trying so hard all the time. Oliver’s eyes just
are
.

I guess I like a lot of things about Oliver: how his hands are big but smooth, how even when he isn’t smiling, his eyes look like he is, and how his top lip is a little fuller than his bottom one. When we talk, and it’s me who’s saying something—even something stupid—he listens like at that very moment my dumb jokes are more important than anything else. I mean, I tell a lot of dumb jokes all the time; no one else really leaves the rest of the world behind to hear them.

He hugs me as soon as he spots me, which is nice, and kisses me as soon as we’re outside, which is even nicer.

“I got a little worried about the haunted house thing when I got your text,” he says. “What do you think?”

“I can’t believe I’ll be told two years in a row my soul will end up in hell, right?”

“Seems doubtful.” He grabs my hand as we walk to his car, which is also nice. “That’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes.” In his car we kiss again, this time with his hands on my face. And it should have reminded me of that day in his room—and, okay, honestly it does—but it isn’t like it’s replaying itself out now. That was a long time ago. This is now.

We get to the haunted house in only a few minutes, and I’m thrilled we’re greeted by zombies and not ministers. “You picked a good one.”

“That’s a relief.” Oliver grins, this way of looking at me like I’m someone more. I guess to him
I am
. “Hate to sentence you to hell tonight.”

I lead him toward the entrance and pay for my admission. Listen, I’m not the kind of person who wants to blog about the whole world being sexist—I’ll let Adelaide keep that job—but I don’t want to kick off, well, whatever we’re doing, with Oliver paying for everything just because he happened to be born a guy.

I climb up the creaky, dark stairs first, pulling Oliver behind me, and he yells out the very second we pass a large and very fake spider hanging over us. “Are you okay?”

“I just hate spiders, sorry,” he says, getting a little closer to me. “I know it’s not manly. Everything else about me is manly, I promise.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I say, even though
what am I doing?
Why can I talk like this when I’m not at all ready for any of that? Not
all
of that at least.

I poke at the spider, hoping to change the subject with arachnophobia. “Seriously, though, even rubber ones?”

“It doesn’t look rubber from here.”

I laugh and pretend to take aim at the spider. “Taken care of.”

He gives me that grin again, and it hits me even more that Oliver
likes
me. Despite May. Despite that I’m kind of a weirdo. It is just this real, genuine, true thing. All for me.

I walk along right in front of him while getting growled at by surprisingly realistic werewolves, threatened with bites from vampires (I dare one guy to do it, and he laughs and breaks character—a minor victory), and held up at gunpoint by totally normal dudes with also surprisingly realistic fake guns. Oliver’s not scared of anything except the fake spiders, but being brave for him just becomes a thing I’m doing, and the harder he laughs, the more I just keep wanting to do it.

After we’re out of the haunted house, we go to dinner, a vegetarian place I’ve gone to a million times with my family, of course, but Oliver gets so excited when we drive past, I act like we weren’t there just a couple weeks earlier.

“Sorry that was kind of lame,” he says, while we look over our menus.

“I didn’t think it was lame. And I like it when you scream.” Oh my God, way to take fake spiders and make it sound like I’m one of those people on HBO skilled at double entendres. I wonder how my subconscious got so much more
experienced
than me.

“Yeah, do you?”

Oh, Oliver, seriously, you should know from that day how not skilled I am at even single entendres; please don’t give me that look.
Now I’m definitely back in May in my head, back in Oliver’s room without my clothes or any sense of what I want.

Luckily, a waiter shows up right then, and by the time Oliver orders a veggie burger and I order plantain tacos, I can pretend that moment has passed. I’m thinking a lot about what Adelaide said, though, and if this feels weird because of the almost-sex, then maybe I should just say something.

“I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”

He laughs. “Yeah, Kellie, I know. I wasn’t passing it up, though.”

I have to agree with that, but still. I’m ready for a new topic. “Are you a vegetarian or something?”

“No way, I love meat too much. I thought you were, though.”

“Why would you think that?” I ask. “Meat’s delicious.”

“Back on Memorial Day, your stepdad brought all those veggie burgers and hot dogs. Not to sound like a stalker, but I noticed you were eating them.”

“I just felt bad for Russell,” I say. “I didn’t want him to take home this huge plate of crap no one else wanted.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Good thing I like this place anyway. My ex was a vegetarian, so we went here a lot.”

I guess it’s dumb to think I’m the first girl Oliver has messed around with, has taken on a date, has kissed like it’s the sweetest moment occurring in the entire universe. I guess it’s even dumber to care, so I set a goal to stop.

After we eat—with no more mentions of the ex but at least four of fake spiders—we walk around a little outside. There’s an alcove behind the building, a space where the bricks sort of cut away, and it smells like the Dumpsters lurking nearby. Still, Oliver pushes me back there and starts kissing me like we’re in complete privacy.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he says sort of breathlessly, raising his head just far enough from mine to speak not directly into my mouth. His voice is extra husky. “I kept thinking of texting you before but—”

“I’m glad, too,” I say, hands on his face, pulling him back to me.

I hear a door open, and some cook from the restaurant yells out at us, so we laugh and make a run for Oliver’s car, where we get back to business. Well, kissing. Obviously, I know there’s more to it than this, and not just because we’d already gotten there. Almost there, at least.

“You want to get coffee?” he asks finally, while I fish some lip balm out of my purse. People don’t say things like “making out is a killer on your lip health,” but they should. That’s the kind of sex advice I actually need.

“I don’t know.” Instead, we could be somewhere alone that isn’t a car, where we could do almost as much as we had in May. I hope it’s allowable to put up limitations like that. According to Adelaide and all the websites she endorses, it is. “This is pretty good, right?”

“Oh,” he says, and I can tell he’s running options through his head. Hopefully, they aren’t ways to nicely tell me he’s done making out with me for the night. “I think my roommate’s out.”

Success.

Actually Oliver is totally wrong. When we get to his dorm room, there is some nerdy kid doing homework and listening to crappy jam rock, but he volunteers to go to the library before we have to ask.

“I’m not going to have sex tonight,” I tell Oliver as he pulls me down with him on his mattress. I hadn’t known him last time, but this time I can recognize that the sheets and pillows smell like him. “Just so you know.”

“You’re weird,” he says with a smile. “And that’s fine.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” I kiss him a few times, trying out a few things with my lips I’d read about (props to Adelaide and some helpful links she’d sent me). He’s letting out little sounds of what I take as approval, so the research has clearly been worth the effort. “I just didn’t want you getting the wrong idea about—”

“I didn’t,” he says, really quickly. “Stuff happens, Kellie. I didn’t think just because we got ahead of ourselves that we were going to pick up right there again.”

It’s exactly what he should have said, but it isn’t what I wanted to hear. The person I want to be would have had sex with him last time, or at least been more honest about why she hadn’t. And that’s who I want Oliver to see me as right now.

So I lie. “I meant that I freaked. It’s not like that’s my reaction to sex.”

He kisses my cheek, then my neck. “Listen, I didn’t think it was.”

Right then I’m in two places at once, because while I’m doing dumb things like lying to Oliver, I’m also sort of floating above myself screaming,
Shut up, shut up, shut up, just
frigging do him
already if this is the alternative
.

Also, I hate both of those parts of me, so I guess I’m in a third place, too, harshly judging both of them.

“I believe you, okay?” Oliver covers my lips with his, probably kissing me to shut me up more than anything else. And the me that is floating above, cheering me on, wins out, at least a little. I mean, I don’t
frigging do him,
but I get back to making out with him
sans
conversation at least.

“I should probably go,” I say, finally, catching sight of his clock out of the corner of my eye. “I don’t really have a curfew, but Mom knows I’m out with you so—”

He follows my line of sight and nods. “Yeah, it’s late, and I don’t want to piss off your family. Eventually, I’m gonna want a tattoo, and I’m sure your mom could exact revenge with ink if she wanted.”

“For sure.” I feel really good with this night ending in jokes and not tears. “Sorry you have to drive me back.”

“I don’t mind.” He smooths my hair, leans in, and kisses me a little more. “I wish you could stay longer. That’s my only complaint right now.”