When I thought I’d be in love with Jamie Merrick forever because we were perfect together.
“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.
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.
I look at the door. It’s still closed. “I have no idea. Is he still out there?”
Mom squeezes her hands at the air like she’s trying to squeeze my brain. “I don’t want anyone in the house. I didn’t do my hair this morning, and the kitchen is filthy.”
“He doesn’t care about any of that,” I say.
She growls. Like, actually growls. “I don’t want people in my house judging me. Do not let him inside, Kiko.”
I guess whatever mood she was in when she invited Emery in has passed. She’s back to her old self and her old rules. Our house is once again wrapped in yellow tape.
And she wonders why I think she has ulterior motives when she’s being nice. Even when she promises it’s sincere, it only lasts for a short while. Sometimes I feel like I’m living with two completely different moms. Other times I know better—I know her better. Her mood swings aren’t an accident; they’re a reaction to whether or not she’s getting her way.
With a sigh, I move toward the door. She scurries out of the hall to hide in the living room, probably listening to make sure I send him away.
I open the door. Jamie looks almost as flustered as I feel. I’m pretty sure he heard everything.
“Sorry,” I say meekly. I step onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me. “What are you doing here?”
He laughs. It’s an adorable laugh—a perfect blend of awkwardness and optimism. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the fair with me. I drove past it this morning. All the games are rigged and the rides are pretty lame, but they have funnel cake.”
&
nbsp; “You’re selling this incredibly well,” I say.
He shrugs, smiling. “We all have our strengths.”
I smile too. Maybe he really does want to be friends again. Maybe Emery wasn’t completely wrong.
The skin at the back of my neck prickles. I can feel Mom back there, somewhere, spying on me.
“Let me grab my bag.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The fair takes up a huge section of the mall parking lot. It doesn’t look anything like the carnivals in movies. There’s no grass, for one thing, and it isn’t dark enough for any of the flashing lights to seem quirky or romantic. The loudspeakers are playing a horrible mix of pop songs from when I was in elementary school. All the stands are surrounded by chain-link fences, and the prizes look like they came from the reject crane machine pile.
But the air smells like toasted marshmallows and funnel cake and Jamie Merrick is here, so this is already one of the highlights of my life.
We play a game where you’re supposed to throw these little red plastic rings onto glass bottle tops, but all the rings keep bouncing off.
We shoot air rifles at paper stars and barely get two of the legs off.
We throw darts at balloons that never seem to stick, but on the last try I manage to pop one balloon. It doesn’t matter, though, because the carnival worker tells me you have to pop three balloons to win anything.
Still, I’m having so much fun I’m starting to get a headache. I’m not used to being around so many people. I’m not used to laughing so much. I’m not used to being so happy.
Jamie’s been carrying a camera around his neck the whole time. The way it hangs over his checkered blue shirt makes him look like a tourist. Dark eyebrows, eyes like ice, and a fading tan—he looks like he comes from someplace completely magical.
He tells me he’s majoring in photography and that one of his professors told him to take as many photographs as he could over the summer. He says even photographers have to practice.
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