“I can’t call anyone else? What about texts?”
“Only the numbers in there. No texting anyone else.” He must see the disappointment on my face. “Sorry. You can go online and everything, but no social media posting. For obvious reasons. Jax finds out … well, you can guess.”
I certainly can. “Okay,” I reply, nodding. “Anything else?”
“Just this.” He tucks his hand into his pockets then tosses me something. I catch it just before it hits me in the face.
“What the—”
He chuckles. It’s a good sound, like a firm handshake and a hug at the same time. “Sorry, should have warned you.”
I swear when I see what it is. The wad of bills is barely held together by a blue rubber band, like the ones that come with produce. “What’s this?”
“Money.”
“Well, yeah.” I fan out the bills. It’s a mix of ones and fives, though a pair of hundreds is hidden in the stack. “I mean, what’s it for?”
“Anything you want,” he replies. “Jax gives all of us cash here and there. When he feels like it. Here’s your wallet, too.”
I take it—all my cards are gone except for my ID and library card. “Seriously?” I say, motioning to the latter. Micah shrugs and I start stuffing the bills inside. “Where does Jax get the cash from?”
“His mom.”
“Really?” It’s weird to think of Jax having family—but of course he would. “And she just … gives it to him?”
“Yeah.”
“Does she know what he does with it?”
“Yeah. She does. But he’s all she’s got. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for Jax. You’ll meet her, probably. Theresa likes to surprise us all with a visit here and there.” He taps the phone in my hand. “You want to call home?”
Jax’s mom vanishes from my mind—home. My fingers shake as I hit the screen. Micah wanders from me and stares absently out the windows. There’s not much to see other than a bundle of thorny bushes, but I appreciate the attempt at looking busy.
Mom picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Val? Oh, thank God. Are you all right? Where are you?”
“I’m fine. Uh … I’m not sure I can tell you where I am.”
Over at the window, Micah shakes his head.
“All these years, I didn’t think … I didn’t think you’d go. I thought I would be able to stop you.” She steadies herself. “But you’re safe, right? I was so worried. Is Matthew there? Can I talk to him? Heather was just here.”
It catches me off guard to hear Matthew’s mother’s first name—to me, she’s always Mrs. Weston. But that’s not the reason my blood stops cold.
Mom thinks Matthew is with me.
She thinks I’m a Heron.
I clap a hand over my mouth. Why didn’t Mrs. Weston tell her? Better yet, why didn’t Jax tell her when they got my stuff?
Shifting the phone to my other hand, I take a deep breath. “No, he’s not here. Mom. I got recruited by the Stags, not the Herons.”
“The Stags?”
“Yes.”
“But your father said—”
“I know. I thought so, too. They met me on my way to the airport. The Stags did.” It’s an easy decision to leave out the part where I was almost shot. “I don’t know how they knew. But I’m one of them now.” I hear her pulling a tissue from the box and wait. “Is Dad there?”
“No, he’s still on the plane. He’ll be back in a few hours. Please come home.” She’s crying again. “Don’t do this. Please, please come back. I can’t lose both of you.”
“Mom, I’m going to make things right.”
“It was not your fault, Val. Not. Your. Fault.” She starts to fray. “If anything, it’s mine. If we’d been around more, then you—”
I push my fingernails into my palm. “I should have been there.” I should have protected him. That’s my job, as the big sister.
Was my job.
“I should go now,” I say.
“Oh, Valerie … you’ll call again, won’t you? I … I know you can’t visit.”
Of all the rules that the gangs have, Mom would know that one. “Of course I’ll call again. As much as I can, Mom.”
Out of my sight, Micah makes a sound between a laugh and a sigh.
“Val?”
“Yeah?”
She starts up again, but I’m done listening. Jax knows who killed Leo, and that’s worth more to me than anything else right now.
“I’m staying, Mom. But I’ll call. I promise. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too, baby. Please, please come back.”
“Mahal kita, Mama. I love you.”
I hang up before I can hear any more. I’m not sure I’d be able to take it. God, I’m the worst person alive. I think of her friends—why don’t I know any of their numbers by heart? Maybe I could sneak a call on a pay phone or something.
Dad is coming home tonight. It’ll be fine. He’ll come home and they’ll read my note over again, and they’ll understand why I’ve done what I’ve done.
Micah says nothing as he waits for me. When I finally meet his eyes, he’s fiddling with one of the half-dozen piercings on his ears. “All good?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I wipe my nose. “Best as it can be.”
“Ah,” he replies. “You want to get going, then?”
“Where?”
“Tattoo time.”
“Right. Um, one sec.”
Opening my meager set of belongings, I root around until I pull out a tan-colored fleece. I hesitate, and swap it for a black running jacket instead. I’m a Stag now. I better dress the part.
I go to the bathroom and toss my hair up into a messy bun then take two seconds to touch up my makeup. It’s been a full day since I looked in a mirror and it shows. Frowning at the bags under my eyes, I pat on a bit of concealer then stash my stuff under the sink.
Over in the living room Jax lounges on one of the orange chairs facing the TV. His fingers race over a game controller. “Oh, come on!”
Next to him, Mako laughs, lifting his own controller as he sits up. Sounds of warfare blare from the screen. Nianna sits on the rug next to Jax while Kate braids her hair.
“We’re ready to go,” says Micah.
Jax nods. “Come straight back when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
I barely have time to slip on my Nikes before Micah ushers me out the door. As we walk out, we pass bunches of dying hydrangeas dotted with rust and wilted roses that have long since bloomed.
We walk down Holloway toward Plymouth. A nearby telephone pole is banded with a yellow stripe and the number of the bus we need. When it pulls up, Micah hands me the fare, and we both pay the driver.
Ingleside rolls by us in a blur of pastel houses, untended gardens, and precariously parked cars. We reach the BART station and get on a train toward downtown.
The train car’s steady jolt and whir of acceleration lull me into a welcome calm. Even with the unflattering light and smell of stale air, I take some comfort in it. Grimy and grim—at least I know this. The blue-gray color of the seats is as familiar as that of my father’s eyes.
Micah doesn’t try to make conversation, but I don’t mind. He doesn’t seem like a guy who cares much for small talk. I settle into the quiet, feeling grateful at least that it’s just him with me. I’d hate for Nianna, or worst of all, Jax, to see me squirm at the buzz of the needle.
“Does it hurt?” I ask. “Getting tattooed?”
Micah shrugs. “Less than you think.”
“So it still hurts.”
He laughs. “You’ll be fine. Here.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a granola bar. “Eat this so you don’t faint.”
On cue, my stomach rumbles as I open it. “Oh. Thanks.”
We get off at Sixteenth and Mission and ride the escalator to the street. The Mission District is colorful—literally. Diego Rivera–esque murals fill t
he alleyways between buildings and at intersections. All the gangs leave these murals untouched. Pink, yellow, and blue railings adorn the exit up toward street level—an ode to the area’s rich community. As we reach the open air, I hold my breath to fight the smell of the vagrants congregated outside the station. Most are harmless, even polite, and heartbreakingly they’re as much a part of the Mission as the murals.
As we walk, it’s easy to tell which buildings have benefited from the influx of money and which haven’t. The former have bold, stylish paint jobs and planter boxes bursting with succulents. Beneath the bare tree branches, hip twentysomethings in plaid shirts hold hands with their big-sweater-wearing girlfriends, outnumbering the older, more worn natives. They look like misplaced Barbie dolls next to the Hispanic markets and Salvadorian restaurants.
We pass a woman holding a cardboard sign asking for money, a baby strapped to her chest. I pause, find the wad of bills in my pocket, and extract a hundred from the bunch. I hand it to her.
“Gracias,” the woman says. Her eyes are red and rimmed with tears. “Thank you.”
I give her a small wave then catch up to Micah. He leads us toward Valencia and beyond. The sky is a wash of pale pink. Clouds stretch in feathery wisps across the skies, but here the wind is mild. All things considered, it’s a nice fall afternoon in San Francisco.
A few blocks later, Micah stops at a residential building. I hug myself at the elbows as he punches the intercom.
“Hello?” a voice crackles.
“Hey, it’s me.”
The door buzzes. Micah holds it open for me. Something in me hesitates. What the hell am I doing? The hallway above me is poorly lit—I can’t see the end. There could be anything in there, or anyone. Deep breaths. Whatever’s in there, I have to take. I want to take, to make things right. Matthew wouldn’t be scared. He understood exactly what being in the Wars would mean, and so do I.
I take a step and hope.
The linoleum floor sticks to the bottom of my shoes, and I steel myself from asking about the cleanliness of the place. Micah follows right behind me. He greets a guy standing at the top of the stairs in front of a pair of doors.
“What’s up, man?” They hug, and Micah thumps the guy twice on the back.
“Not much. Business as usual.” The guy holds up a key. “It’s just the way you left it.”
“Thanks. Is Jules here?”
“Nah, you just missed her.” The guy nods to me, his eyes traveling up and down my body in the quick way guys don’t think girls notice. “Hey, newbie. I’m Kurt.”
I shake his hand when he offers it. “Valerie.”
He makes a show of tugging his sleeve until I see the Stag tattoo on his bicep. “This is 2H—second headquarters. Jax isn’t that clever when it comes to names.”
“Don’t say that near him,” Micah fires back, and the two laugh. Kurt looks back at me. “This may not look like much, but it’s safe. You’ve been on like three cameras in the past two minutes. Walls have been reinforced, and we’ve got stock here.”
“Plus one of the stairs is a trick step,” says Micah. “Flip a switch and it becomes a slide.”
“Oh yeah, totally. That’s our biggest defense.”
I crack a smile. “Cool. Thanks.”
“Anyway,” says Kurt, “my number’s in your phone. If you ever need me, just holler.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Micah’s unlocked the door and holds it open for me. This room is pristine. Afternoon light from the retreating sun illuminates a dark leather chair next to a stool and table. Vials of ink stand like colorful paladins next to a tray of needle guns. On curling papers tacked to the walls, one design repeats itself over and over: a stag with antlers of thorns and feathers.
The Stag emblem’s history from rough to refined plays itself out over the length of the room. Closest to the door, the sketches are unpolished—stags with round eyes, then diamond ones. Whole-bodied silhouettes leaping in the air like old-timey heraldry. Closer to the shuttered window, the current one, the official emblem, makes its first appearance.
From then on, it’s all the same, with only tiny refinements. Switching the thorns and the feather. Switching them back. An unspoken energy sings through each paper, and the images tremble with a vitality all their own.
“This is amazing,” I say. “How did you learn to draw like this?”
“Been drawing my whole life,” he replies. “I was that kid in all my art classes.”
I sense a hint of sadness in his words, but he’s already moved on, busying himself with getting everything organized.
“Well, they’re wonderful,” I say. “How did you learn to tattoo?”
“Early on when the Stags were just starting, we had a lot more time. Found a guy who took me on as an apprentice.”
“Well no wonder,” I reply. “You’re super talented.”
He smiles cheerily. “Thank you,” he says, patting the arm of the chair. “Glad you appreciate it. Now sit.”
I take off my jacket and settle into the chair, and Micah moves in like he’s in a trance. He pulls out bottles of rubbing alcohol and cleaner, a roll of paper towels, a large white box he tells me is a light box for tracing, and a few blank pieces of paper. The last of these he shoves into the mouth of a printer tucked below the desk. It’s so clear he loves this.
“So, arm, neck, or elsewhere?” he asks, plugging in the light box. Switching it on, he lays a printout on the bottom and the tracing paper on top. He follows the lines, face so close to the page that I wonder if he can even see the image.
The stag Micah’s drawn for me demands to be seen. It stares out at me, the feather antler soft yet bold whereas the one of thorns is all edge.
I’m so in awe at seeing a master at work that I forget to respond. “Oh. Back of the neck. Like you said.”
“It’ll hurt more. On the spine.”
“You said it didn’t hurt.”
“I said it hurts less than you think.”
I take a breath. “Back of the neck. Not too big, though.”
“I can’t go too small. It’ll wreck the detail.”
“Oh. Okay. Um. Small as you can then.”
Micah puts his hands on my neck, measuring it out with his fingers. I picture his brain whirring and flowing with artistic ease. “All right. Give me a sec.”
I close my eyes as he does his thing. I thought I’d be more nervous—but no, this is necessary. Tattoos are part of the deal.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.
“Back of the neck? Yeah, I’m sure.”
“I mean be a Stag.”
“Yeah.”
He takes a moment to respond. “You know there’s no going back, after this.”
No, there certainly isn’t. I grit my teeth. “I know. But I have to do this. I’m ready.”
Micah shows me the outline and, once I approve, presses it to my skin, then wipes it away and does it again. I don’t mind him taking his time. It’s my skin, after all. He presses on my neck again.
“So it’ll be this wide, this tall. I’ve got a mirror if you want to see.”
“I trust you. Let’s do it.”
“All right, get ready.” There’s a buzzing sound by my ear. Micah’s fingers press down, and the first bites of metal tear into me.
He was right—it hurts less than I expected. I smile inwardly. This isn’t even as bad as what I do to myself. Ah—never mind. That hurts. Oh man. I keep my body as still as possible as the needle gets hot. Like I’m being branded, I think, then I roll my eyes at my own stupidity, because that’s exactly what’s happening.
Micah wipes away the blood and ink. “Still with me?”
“Uh-huh.” I focus on breathing—in, out.
By the end of it, nearly three hours have passed. Micah sets the tattoo gun down and rolls the chair back. “You’re all done.”
“Really?”
Micah peels off his gloves. “Yup.”
“How’s
it look?”
“A masterpiece.”
“Someone’s humble.”
“Hey, I have a gift, remember?” He laughs. “Or maybe Kate was wrong. Maybe I just drew a weird flying dolphin on your neck.”
“Please, no.”
“One sec.” He takes out his phone and snaps a picture. He hands it to me. “Take a look.”
“Oh my god.” The tattoo is gorgeous, delicate yet strong. Even though it’s the same design as everyone else’s, I can’t help but feel that this stag is mine, my own. Crafted just for me the way swords were forged for generals and kings.
“I can’t stop staring at it. It’s incredible.” I turn to Micah. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Micah tears off a line of plastic wrap and tapes it carefully over my neck. He packs up his things and gives me instructions on how to keep the tattoo clean. “If you need help, just ask. It’s a bit awkward to reach with that placement. Don’t brush your hair too much. When you do, be careful.”
“Okay.” My head feels heavy and my neck prickly as I sit up.
That’s it, then. I pause a moment, marveling at how easy it was to choose for my life to be radically altered. It’s a Sunday night—everywhere else in the city, kids my age are busy getting ready for finals, or at the mall making lists of stuff they want for Christmas.
But me? I’m on my own, a tattoo freshly mixing into my skin. I’m doing this for Leo. For my parents. And for me.
We say bye to Kurt and head outside. The dinner crowd swarms the streets, laughing and exchanging pretentious-sounding stories about fusion restaurants and places their friends just have to try.
Micah tugs on a worn blue beanie, the San Franpsycho logo sticking out from the tag on the side. “Sometimes I miss living here.” He points to a hipster-looking couple smoking e-cigs on the corner. “Other times I don’t.”
“It has changed a lot,” I say. “There never used to be so many, like, boutique furniture stores.”
“The new businesses are fine. What I don’t like is what happens to the people who were here before. If you haven’t noticed, it’s pretty one-note around here.”
I catch his meaning. “The city’s still diverse,” I say, but it comes out more defensive than I’d like.
A Thousand Fires Page 4
