All the Things We Do in the Dark

by Saundra Mitchell

  “Obviously,” I say. It comes out too soft, too weak.

  Long and graceful, Syd splashes her neck with delicate hands then cuts off the water. Two loose curls spring forward, making her perfect again. Plucking up her bag, she says, “I won’t see you at lunch, though. That part was true. I have to make up a quiz in trig.”

  “Syd. Are you . . . mad at me or something?”

  “God no, why?”

  No reason, except for the bizarro texts, the tattoo she got without telling me, the breakup she executed without a murmur—and now we were both out of class. We don’t miss class. So, on that note, why does she have something to make up in trig?

  All those reasons sit on my tongue, weighing it down. She already raised her voice, and I’m afraid if I say these things out loud, she’ll laugh. Because I’m ridiculous. I sort of am ridiculous today.

  “I don’t know,” I say finally. “It’s been a weird day.”

  Sweeping close, Syd catches the back of my neck. She pulls me forward and dramatically mwahs a kiss on the crown of my head. “Go forth and have a better one. I love you. I’m sorry I toyed with your emotions.”

  I say, “It’s okay.”

  And Syd, who knows everything about me, accepts that absolution and heads back to class.

  FOR THE REST OF THE DAY, I WANT TO CRAWL OUT OF my skin.

  As promised, Syd doesn’t show during lunch. I eat alone, in one of the alcoves by the library. I fold myself small and pick at the bland Spicy Taco Bowl w/ Churro on a salmon-pink plastic tray. I’m not lonely there, just alone.

  I could sit with Tenesta Jordan, if I wanted. We know each other from a polite distance. We’ve had lots of classes and a brief stint in the Girl Scouts together.

  (I was in for about two months, before I got the scar.)

  (I can’t remember if I didn’t want to go after that or if it was too weird to go.)

  (Everybody knew.)

  (Everybody was talking about it.)

  When I think about it, there are a lot of people who would welcome me at their table. Isaiah Finch and I were #1 and #2 in Mr. Burkhart’s History Bowl; Mariana Alonzo lives two houses down from me. Familiar faces speckle the cafeteria, bright anchor points welcoming me closer.

  Any other day, I would ask to sit; they’d say yes. Conversation would be genial and food focused. These taco bowls are terrible. Whatever this is, it isn’t a churro. Look, I can squeeze the oil out of mine. Oh gross. Better than the Salisbury steak and splat of potatoes—amiright? Forty minutes, tick-tick-tick and done.

  But this particular day—snow in October, Syd in retrograde—demands deviation. I finish my lunch, alone. The rest of the day passes in textual silence.

  When the last bell rings, I head for the parking lot. Syd drives, and she usually drops me off after school. But that was for usually. I haven’t heard from her since we talked in the bathroom, and there’s no way I can get on that bus. That teeming, screaming, groaning, overfilled bus, two to a seat and sometimes three. All in coats, all with bags.

  Even now, people crowd the door. They look like goats, all trying to shove into the same spot at the same time. Bouncing and careening off each other, they bleat and growl and laugh.

  My stomach turns, and I turn with it.

  Across the student lot, I see Hailey digging for her keys at the side of a yellow VW Bug.

  Frozen for a moment, I consider her and the way her long, black coat cuts just the right way. She’s not a shapeless winter mass. She has shoulders, a waist, long legs that drip like honey into her boots.

  The first bus pulls out, and I hurry across the barrier to get to her. I have to swallow against my dry tongue to revive it. When I do, I call out, “Hailey! Hey! Hey, Hailey!”

  She straightens, one foot in the car, the other on frosty land. When she sees me, she smiles. “Hey! What’s up?”

  Already digging in my bag, I say, “If I gave you ten bucks for gas, could you take me downtown?”

  Her smile turns curious. “Uh, for no bucks, I can give you a ride downtown.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “If it’s too far out of your way . . .”

  “I’m going to strength training down there,” she says. “It’s literally on my way.”

  The passenger door unlocks, and on the other side of the car, Hailey slides behind the steering wheel. She leans over to peer out the passenger window. “Coming?”

  I hesitate. One last sweeping look across the parking lot. No Syd. No bus. Just me and a pretty girl smiling at me expectantly.

  I get in.

  HER CAR SMELLS LIKE ARMOR ALL AND FEBREZE, like cedar and citrus. The surfaces gleam—I read her fingerprints in the face of the stereo. This baby is new, at least to her. No McDonald’s French fry has ever been left to petrify under these seats.

  “Where to?” Hailey asks, merging into the line of cars trickling from the school.

  “Corner of Broad and Main,” I say. “Just going to go see a friend.”

  The scent of Febreze fades, the heater blasting out warmth and a sweet hint of Hailey’s perfume. It stirs sparks across my skin. Safely buckled into a microcosm of her world, I steal a look at her. Everything about her sizzles in my cerebral cortex; she’s sour lemon Pop Rocks on the tongue.

  “Strength training, huh?” I say. “Like, lifting weights?”

  Eyes firmly on the road, she nods. “Exactly. But not to get big. It’s for stamina and strength. Soccer’s a running game.”

  “You guys went to State last year, didn’t you?”

  Determination doesn’t creep into her voice; it leaps, full-bodied and certain. “Yeah, and this year, we’re gonna win it.”

  “Kill it and leave it on the floor,” I say senselessly.

  She laughs, and her laugh is wonderful. Kind of a low-rolling murmur that ends in a giggle for an exclamation point. Her details fascinate me, and I don’t know why. Just, I’ve known her at a distance my whole life. I don’t talk with her in libraries or ride with her in cars. I’ve never been alone with her until today.

  Now, twice in one day.

  It’s not bad—like, I don’t feel like I have to explain it to myself—it’s just different. Hailey’s really nice, and she likes Potter enough to have the hat and scarf, and a VW Bug is all in house colors.

  All those things recommend her; it’s just . . . it’s unsettlement. (Not a word but a word now. And it describes what’s going on with Syd, too: unsettlement. The opposite of our usual, steady, settled selves.)

  I feel like Hailey and I talk on the way to Walker’s Corner, but maybe not a lot? It seems like a long drive, though our school isn’t really that far from downtown.

  Everything in Maine twists around something else. Roads hug mountains and shorelines, piers huddle close to harbors, trees cling to river bends, and roads press close to all of them. Usually, I like that. Today, it makes me feel a little spun around. A little spun out.

  I’m glad when Hailey turns onto the straight and narrow street that takes us into town.

  Neither one of us gawks at the extremely cute brick facades. We’ve been here a thousand times, and we know all the brightness and baubles are for strangers. Inland Maine, working harder for those tourism dollars. We have to be kitschier and cuter, more pleasing to the eyes of antiquers everywhere.

  By the time they get to us, they’ve already driven the coast on State Road One; they’ve already shopped through Bar Harbor and Broken Tooth and the Cranberry Islands. We have to be worth the trip.

  The people who own the redbrick, up-and-down store faces on Main Street are currently making sure that everybody knows the Fall Color Festival is next week. (Though now it’ll be somewhat muted because of the snow. Maybe it will melt, I imagine them hoping.) There are signs everywhere. People loooove small-town festivals.

  “Where do you want me to drop you?” Hailey asks.

  I point, as if she can see my ultimate destination. “If you turn past the candle store, there’s a little drive that jogs close to th
e river. But if you don’t want to go all the way back, you can drop me at the corner.”

  When she pulls up to the corner, she hesitates. I do too.

  As I get out, she leans over the console. Her long hair, tawny and wavy, falls forward to frame her square face. It seems like she wants to say something, so I dip back in.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Um . . . you’re sure it’s all right if I drop you here?”

  I turn and it occurs to me just what she means. The wooded path. My . . . history.

  The softness of Hailey’s face, all gentle curves of lips and eyes, concerned and anxious—distracts me. She’s kind and pretty, her gaze fixed on me.

  My feet feel unsteady, and I clasp the roof of the car to catch my balance. All at once, I want to stay. Climb back in. Maybe I can watch some strength training. Maybe we can talk about something, have a real conversation. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  “Ava?”

  I snap out of it. Hailey is a person I know at school. I made her slip out of her defined and designated circle by asking for a ride. I need to let her go, so she can fade behind the boundaries again. More emphatic than I intend, I say, “It’s good, I’m good. Thanks again for the ride.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  Clapping a hand on the top of the car, I smile a smile I don’t think I mean. “Totally. Thanks again.”

  Then I shut the door—not quick or hard, just final.

  The walk to Amber’s apartment isn’t that far. It really isn’t. The snow is mostly melted on the streets; I have a coat and both gloves; it’s fine.

  All of that comes from a rational voice that lives in my head, because it has to live in my head. It has to tell me what’s safe and not safe, when to freak out and when to talk myself out of the freak-out. Sometimes that part of the brain seems broken.

  But this is fine. Fine, fine, fine. The trees aren’t that close to the road; there aren’t that many of them. This is all town. It’s urban(esque). It’s not like that place, it’s not.

  Hailey was sweet and her car was warm and I’m sorry I’m not in it anymore—but Syd is out there somewhere, silent. And if I stay any longer with Hailey, somehow it would feel like a betrayal.

  Once again I have twisted into an uncomfortable knot; I know I can’t loosen it on my own. Nothing makes sense, so I need clarity. Absolute clarity. My feet move fast, damp cold pressing against my sneakers.

  As the converted warehouse comes into view, I settle. No voice needed anymore, because I know one thing for sure.

  In just a minute, I’m going to feel better.

  THE CHOICE IS A COMPROMISE BETWEEN THE financial and the temporal.

  I can only get as much tattoo as I can afford and only as much ink as Amber can put in before I have to be home from school. My mother usually rolls in from work around six, so that gives me, at most, two hours in the chair and an hour to figure out how to get home.

  Sorting through celebrity tattoos on my phone, I decide that two matching text pieces belonging to Harry Styles completely express how I feel at that moment. I show them to Amber, and she gets to work.

  That doesn’t mean firing up the equipment. It means drawing the two pieces, then tracing them onto some kind of transfer paper, then tracing them again. Amber lets me sit in the tattoo chair while she works. She makes conversation between pencil strokes.

  “Been a while since you’ve been down here.”

  “Yeah, I had to go to my dad’s for the summer.”

  “Sucks.”

  I shrug. “I saw the piece you did for Syd. It’s sick.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “It’s a lot closer to the stuff I like to do on my own, so I had fun with it.”

  Amber’s shoulders curve; she tapes down tracing paper and pulls out a thin black pen. Whenever she draws, she’s all intensity. With brows furrowed, she presses her nose almost to the paper. The weight of art chains her to the table until she transfers it onto the stencil. Then, when she starts to tattoo, that weight seems to drift away.

  If I were an artist, I think I’d get tired of drawing things for other people. What’s the point in having all that talent if you can’t use it to make yourself happy?

  I ask her, “Do you wish you could just do what you want? Give someone whatever you thought suited them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Does anybody ever let you?”

  “Almost never.”

  I wonder about the outliers: the ones that make her say almost. What kind of person walks into a tattoo shop and says, “Give me what you think I need”? How endlessly brave would you have to be to let someone else leave their permanent opinion on your flesh? I rub my fingers along my scar, which itches.

  For me, I know exactly what I want and I want to make sure it’s coming out that way. I lean sideways in the chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the art as Amber cuts out the designs with a pair of tiny sharp scissors.

  “Back up,” she tells me. I do.

  The tension, the good tension comes when she lays the stencils aside. It’s time for her to wash and shave the inside of my arms, just above my elbow. They’re tricky spots and hard places to try to hide.

  But right at this moment—I don’t know—I kind of don’t care about any of that. Everybody else gets to leave a mark on me. Why can’t I leave my own?

  Amber rubs in lotion and presses the first stencil to the inside of my right arm. Familiar-unfamiliar smells wash over me. It’s not my first tattoo, but Amber’s soap isn’t the soap I use at home. Lotion, I never use. Beneath the sheen, I see the stenciled letters tilt the right way: just what I asked for.

  With a murmur under her breath, Amber snaps on latex gloves, then opens a fresh packet of needles.

  I’ve watched her put the machine together so many times, but I’m always amazed that it all comes together in the end. This particular intersection of medical and industrial doesn’t seem like it should work. Coils trail around the grip; tubes swirl out in long loops. It’s a Frankenstein’s monster of technology.

  Finally, Amber turns it on. It works in spite of itself. The waspish buzz sends a tingle across my skin, every time.

  “Don’t move,” she says, like I don’t know better. Dipping the needle into black ink, she lifts her shoulders; she moves like she’s floating.

  A tattoo isn’t one sting and then I get used to it. The sting goes on and on, making waves all the way to the tips of my toes. My face gets hot, sweat rising on my brow and my throat. It’s like a flush without color; I just burn.

  And inside the burn there’s this blissful, empty place where everything smolders and all of my thoughts turn to embers lifted on the wind. Away and away, they all go away, and they leave a memory in black and grey on my skin.

  By the time Amber finishes with me, both arms burn.

  Turning out my right arm to admire it in the mirror, I smile. It says, Things I Can. The left doesn’t match; it complements. It says, Things I Can’t.

  They’re perfect, both of them perfect. I can’t do anything about the weird skips of silence from Syd or the bright little comets of Hailey suddenly being there; all I can do is be a phoenix.

  I rise from my own ashes.

  I TRY TO RISE AND KEEP RISING—TRY TO PRETEND that everything is just the same as it was forty-eight hours before. That’s to say, the way it was before Syd kept secrets from me and sent sharp texts tipped with poison (but not so, sayeth she). Before I sought out Hailey in the school parking lot.

  I have to walk home. The closest Lyft is an hour away, in Presque Isle. If I wait, my mother will beat me home.

  It’s fine, all fine.

  I cut down the path behind Amber’s place, down to the river. It’s actually a straighter shot to home than the road is. It’s just going to take longer on foot in the snow. But it’s better down here. Down where Walker’s Corner is in the past, and the present is balsam and black ash and birch.

  The sky darkens, dissolving into the pretty kind of twiligh
t. Purples and blues; the darkness reveals the first stars, strung between the moon and the end of the universe. The trail by the water leads the way.

  Other people’s footsteps have already flattened the snow: proof that even this secluded place isn’t deserted.

  The woods stay on my right hand (Things I Can) and the river on the left (Things I Can’t).

  I’ve never been one of those people really impressed by the water. I mean, I get why people go to the beach. But even though I’ve got an anchor on my shoulder (Kacey Musgraves) and a sunset on waves on my thigh (Scarlett Johansson), I don’t get it. Not the passion for the sea, for a river, for a lake, an ocean, a harbor.

  There’s a store up on Broad Street, for the tourists. It’s full of lighthouse music boxes and Lake House Girl signs. Bumper stickers that say, “I’m not at home until I’m at the lake.” Stained-glass window hangers full of seagulls and cliffs.

  They’re not for me. There’s water to Maine and water in it; for me, that’s about it.

  But this path, with nature all around, is better than half-natural, half-industrial. I can breathe here. Cold air scours everything clean: my face, my lungs, my thoughts. The weight of my bag cuts into my shoulders. I test my theory that downtown isn’t that far from home. It’s all in the winding.

  In case, though, just in case, I pull out my phone. Bars. I text Syd with the first thing that comes to mind. Amber said your last tat is probably her favorite ever.

  I do that sometimes. Exaggerate. Massage the truth. Lie—

  (Just, I want you to know, I’m not doing it now. I’m being really specific with you about when I tell the truth and when I don’t.) (I try to be an honest liar.) So yeah, Syd rewards me with a quick reply. Quick, like texts are supposed to be: Shut up.

  She says it’s like the stuff she’d do on her own, I reply. Because that was the truth for real, and therefore, if Syd ever mentions it to Amber, the sliding edges around the first statement would feel like a game of Telephone.

  With the reply of the turkey emoji, Syd says everything and nothing.