“I can’t believe you still have those. Or that you even remember that,” I say dizzily.
He shrugs. “You still have that Batman key chain.”
All the color returns to my face like a giant beet-red face punch.
Jamie nudges me. As in, actually touches me. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted, but in the best possible way.
“So,” he says finally, “Star Wars or Star Trek?”
I laugh. I remember this game. Our game. “Star Wars, definitely. Batman or Superman?”
“Batman, definitely.” He laughs. It feels so familiar. “Rogue or Storm?”
“Rogue. Gambit or Cyclops?”
“Gambit. Michelangelo or Raphael?”
“Neither. Leonardo all the way,” I say seriously.
“Ahh,” Jamie reacts, dragging out the sound. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“It feels like we’re kids. It doesn’t feel like we’re as old as we are,” I say, and then I catch myself. I turn to him with stone eyes. “I didn’t actually mean to say that out loud.”
“I know,” he answers simply. I don’t ask him which part he’s talking about because I know, too. He means all of it—what I’m feeling. He knows.
We’ve always known when it was just the two of us. We’re two halves that got separated. We just fit.
But something went wrong. He moved away just before my parents’ divorce, and even though I tried to stay in touch—when I needed to stay in touch—he seemed to forget all about me. I wish I knew why. Losing my best friend felt like losing half of my heart. It hurt. Sometimes it still hurts.
Jamie chews his lip, looking up at the clouds. “I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes falling back to mine. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“It’s okay. You were eleven.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter, even though it does. I missed him. I’ve never stopped missing him. “You don’t have to apologize.”
He looks like he’s fighting for the right words, the right way to explain himself. “I don’t want things to be weird between us.”
Maybe that’s what this is all about. Maybe he’s been feeling guilty all this time. Maybe that’s why sometimes he looks like he wants to run away from me.
Suddenly we don’t make as much sense as we did before.
“Whatever you’re feeling bad about, it doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.” My voice is almost a whisper. “And I don’t want you to feel like you have to talk to me just because we used to be friends when we were kids. I mean, I get it. We’ve grown up. We don’t know each other anymore.”
“No,” he says quickly. “That’s not it, Kiko. That’s not it at all.” He takes too much air through his nose, and it makes his nostrils flare. “Seeing you again . . . I know it’s been a long time, and our lives are different now, but I don’t . . .” He lets out a heavy sigh like he’s giving up.
I don’t know what he means. I don’t know what any of it means. But I know I don’t want things to be weird between us either. I know I want my friend back.
It’s so quiet I can practically hear the thump of my heartbeat inside my chest.
A series of sharp honks sounds in front of us, and when we look up, Jamie’s cousin is waving at him from the car.
“I have to go.” He stands up, looking down at me like there are a thousand more words on the tip of his tongue that just can’t be said. And then, because he really is giving up, he shakes his head and walks away.
I smell Emery’s flowery perfume before she’s even sitting down next to me.
“That,” she says slowly, “was like watching a clown die at a children’s birthday party.”
My hands snap toward my cheeks automatically. “Was I the dying clown? Clowns are the worst.”
She shakes her head. “No wonder he didn’t try to call you.”
Something between a groan and a gasp escapes from my throat. “Hey!” I cry, play shoving her away from me.
Emery explodes into a fit of childish giggles.
Fighting hard to hide my smirk, I roll my eyes. “At least I get to say ‘I told you so.’?”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you he only offered to drive me home to be nice. It didn’t mean anything.” I fidget with my sleeve. “He’s acting weird. It’s like he’s trying to avoid me but doesn’t know how.”
Emery sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. “For someone so visually oriented, you’re totally blind.”
I don’t ask her what she means. I just sit with her, her wavy hair tickling my cheek, and I imagine that time is starting to slow down.
I’m not ready to say good-bye to my only friend.
? ? ?
I draw an invisible circle on the concrete with my finger.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When we get inside the tattoo parlor, I can see exactly why Emery always talked about this place like it was magical. It looks like they hired the Mad Hatter to decorate. There are lights hanging from the ceiling, and ornaments in all different styles and colors. Some of the furniture is modern and shaped like boxes and domes, and some of it looks like it came from a fancy British tea party. The walls are black and purple, and there is artwork from floor to ceiling on the entire wall behind the counter.
A young woman with a lavender pixie cut and silver earrings up and down her left ear greets us near the door. “Hey, Ems. I’m all set up in the back. You ready?”
Emery nods excitedly. “This is my friend Kiko. Kiko, this is Francis.”
Francis shakes my hand firmly, showing off the full sleeve of tattoos on her right arm. “Emotional support, huh?”
“I’m nervous,” Emery admits with a doe-eyed grin.
Francis motions us to follow her to the back, and Emery lies down on the bed. She lifts her shirt up to the top of her rib cage and motions to Francis where she wants the tattoo. Francis nods and turns to her counter of tools.
I glance around the room, still in awe of the change in scenery. I didn’t imagine a place like this even existing in our quiet town. I guess I didn’t know enough about tattoo parlors to imagine one at all.
There’s a glass counter at the side with lots of different piercings for sale, and some rubber models of blank mannequin faces with silver studs in the ears, nostrils, eyebrows, and lips.
On top of the counter are three thick books. I move toward them curiously and see they’re filled with pictures of tattoos. Most of them are drawings of common images—horseshoes, angels, stars, mermaids—but others are pictures of huge works of art after they’ve been tattooed onto actual people. I’ve never found tattoos beautiful before—not the way Emery does. But looking through the book now feels like I’m looking through someone’s sketchbook. It’s their art. Their story. Their passion.
I can see why Emery loves it so much.