Small Change

by Roan Parrish

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  “It sounds like it was her problem, I mean. That something about you made her upset about herself. That kind of pettiness, especially toward your own kid? That’s not your normal I-wish-you-got-better-grades-style disappointment. That’s being threatened by something your kid makes you realize about yourself.” He frowned. “I hate it.”

  I nodded slowly. My mom had always been so haughty and self-righteous it was hard to imagine her being threatened by anything but her hair frizzing on a humid day. But it felt true that her extreme rigidity signaled fragility.

  The freckles on Christopher’s forearms were like a smattering of stars and I found myself trying to make patterns in them. Without thinking, I reached out and traced the shape of a heart in them. I stared at skin all day long as I tattooed, and I’d never seen freckles quite the color of his before, like a spray of golden ink. They were his only markings, and somehow I was glad they’d never been interrupted by tattoos.

  “When I was in high school I was so angry, all the time,” I said as I made connections among his freckles. It was easier to talk like this, addressing my thoughts to someone’s skin. “Angry at the world, angry at myself, at my parents. Everything seemed like this rigged game, where the only way to win was to either become something I hated, or to burn the game down. The only thing I cared about was drawing. When I drew, I could make the world anything I wanted. Make things look how I wished they were. Change all the rules. And when I got into tattooing, I loved that I could do that for people. Could help them make their bodies into what they wanted them to be. It’s such a powerful thing, to rewrite your own skin.”

  It had taken me years to get comfortable in my own; to style myself exactly as I wished. A friend once told me that some people choose their style to hide who they are and some choose their style to express it. And I wasn’t interested in hiding.

  “That’s what I did, you know? I rewrote who I was. I got to decide what I did, what I valued, who I spent time with. It took a long time. And Eva and my mom… I hate who I become when I spend time with them. I turn into this, like, vibratingly horrible person. I can keep it together for maybe twenty minutes in their presence, where I try to laugh off the shit they say. But then I turn mean, and I hate it. Every conversation with them is like picking my way through a maze—one of those haunted corn maze things like they have in Jersey where you never know when rotting zombie scarecrows are about to jump out at you from around the hay bales.”

  “What do you do?”

  “They’re both this deep, deep kind of passive-aggressive. My sister’s totally self-absorbed. Like, could create a vortex with herself at the center self-absorbed. And my mom’s…cold. She can gut you with one sentence. So there’s no satisfaction in retaliating because she’s so cutting that to one-up her you seriously have to say horrible things. And I have. In the past. I’ve gotten sucked into it a hundred times. And it always makes me feel like a terrible person. Like I’m losing and she’s winning. The only way to win is not to play, so now I try to just laugh it off. Remind myself that I don’t want to be like her. But it’s basically torture to not call her on shit she says, because then there’s the chance she might think I agree.”

  “You’re nothing like them at all, huh?”

  “Bless you for saying that.” I sighed. “I don’t know. I hope that’s true. But sometimes…” I shook my head.

  “What?”

  “My mom’s a total perfectionist. She believes in Proper Ways of Doing Things. All that. Nothing’s ever good enough for her. And I just know I can be a little bit like that. With the shop. With my art. With…maybe with people, I don’t know. Not in the same ways. Obviously I’m messy and improper as fuck, but…I just don’t like the idea that I maybe make people feel like they’re not good enough sometimes.”

  Christopher took my hands, rubbing the insides of my wrists with his thumbs and I bit my lip. “Morgan and Marcus don’t seem to think you’re that way.”

  “Well, give it another month of me not hiring someone because I can’t find the right person and see if they’re still so pleased with me.”

  “Look, I don’t know your mom, and I get that you and I haven’t known each other that long. But your intensity about the shop, how high your standards are, the way you want it to be as great as possible? All of that is because you care so much. It’s really clear. I could tell the first time I came in. It’s not because you have arbitrary rules or want people to do as you say. It’s because it’s your home and you want it to be great. I really admire that. A lot. Honestly, I wish I were more like it when it came to running Melt.”

  A tiny bird-thing inside my chest fluttered its wings.

  I looked down at our hands, his strong and pale, looking simple and elegant wrapped around mine, which were marked in layers of ink, my black nail polish half chipped off, like always.

  “But what if…what if my mom thinks the same thing about herself?” I asked, keeping my gaze on our interlocked fingers. “She probably doesn’t think her stuff is arbitrary either. She probably thinks that telling me to lose ten pounds or to wear makeup in public or to behave like a competent adult, or, or—that they are ways to show she cares. That’s the thing… What if she actually thinks she loves me?”

  My voice faltered and I found myself swallowing hard and staring across the room at a hand-carved puzzle box that one of my clients had made for me. In theory, puzzle boxes were made to be opened, but I’d never managed it. It had sat for years, and while it was beautiful as a work of art, I wondered if it was unfair somehow. To let something that had a purpose remain so entirely ornamental.

  Christopher didn’t say anything right away. I’d probably just made things incredibly awkward. Like I was fishing for reassurance on a topic about which he couldn’t possibly offer it with any sincerity.

  “Come here,” he said finally, and pulled gently, cradling me to his side with an arm around my shoulder. He was leaning back against my pillow, so I ended up kind of leaning into him. We just sat like that for a minute, breathing in unison.

  I could feel the anger start to drain out of me. The sour fist that my stomach became whenever I thought of my family loosened, and I finally relaxed.

  I slid down so I was lying on my side, and flung an arm over Christopher’s stomach. He seemed startled at first, but then he eased himself down too, so we were lying together. I let my eyes flutter closed. What would happen if I just drifted off to sleep? Could I trust him?

  “I’m a pretty big fan of yours,” he said simply, pulling me closer and kissing the top of my head. It was pure sincerity and it lulled me into telling the sincere truth in return.

  “I really like you,” I mumbled into his shoulder. “You’re great. I didn’t expect you to be, but you are.”

  And even though that hadn’t quite come out like the compliment I had meant it to be, I could feel him smile into my messy hair.

  ⌃ ⌃ ⌃

  J,

  Okaaaay, so clearly you’re not in a communicative place right now. That’s okay. I’m gonna keep writing though. No pressure.

  I’ve been thinking about you so much recently. About how fucking unfair it feels like things’ve been for you. And how shitty it feels that I could never do anything to make it any easier for you. There have been times when I’ve been furious at you. I’m sure you know that, since you always said I was a terrible liar. But I’m not sure you ever knew how damn jealous of you I was. When we were kids, sure. Your music and how into it you were. Not just that though.

  Remember when we read those Narnia books? It sort of seemed like you had access to this whole other world that I couldn’t get to. You were seeing something deep and magic and meaningful and I…I was groping around in a closet filled with coats and hats and everyday stuff. We were looking at the same thing and I saw outerwear where you saw magic. I think probably that’ll piss you off to hear. Because, yeah, I know the cost. Maybe it doesn’t feel worth it. Maybe sometimes it do
es. Either way, you didn’t have a choice. I guess I didn’t, either.

  Sometimes when you weren’t home, I’d go into your room and read some of your books, or listen to your CDs (sorry), hoping that maybe something would help me understand—give me some kind of insight into the world you saw that I didn’t. Shit, the first time I got high, and the first time I tripped, were because I thought maybe I would…get it, you know? I had this idea that if I could just—hell, I don’t know—just feel more, see more, then maybe I would understand what was messing with you. And then maybe I could get rid of it. God, that sounds so stupid, right? Like, I know it had nothing to do with me, that there was nothing I could’ve done. It’s a disease, not a damn playground bully.

  I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this, because it might be making you feel even worse. I just…I guess I just wanted you to know that I tried, bro. I tried to understand, and even though I can’t know what you’ve gone through, I’m here, okay? I’m always gonna be here. I dunno if that helps at all.

  I love you. Write back if you want, or not. It’s all good.

  P.S. I mentioned she kissed me, right?

  Chapter 7

  “Dude, you’re totally blowing up,” Tara called to me from the front desk.

  “Uh. What does that mean in this context?”

  “Welp,” she said, fingers flying on her phone. “Looks like it started last night when some dude Instagrammed a pic of…I guess it’s one of your paintings, but, like, made into a card, maybe? His Instagram posts to his Snapchat and Twitter. But you have screens and screens of mentions.”

  “What? Who is it?”

  “Umm, Eddie Sparks? He’s got a shit ton of followers.” Lindsey flicked Tara’s phone and shot her a look for swearing, and Tara batted her eyelashes innocently before turning back at me. “Dude, seriously, do you not check your phone?”

  “Oh, shit,” I said, scrambling for my phone, which was…somewhere. “Be right back.”

  I went upstairs and finally found my phone on top of the freezer where I must’ve stuck it when I got my pre-work ice cream, and ran back down to the shop, plugging it in behind the desk. When it turned on, the notifications started sliding in. Tara leaned over to look.

  “Yup. Dang! His post has like two thousand likes on Insta and you have four hundred mentions on Twitter. His Snapchat’s even bigger. Go, you.”

  I picked up the phone and scrolled back to the original post on Eddie Sparks’s Instagram. It was a snap of Eddie’s tattooed fingers holding my postcard from the convention in New York by the corner, the black and white lines of my painting stark against a purple background.

  He’d written:

  Stoked & inspired to meet @TattooBitchPhilly in NY! Ginger tattoos out of Small Change in Philly. Super cool to meet such a legit & badass tattoo chick!!! #Tattoolife #badassbitch #inked

  “Holy shit, y’all,” I said to the gang.

  They were grinning and passing my phone around.

  “That’s gonna translate into biz for sure,” Lindsey said and we all nodded.

  “I’ll never be able to reply to all those people,” I said.

  Tara looked at me like I was insane. “Dude. You don’t reply when you get that many mentions. It means you’re a big deal. Big deals are too…big of a deal to reply.”

  Lindsey snorted and patted her daughter on the shoulder. “Expert analysis, hon.”

  “Just saying, that’s how it works,” Tara muttered.

  “Not even to the really nice ones?” I said.

  Tara rolled her eyes and stuck out her hand. “You want me to do it?”

  “Oh, god yes, thank you.” I held out my phone to her, but when she grabbed it I used it to pull her closer to me. “You do know that if you write anything embarrassing or inappropriate I’ll see it and I will make your life a living hell that not even your mother can save you from, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Great. Go to town.”

  Morgan and Marcus and I smiled at each other. Not that you needed to get mentioned by famous artists to have a good business, but there was always a thrill that came from your peers praising your work.

  Then Morgan’s smile shifted grimly. “Um, Ginge…you do know if we get any more biz than we have now there’s no way we can keep up, right?”

  I sighed. Marcus sighed.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I do know.”

  ✕ ✕ ✕

  “Go take a shower and put on something that makes you look hot,” Morgan said. I looked down at my black tights, cutoff jean shorts that were more hole than denim, and red thermal shirt and back at Morgan.

  “Umm, what?”

  It was only seven p.m. and I’d had a client booked around this time every day for a week.

  “You’re going on a date with Christopher at eight. Oops, did I fail to mention that? So sorry. It must’ve slipped my mind. Scatterbrained, you know?” Morgan pointed at her head with one long bejeweled nail and opened her eyes wide, blinking innocently.

  “What the fuck!”

  “I have no more information for you, so just do as I say.”

  “But don’t I have a client?”

  “Nope.”

  I gave her the death stare with my hands on my hips until she rolled her eyes. “Morgan. If Christopher told Lindsey to cancel one of my clients, that’s a thing I need to know so that I can make sure he’s in his shop when I burn it to the ground with my words.”

  She laughed. “No way, dude. He’s not like that. Believe me, I know. Nah, he came in the other day just to ask if there were any nights you generally didn’t get clients. When Lindsey told him you always had clients if you wanted them he got this look like…half proud of you because you’re the shit and half hopeless, like he knew you’d always choose tattooing over him. Not gonna lie, kinda pathetic, girl. Anyway, he left and Lindsey and I decided that as your dear friends we were going to take it upon ourselves to get you a damn date. Lindsey didn’t schedule you anyone tonight, Marcus will take any walk-ins, and Christopher’s meeting you here at eight. So. Congrats. You have a date tonight.”

  I opened my mouth to lambaste her but nothing came out. Then I did it again. Silence.

  “He was very pleased when I told him that you were free tonight. If that helps. Like, kid at Christmas glee. Or, ya know, Chanukah.”

  “I… You… I’m…” I shook my head and stabbed an ineffectual finger at her.

  “Seriously, shower. You smell like paint. All the time now, really. In case you didn’t know.”

  ✕ ✕ ✕

  When he opened the door and I stood up, Christopher’s eyes got comically wide. I was wearing a clingy black jersey dress that fit tight from scoop neck to mid-calf-length hem, big silver hoops, and pointy-toed black ankle boots, scuffed matte. My hair was still damp, but I’d actually remembered conditioner, so my curls were soft around my face.

  “Wow,” he said and I grinned, pleasure fizzing in my stomach. It had been a long time since someone’s response to how I looked made me feel uncomplicatedly good.

  He bent and kissed my cheek, hand resting briefly on my hip. “God, you smell amazing,” he said softly in my ear, and the brush of his chin made me shiver. He smelled amazing too—warm and clean, with a hint of something like beeswax.

  He wore dark jeans that hugged his powerful thighs and round ass, a light snap-front chambray shirt over a gray thermal that stretched over his broad chest, and a navy pea coat. His hair was combed back, the sides freshly buzzed, and he was clean-shaven for the first time since I’d met him.

  He was beautiful and I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that he was mine. Ish. Mine-ish.

  “You look gorgeous,” I said as we walked outside. He ducked his head and blushed before saying thanks, clearly pleased. That little glimpse of shyness was endearing.

  He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, just smiled faintly and hooked his arm through mine, the streets bustling around us as we walked toward Old City in com
panionable silence. I was aware of the shift of his hips, the warmth of his body in the cold night air. But more than that, walking this way, connected with Christopher, the streets felt different, as if together we were moving through a city I’d never seen before. Decomposing leaves clogged the sewers, their scent rich and earthy, promising that winter would come soon. I pressed myself more firmly to Christopher’s side.

  We ended up at a warehouse space on Strawberry Street where easels and chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle. People were milling around outside and in, and the chalkboard sign said Drink & Draw.

  Christopher looked pleased with himself. I was trying to figure out how it was possible that I was at an actual dating event, something that had never occurred to me.

  “It’s painting, actually, not drawing,” Christopher said, pointing to it. “You have wine and they give you a canvas and you paint… Shit, you do drink, right? I didn’t even ask.”

  He’d gone from looking pleased to nervous and I nodded, nonplussed.

  “Wait, why don’t they call it Drink and Paint, then?”

  He stepped closer to me and looked down. “Probably because it lacks alliteration.” Then he put his hands on my shoulders and said, “This was not on the list of no bugs and no comedy. What’s wrong?”

  And nothing was wrong. Absolutely nothing. I shook my head to clear it. “Sorry, shit. Sorry. Nothing is wrong. This is awesome. It just never occurred to me we would do a real thing. It’s great, really.” I pulled his arm over my shoulder as we walked inside, not wanting to lose the feeling I’d had as we walked: that we were one unit, moving in unison toward a mutual goal.

  “I just thought you’d like it because of…well, painting. And wine. Of course now that we’re here I’m realizing that for someone who’s working under a deadline to produce paintings it might not be quite the fun, relaxing activity I’d intended.”

  At the word deadline I automatically slid into a stressed-out calculation that told me I had less than two months until the show. But it was fun. It was so fun, actually, that after a little while (and several glasses of wine), I forgot that we were in a room with lots of other people—friends out for a fun night together, couples, people on first dates, a few people there by themselves—and started regaling Christopher with a list of the most ridiculous getting-to-know-you questions I’d ever been asked on first dates and making him answer them.