“Excellent. You need anything?”
I’m telling you to get a friend.
“Rosie, are we friends?” I ask.
She looks at me for a long time, her brows furrowed.
“Not a trick question,” I assure her. “I just…I think I need to take inventory.”
She nods. “Do you like D&D?”
“I’ve never played, so I don’t know.”
“Hmmm…do you read manga?”
I shake my head.
“Watch horror movies?”
I wince. “I can do slashers, but paranormal shit keeps me up at night.”
“It’s not looking good for our friendship, Dan,” Rosie says apologetically. “But we can be work friends. You can’t be my work husband, because Andrew is already my work husband. But work friends. Work acquaintances at worst.”
“Thanks,” I say with a laugh. “I’ll take work acquaintances. Maybe we can make our way up to work friends.”
“If you let me give you an apadravya, I’ll bump you all the way up to real friend,” she says, eyebrows raised.
“Tempting,” I say, laughing. “But no.”
“Your loss,” she says, going back to the manga open on the counter, and I’m not sure if she means the piercing or the friendship.
I head back to my booth, the one by the bathroom that everyone calls the loser stall, since nobody wants it. Every time someone flushes, it sounds like a tsunami in the walls, and it takes nerves of steel not to jump—a real problem when you’re wielding a tattoo machine. I share this space with Natalie, another newbie tattoo artist who only works weekends. During the week, she tends bar at a fratty shithole where she makes bank.
I drop my gym bag and start by wiping the entire place down with antiseptic spray. I check the supplies in the drawers and restock what’s low. I pull out my iPad and send a couple of new sketches to the printer to add to my bulletin board of flash. I’ve been doodling weeds a lot lately in response to all the florals people request, and I’ve had a few people ask for my dandelion and clover tattoos. It’s not much, but at least my original art is on someone’s body. I’ve only gotten to do it a handful of times, but every time feels a little bit sacred, like there are people out there in the world carrying around little parts of me.
While I wait for walk-ins, I turn to my iPad and start some new sketches of weeds. I begin with an attempt at Japaneseknotweed, which has these branching white flowers. It can grow up through concrete, damaging the foundation of a house. I’m working on a little vine when Rosie pops her head into my booth.
“Walk-in?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I was actually thinking that you can be my friend. You don’t have to let me give you an apadravya.”
“Oh. Well, thanks,” I say. “What changed your mind?”
She shrugs. “You’re really quiet. I like that.”
I nod, smiling. “Then friends, I guess.”
She nods. “Friends.” Then she disappears.
Take that, Archer.
CHAPTER 10
CARSON
Violet’s house is a shabby gingerbread Victorian with burnt-orange clapboard siding, green trim, and a wraparound porch. It’s nestled on a quiet street in Bloomington, surrounded by other shabby little rental houses.
Tonight is to be my introduction to the world of roller derby.
