“I’ve never been there. What’s so great about it?”
“I have this picture of me there with my mom when I was a baby. It’s one of the only photos I have of just the two of us.” She opens her computer and pulls up a picture of a young woman who looks a little like Joni, wearing a winter coat and hat and holding a fat baby about Hope’s age. They’re in front of a big arch. “I don’t really have any memories of her, but this picture feels like a memory, if that makes sense.”
I nod. It’s like the journals. A poor substitute for the real thing, but better than nothing.
“So when my stepmom and my sister Stevie and my best friend Karen and I went on a trip to New York a few years ago, we all went there.” She shows me another picture of the four of them under that same arch. A tall, darker-skinned woman who I guess is Joni’s stepmother; the girl from the hallway, only younger; and a white girl with a huge smile. Joni’s hair was longer then—and pink. “It’s this perfect little square of music and art and history and intellect and nature and harmony, right in the middle of a bunch of screaming streets.” She looks me in the eye and smiles. “It was incredible. Because those are all things we have inside us too. You know, the things that make us human? Even though pressure, rules, drama push in on us from the outside and try to take over. I like being reminded that if this little, unassuming park in the middle of Manhattan can fight back against the bullshit, so can I.”
I gape at her for a long moment, slowly coming to realize that Joni is my Washington Square Park. My way to connect with who I was—am—in the middle of all the bullshit.
She gets it. I wonder how she knew that was the exact right thing to say to me.
“What bullshit are you pushing back against?” I ask. She always seems so perfectly happy.
She shrugs. “Family being all up in my business all the time. Friend drama. Karen and I…I don’t know, lots of stuff.”
I want to know more, but then she’ll feel like she can ask me more about my life, and we’re not going there. So I nod. “How did you even do this?”
“You’d be surprised what you can do with a little elbow grease and imagination.” She grins. “Elijah did most of it.”
“Elijah?”
“The guy in the garage? He’s my stepbrother. Anyway, you ready to go?” She jumps up and down. “It’s tattoo time!”
We wave to Elijah on our way out, but I don’t think he sees us, he’s so immersed in his work. The kids are out of sight, but I can still hear them screaming and laughing.
“So what are you getting?” I ask as we drive. The evening is warm, and we have the windows rolled down.
“An outline of an elephant on my shoulder,” Joni says as her short hair blows around in the wind.
“An elephant? Why?”
“Because they’re beautiful.”
Fair enough. “Your parents don’t care?”
“Nah. My dad let me get my first one last year. I’d been telling him I wanted a tattoo for as long as I could remember—since I was six or seven. I’ve always loved the concept of decorating your body. Anyway, he kept saying, ‘Sure, Joni, when you’re sixteen, you can get a tattoo.’ I think he thought I’d forget about it by then. But I turned sixteen and still wanted one, and my dad never goes back on his word.”
Joni’s dad’s follow-through seems to mean a lot to her. I file that bit of information away for future negotiations with Hope.
“What did you get?” I ask, taking the Laconia exit.
Joni gives me a closed-lipped smile. “Tell me how you got your eyebrow scar and I’ll tell you about my tattoo.”
I shake my head. “No deal.”
“Is it a soccer injury?”
I just look at her, expressionless. “Yup. Soccer injury.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll get it out of you one of these days.”
“You can try.”
We get to the tattoo place, and Joni fills out a bunch of paperwork, chatting with the girl at the front desk about Sherlock like they’re best friends. I’m beginning to think Joni is best friends with everyone she meets.
Then we’re ushered to the back, and Joni’s sitting in the chair. The tattoo artist is snapping on rubber gloves and placing the elephant stencil on her shoulder, saying, “Ready?”
Joni nods and grabs my hand and closes her eyes tight as the needle makes contact with her skin.
She squeezes my hand tighter and tighter the longer the needle presses down. “Jesus fuck, that hurts,” she says.
“Are you okay?” I ask, unable to take my eyes away from the elephant slowly forming on her shoulder and the tiny droplets of blood the artist keeps wiping away.
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s a good pain. Addictive.”