Page 72 of Rebel Summer

“No,” I said, trying hard to mask the hope in my voice.

Jordan looked at the clock and then down at her appointment book on the desk in front of her. “Well…”

“I texted Bernie. He said to come in, and he’d meet us here,” Dax explained while I looked at him in surprise.

“He’s back with a client, but he should be just about done.”

“If you can hook us up with an empty room and a book of options, we’ll wait for him there.”

“I don’t need a book. I want a butterfly.” Goodness. Was my voice always that high-pitched? “A small one. Right here.” I pointed at my upper arm.

She followed my movements. “For a small tattoo, usually you’d want it on a smaller spot on the body, like the back of the wrist or an ankle or something.”

“Oh.” I turned my hand to see the veins and thin skin on my wrist. “Does that hurt more or less than an arm?”

“A little more.”

“We’ll just stick to the arm, then. Maybe one day I’ll come back for a full sleeve.”

I was aware of Dax’s chuckling as Jordan led us back into a private room. It looked similar to a doctor’s office: two chairs against a wall, a large black reclined seat in the middle of the room, and small tables holding tools with wires coming out of them—the needles, I presumed.

Once we were seated and the door was closed, Dax was up again and striding toward the door.

“Bernie texted me to come find him. I’ll be right back.” The door clicked shut, leaving me in silence.

The smell of alcohol in this room made me lightheaded, but I couldn’t stop gulping in the air. There were some other smells too. Maybe a little lemon cleaner? Burning flesh?

No. Not burning. Jabs and pokes–that was all the needles did, just little jabs and pokes. I could do that. I stood up and did ten jumping jacks. The cold, tiled floor pounded at my feet, pumping my blood and giving life back to my veins. I could do this. Tons of people had tattoos. If it really hurt that bad, they wouldn’t go back to get more. This was probably a gateway tattoo for me. I’d love it so much I’d come back every week.

So, I settled in for some intense self-motivational speeches.

“You can do it,” I whispered. Right hook.

“This is for Nashville.” Left hook.

“I’m doing this.” Right jab.

Maybe if I said it with more conviction each time, I’d be so pumped when Dax came back that all the worry would leave my face.

“I’m doing it.” Right jab, left hook combo.

The only connection I had to butterflies was the fact that it was the tattoo the girl got in A Walk to Remember. Maybe I should have done a small book or something? Or a volleyball? A meaningful number sequence? Did I have anything in my life that warranted immortalizing it on my skin? A textbook? A stack of research papers? I didn’t even have a movie I loved enough to use. TV was a luxury a stressed-out grad student could rarely afford.

Butterfly it was.

They were very pretty.

Right jab.

Didn’t most of them have a two-week lifespan?

My hand covered my mouth.

They were probably crazy smart, though.

Left jab.

The door opened, and I had the sudden urge to throw up.

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