When I turn back around, Francis has already started. I take a seat nearby, watch Emery’s leg twitch now and then, and listen to the buzz of the ink scratching into her skin. She doesn’t say a single word, but she winks now and then to let me know she’s okay.
Francis looks the way I imagine I do when I’m painting, except she’s way more stylish. She looks mixed, too, with dark skin and dark eyes. It’s a rarity in this town, but I can’t imagine anyone thinking she was weird-looking. She’s beautiful. I wonder if Adam would’ve been embarrassed after kissing her.
And then I wonder if Francis would be dumb enough to let Adam kiss her to begin with. Probably not—she’d probably know he was a worm right from the start. She seems tough. Sure of herself. She probably couldn’t care less about anyone else’s approval of her.
No wonder Emery is always telling me Francis is her soul’s muse. I think she might be mine, too.
I read through a pile of magazines, look up nonsense on my phone, and a few hours later Francis pulls away and the buzzing stops.
“All finished. You remember the rules? Try to avoid water and sunlight directly on the tattoo for two weeks while it heals. Showers are fine, but no baths or swimming.” Francis scoots her chair back so Emery can slide off the bed.
“I remember,” Emery says almost dizzily. She moves to the mirror, admiring the image of the pistol-wielding, gum-chewing girl that fills the small space above her hip and below her rib cage. “Oh my God, I love it.”
“Well, you did draw it,” Francis says, shifting her tools to the other counter.
Emery looks over her shoulder. “Yeah, but you did it perfectly. It’s my favorite one by far.”
“I hope you’ll come and say ‘hi’ if you’re back in town during the school holidays. And maybe leave some room free—I don’t want to lose one of my best customers.” Francis laughs and looks at me, her dark complexion making her lilac hair even more vibrant. “You shipping off to college too?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet.” It’s the truth, even though I’m making it sound like it’s my choice.
Emery stands perfectly still while Francis bandages her up. “Kiko is the one I was telling you about—the artist.”
“Ah, right.” Francis’s husky voice cuts off at the end, and I know it’s because Emery must have told her about Prism. “The beautiful thing about art is that you don’t ever have to stop doing it. If you don’t get into law school, you can’t still be a lawyer. You know what I mean? But even if you have to wait on your dream school, you don’t have to wait to work on your craft.” She taps the side of her head like we’re sharing the same thought.
Emery follows Francis to the counter and pays the bill, and when we step back out into the real world, I feel my eyes struggling to adjust. Real life somehow feels different than it did a few moments ago.
We drive to our favorite coffee shop, get our favorite drinks, and talk about Jamie and college and our parents, but mostly Jamie if I’m being honest.
She tells me she’s going to miss me. I tell her I’ll miss her, too.
When she drops me off at my house, I look over at her from the passenger seat. “Is this good-bye?” I ask.
“Can we not call it that? I hate good-byes. Besides, it’s not the 1700s. We have phones. And e-mail. And Skype,” she says.
I nod, ignoring the hard scratch in my throat. “Okay. Well, let me know when you get to Indiana. I want to hear all about your dorm room, and your classes, and, well, everything.”
She smiles, and I can see her eyes glistening. “Be happy, okay?” She reaches across the seat and hugs me.
I don’t find the note she hid in my bag until late at night when I’m looking for my good pencils.
DON’T FORGET, KIKO: LADYBALLS.
I don’t even bother trying not to cry. I miss my friend already.
? ? ?
I draw a row of paper dolls severed in the middle and two friends promising to someday put them back together again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I’m sitting on the couch looking at the community college art program and trying not to spiral into a pit of depression when Mom looks at me.
“I like your hair today,” she says.
My shoulders stiffen. Getting a compliment from Mom doesn’t just mentally affect me—it’s physiological, too.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking some of it behind my right ear nervously.
She keeps looking at me. It feels severe, even if she did say something nice. “You should get bangs. Taylor Swift looks great with bangs.”
I twist my face. “The last time I had bangs Taro told me I looked like a panda bear wearing a wig.”
Mom laughs because she always thinks Taro is funny. “Well, I still think it would be a good style. She’s so pretty—she kind of looks the way I did when I was your age. We have that all-American girl look.”
I want to point out that I’m insulted she doesn’t think I look “American” and that the only way for me to look like Taylor Swift is to literally change every single feature on my entire face and body, but I don’t. Because at least Mom is paying attention to me. At least she’s trying to be nice.
After another few seconds of staring at me like I’m in an aquarium, she asks, “What are you doing?”
I let my phone fall in my lap. “Looking at other colleges. Why?”
She shrugs. “Because I’m interested. Have you given up on your art stuff?”
Your art stuff. Why is it so hard for her to just say art school? Why does she have to word it so it means so much less?
I shake my head. “No. I’m just trying to find other options.”
She looks unsatisfied but stands up and moves toward the kitchen. I stand up too, ready to retreat to my bedroom because I feel a wave coming, but I’m not fast enough.
“Max is moving in tomorrow. Officially,” she says casually, feeding fresh coffee grinds into her expensive machine.
My feet plant onto the wooden floors. I guess a weird part of me was hoping she’d change her mind.
“I know how you feel about him, but he’s my brother, and he’s not in a good place right now,” she says coolly. “He needs me. Besides, he makes me happy. We laugh so much when we’re together. Family is important. So be nice, okay?”
I swallow the painful lump in my throat. I don’t like Uncle Max. It’s not a secret. But why I don’t like him is a secret to everyone except my parents.
The point is, she knows. She knows and she doesn’t care.
Be nice. Like I’m the one she needs to worry about.
I give a curt nod.
Because there’s no point in arguing with Mom about why she’s so unbelievably wrong. She’ll never see it.
? ? ?
Someone knocks on my bedroom door, but I don’t pull my eyes away from the scales I’m painting onto the half dragon.
“I’m working,” I call out robotically.
The door opens anyway. It’s Shoji.
“Hey, there’s a guy downstairs waiting for you and Mom is flipping out,” he says. He’s holding an Xbox controller in one hand.
“Oh,” I say. Confusion floods me.
Oh!
I bet it’s Jamie. It has to be.
Oh my God, Jamie is at my house.
I rush downstairs quickly. Mom is pacing in the front hallway like she’s been pumped with adrenaline.
“What is he doing here?” she hisses.