My mind whirled.
“One more thing,” Sarah was saying. “Once they’re gone, I need you to come in to pick up some of your things.”
“My things.” I sounded like a parrot.
“Your books,” Sarah clarified.
My underground library.
“Sarah, you know how important having access to books—all kinds of books—is for these kids. If I can get them reading, they’ll be better students, better thinkers, betterpeople. I can’t give that up.”
“It’s nonnegotiable, I’m afraid,” Sarah said, sounding like my boss, not my friend. “Jim was quite clear. Ned’s already boxed everything up for you.”
I was numb. I didn’t know how to respond.
Dimly, I heard her saying, “Let’s give it the summer, shall we?” It was not a question. She would not buck the system, I realized. Not for me. But what about my students? “I think Jim might be willing to let this whole thing blow over once everyone calms down. The break will do you good. We can make a fresh start in August.”
She ended the call.
I cradled my phone, looking down at the tattoo on my arm.Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet.
Ihadn’tmade a mistake. Had I?
Jim Curtis certainly thought so. So did Sarah. She was forcing me out on leave, no matter how supportive she tried to sound. Even my mother, even Chris…“He’s your supervisor. It’s his job to keep you from making mistakes.”
Only Dad…Longing closed my throat. Dad believed in me.
—
The tattoo gunwhirred over my arm like a swarm of bees, releasing a buzz of adrenaline, a rush of dopamine. I breathed in through my mask, studying the designs pinned to the wall—preliminary sketches of skulls and roses, pets and pinups, spiders and butterflies. Photographs of completed tattoos outlined in angry pink skin. Reminders of death, celebrations of life, everywhere.
I blinked back tears.
The needle paused. Lifted. “Need a break?” Daryl, the tattoo artist, asked.
I’d been sitting in his chair for over an hour. I shook my head. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Try not to move.”
I stilled my restless leg. “Sorry.”
My forearm stung as he bent again to his work, shading in the outline with exquisite attention to detail. I admired his concentration. Obviously, I could never be a tattoo artist. (I wondered what was involved. Did you need to be certified? Do an apprenticeship? Go to school for that?) But it would be niceto have that kind of focus. To finally finish something. Touch someone. Create something meaningful and important.
The deep, intense itch of the needle scratching over my skin pulled me back into the moment.
Daryl pushed his glasses up on his forehead, blotting blood and ink from my arm. “All done.”
I looked down at the shaded black design—a chisel with a wood-grain handle and my father’s initials etched into the blade. The date of his death was needled into my skin below the handle.
“It’s beautiful.” My voice was husky. “Thank you.”
“Your dad, you said?”
There was a lump like a sledgehammer in my chest. I nodded wordlessly.
Daryl patted my arm with his black-gloved hand. “Well, he’ll always be with you now.”
The tattoo blurred.
