That Girl

by H. J. Bellus

  “Some birds.”

  “More specific?” he prods.

  “No, I just want some birds floating and flying in their own direction. Nothing patterned or predictable.”

  He nods. “I see. You have a wild heart.”

  “Naw.” That’s not it at all. “So, what are you getting?”

  “You’re really good at that, almost expert level, if I do say so myself.”

  “At what?”

  “Avoiding questions and changing the topic.”

  “So, where’s this tattoo shop?”

  “See, you did it again,” he points out.

  “I know. I know. Trust me, I’m an expert at a lot of things one doesn’t brag about, and I’m not proud of it, but glad to leave it all behind.” I peer out the windshield, scanning the street. “Where’s the tattoo shop? I know of one on McMillan.”

  He cringed. “Well, you can go there if you want herpes and gonorrhea. I’m taking you to a little classier place. Just about two more minutes, and we’ll be there.”

  “Then by all means, drive,” I reply.

  We travel in silence the rest of the way. His two minutes are more like fifteen, but it’s pretty scenery, and I keep mentally coaching myself everything is fine even though I’m off route. Jeremiah has been a complete gentleman this whole time. He turned up the radio a few miles back and is singing every single song that comes on. The man flat out sucks at singing, but bless him for giving it his all.

  A catchy tune comes, and I find myself swaying to its beat and wanting more of it, from the words the artist is singing to the captivating rhythm.

  The words leave my mouth before I even realize it. “What song is this?”

  “Hall of Fame by The Script. It’s my favorite band.”

  “I like it.”

  I hear, ‘The world will never know my name… When every single piece of my past is officially so far behind, I can no longer haunt my inner core, that’s when I’ll know, I made it to my hall of fame…’

  Listening to the words, I find myself tearing up. ‘I’ll reach it or die trying…’ I repeat it over and over in my head until I almost believe the mantra, and that’s when I feel the truck come to a stop and notice Jeremiah staring at me.

  “You okay?” he asks, switching off the ignition.

  I can only nod as the song fades out, and secretly pray my mind can continuously replay those words for the rest of my days. It may just be enough encouragement to never give up.

  I reach for my door handle. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”

  “Don’t let Sledge scare you. He looks like a fucking gremlin, but he’s a great guy. Trust me.”

  “Okay, if only you knew where I came from,” I say.

  “Let’s get your ass inked up.”

  “I’m not getting it on my ass,” I scream in horror.

  “I know. Let’s roll.” He opens the door to the shop, and we step inside.

  When Sledge walks around the corner, I mentally take a step back and gasp in my head. Thank the lord Jeremiah gave me the heads up. He’s definitely not a looker, but his body is covered in the most beautiful artwork I’ve ever seen. His skin is simply breathtaking, and I know it’s his story. He’s imprinted his story upon his skin for the world to see. I thought I’d witnessed true courage in the past, until now. Lost and insecure are the only two words I could have ever inked on my skin to tell my own story.

  “This is my victim,” he growls, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “Yeah, buddy, take it easy. She’s an ink virgin,” Jeremiah replies, protectively stepping in front me while shaking Sledge’s hand.

  “You know what you want, girl?” Sledge asks, turning to me.

  “I’d like some birds randomly scattered across the top of my foot.” Genuinely shocked at my own response I stand a little taller.

  The artist tilts his head back and says, “More deets, girl. Outline, solid, color?”

  “I have this little drawing I sketched up.” I pull a crumpled napkin from my pocket and smooth it out.

  “Let me see it.”

  Handing over the drawing, I feel the immediate urge to puke frosting all over the small tattoo shop. Nobody, not even Jazzy, knows about my secret obsession of drawing. It was my one coping strategy when stuck in my bedroom. These were the days there was no Jazzy or Old Man. Just me, my mom, her entertainment, and my room. It started out by drawing on the walls in my closet, then the inside of my dresser, then pretty soon I was brave enough to shoplift a dollar notebook from the store. I filled every single page of that book from cover to cover. Some pages only displayed black and white, while others were full of color.

  My mom found it one day, and that was the end of drawing and sketching. I hadn’t drawn one single thing until this tattoo design on a napkin while working for Junior’s dad on a slow day at the restaurant. The birds floating on the cheap napkin made me want more for myself, and deep down I knew ‘more’ was never an option. I saved the drawing, thinking that one day if I ever got a tattoo, I would use this sketch to remind me what could have been if … Only if.

  “This is fucking legit. Did you draw it?” Sledge asks, turning the napkin and examining it from different angles.

  “Yes,” I say and nod, secretly just wanting him to tattoo it and run.

  “A’ight,” he replies, “Give me about fifteen to get it sketched up. Jeremiah, brother, you want ink today?”

  Jeremiah shakes his head ruefully. “Nah, man, I need to get my head on straight first.”

  “I hear ya. Be back in a bit. I’ll get this drawn up, and I need a smoke. Have a seat.”

  Sledge walks down a long hallway before disappearing into the back alley.

  “What? Are you kidding me? We wait, while he smokes?” I screech.

  “Sit, Michelle. It’s fine. This is the way it goes. He’ll sketch up a design, you approve it, and then he’ll smoke and ink the shit out of your skin.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I declare, suddenly remembering the searing pain my wrist.

  The movement in my arm drops me to the ground, and I finally cry in pain.

  “That’s it. We are going to the fucking hospital.”

  “No,” I wail.

  “You want to know why it took me way longer than two minutes to get here? Because I turned toward the hospital about ten times while driving three blocks. I can’t stand that I’m driving around a beautiful woman in my truck who’s in excruciating pain when I’m a fucking solider who fights for his country.”

  Jeremiah is down on his knees, pleading his confession, and I feel my heart falling for him. Not as a boyfriend or husband, but as a best friend. Then, in the back of my mind, I remember what I did to my best friend; I left her behind in the cesspool where we were raised. No, I don’t deserve a best friend ever again.

  “It’s fine for now. We will go get it checked when I’m done here,” I say, knowing it’s a full lie.

  The hospital will want identification and all sorts of information I don’t have to give.

  “Are you sure?” Jeremiah asks. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “I’m sure,” I reply.

  Sledge walks back into the room with his hair tied back and stale cigarette smoke lingering around him. The smell reminds me way too much of home and makes me want to run like hell.

  “Get your ass over here,” he says, pulling a rolling stool up to a well-organized workstation.

  I listen. Sitting down in the chair I carefully watch him prep all the tools and then shave the top of my foot. I watch as he cleans my skin with several different cold liquids. Can’t say I’ve ever had my foot shaved before. Next, a transparent paper with the tattoo design is pressed down on the prepared area. It leaves behind the design, and I smile at its simple beauty and meaning.

  “No going back after this. Are you ready?” Sledge asks.

  I nod, and then feel Jeremiah take my hand.

  “Squeeze if you need to.”

  Sledg
e picks up the tattoo gun. “Here we go.”

  The buzzing sound fills the room, the ink soaks into me, and I feel each tiny bit of my old flesh rip and tear, as my very first piece of beautiful artwork begins to fill my foot. It takes about ten minutes before my body adjusts to the pain and I can relax a little.

  Bending down, Jeremiah whispers in my ear, “You’re going to run. I can tell. Take care of yourself.” I don’t tell him he’s wrong.

  Jeremiah holds my hand the rest of the time and lets me go my own way after paying for the tattoo.

  Goodbye, Michelle.

  Chapter 5

  1,035 Miles Gone

  Lost in downtown Denver, Colorado. Nothing new. About three months ago, I finally decided on ending up in Colorado and looked up a larger city where I could hide out. Denver seemed to be the best answer, but after weeks of losing all sense of direction, I’ve given up. I’m calling it quits on the city. Maybe I’m destined to be a small town girl.

  “Jacey, when you’re finished filling the sugars, I need you to take the trash out, please.”

  I hate taking the trash out not because of the smell or nasty liquids oozing from the bag, but the sharp pain it causes in my wrist. Looking back, I should’ve gone to the hospital and somehow avoided showing my ID, because it never healed correctly, and any lifting brings me to my knees.

  I ended up purchasing a brace at the grocery store and wrapping it up as tight as I possibly could. Thank goodness it’s my left hand, making all my duties at my jobs doable. The only proof of the embarrassing fall is an odd lump on the inside of my wrist, and I actually love looking at it and remembering my birthday.

  I left that sleepy little town six months after my birthday. I can honestly say it was the best birthday of my life. I felt extremely guilty when preparing to leave, so I walked down to the bakery to thank Alice one more time. I’d never used that route again after leaving Jeremiah at the tattoo shop. It was too painful because my heart was pleading for a best friend, but my brain won the war. I never walked it until the night before I had to catch the Greyhound.

  My heart sank when I noticed the sign that read, “CLOSED.” Upon closer inspection, I noticed the dead flowers in the hanging baskets, the dark store, and debris littering the sidewalk. Stepping closer, I peered in with both hands by the sides of my eyes, and everything was gone. On the door, two newspaper articles were taped from the inside. One read, “Hometown Solider Killed in Line of Duty” with a picture of Jeremiah’s face. The other article right next to it was Alice’s obituary. The last few lines read, “Alice, known as Gram to all, died of a broken heart after hearing of her grandson’s death. She passed three weeks following the news. The two are surely in heaven, cussing and arguing over food.”

  That night, I didn’t sleep in my empty apartment with my grocery bag full of belongings. I sat in front of the bakery staring at the articles in disbelief. I’d never lost a loved one to death, but I’d heard the saying about feeling numb and being in shock. I sat there all night experiencing those two feelings on repeat.

  So every time I see the knot on my wrist, I imagine the two in heaven name-calling and arguing over food, and I’d still bet Alice could take Jeremiah in a heartbeat.

  “Jacey, are you in there somewhere?”

  Snapping back to reality, I say, “Yes, Isha, I heard you. Sorry. Trash, got it.”

  Denver sucks, but this little diner is amazing. Isha is the owner, loves me, and lets me work my ass off for her. It’s open twenty-four hours, and nobody likes the night shift. I do. Work all night, sleep until about one o’clock, come back in around three to help Isha prep food, and then throw on my waitressing apron. Between the tips and hourly pay, it pays the same as two and half jobs, and the greatest perk is it leaves no time for memories to haunt me. This is the one thing that will make leaving Denver difficult.

  “I need to talk to you about something when you have time, Isha,” I throw out as I head for the alley.

  “You know where to find me, kid.” She picks up a bin of dirty glasses and turns to the sink.

  I love the nickname ‘kid.’ At first, I thought she called everyone that, but after listening to her, I realized she didn’t. She typically uses asshole, scumbag, or hey you for others in the diner. Isha and I’ve had several deep conversations over the last few months while chopping veggies for the salad bar. Quickly I learn her motto, “You gotta be a cranky ass to keep the flakes out of your life. Be strong, kid, and always stand up for yourself.”

  Walking back into the kitchen, my palms start to sweat, a sign of my nerves.

  Isha says, without looking at me, “You’re leaving, right?”

  “How did you know? How does everyone know I’m leaving?”

  “You’re a runner, kid. Have nothing holding you down.”

  “But still,” I say, sitting next to her. Grabbing a knife, I begin to chop olives with her in unison. I sigh. “I don’t want to leave you, but I hate Denver.”

  “Hell, I know it’s not me,” she snorts. “How could anyone walk away from me and this shithole?”

  “It’s not a shithole. You’ve been the one person I’ve opened up to here, and it kills me to walk away, but I’m scared here. Scared like I was back home. I’m always getting lost and wandering into questionable places. I need something a little smaller.”

  “Understood,” she says.

  “Suggestions?”

  “Head toward Fort Collins. Smaller-ish and has some outlying towns you can nestle into.”

  I nod, considering. “Thanks.”

  “I’m not happy about this shit, kid,” she says, meeting my gaze.

  “I know,” I mumble.

  “Last day today?”

  “If that’s okay?”

  She lets out a short, resigned chuckle, “You’re a runner, and you’re seriously asking if it’s okay? Didn’t I teach you shit, kid?”

  Goodbye, Jacey.

  ***

  -28 Miles Gone

  Isha set me up with an old buddy of hers, Danielle. She owns a bakery and drive-thru coffee shop. She has me working in both. I love working in the coffee shop. It’s super-fast-paced and leaves no time to think. The pay isn’t as good, and the tips are poor compared to waitressing, but it keeps me on my toes.

  Going from working through the nights to working from five in the morning to five at night has been a huge shock to the system. I prefer working nights and being with Isha, but I love Fort Collins. I found Danielle’s bakery before locating a place to live. Literally, if I could crash on the corner, I would. I’m so sick of walking, making routes, and stressing about getting to work safe and on time.

  Thankfully, I found another old-style motel that’s in a very rundown state. Just up my alley. It’s the roughest place I’ve stayed yet. I plan on living in Fort Collins for quite some time, so I have to freshen up the inside of my room bit by bit. The best part is it’s a block and a half from Danielle’s Desserts.

  The little coffee hut is in the parking lot in front of Danielle’s. I’m not even sure hut is the right word; it’s tiny and made for only one person to work in. Danielle warned that when football season starts she runs a Tuesday special where all drinks are free if you are sporting a certain team’s jersey. I’m not looking forward to that at all.

  Considering it’s only July, I have some time to warm up to the idea of working that closely with another person. In the few short weeks I’ve been at the coffee shop, my mind has been overloaded with flavors, mochas, latté, hot, blended, and iced. Sometimes I have to hold back my laugher when someone orders one simple drink, but it takes them five minutes to spit it out because they are detailing all the things they want in it. I’m getting used to the regular customers who buy coffee on a daily basis.

  The sound of an engine alerts me that a customer is pulling up. I’ve also become an expert on judging whether it’s a car passing by or pulling up to the window.

  “Hey, what can I get you?”

  I see a truck with coll
ege aged boys, shirtless and sweaty, filling the front and back seats of the vehicle.

  “Pretty boy here thinks he needs a coffee,” the driver says.

  “Okay, which one is pretty boy?” I ask.

  The driver points to the guy sitting in the back on the passenger side. Well, damn, the driver is spot on correct. The boy is mighty pretty – almost panty-melting pretty. Almost.

  Trying not to stare, I force myself to talk to him, “Pretty boy, whatcha want?”

  The truck erupts in laughter, and the boy’s eyes widen with surprise. Some of the men are holding their sides from too much laughter, and I know I’ve messed up.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. He’ll get over it,” the driver leans out the window and says to me.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  Pretty boy just responds, “It’s okay. Lincoln is the only one allowed to call me that. You just shocked the shit out of us.”

  “Lincoln?”

  “That would be me,” the driver responds.

  “Thanks, Lincoln, for getting me in hot water,” I say, reaching for a foam to-go cup. “Okay, what would the coffee drinker in the truck like?”

  Pretty boy fires off his coffee order, and I busily make it, walking back and forth to gather all the syrups. They’re not discreet about their conversation at all. Each word can be heard inside the hut.

  “Dude, she’s fucking hot.”

  “Fucking A, she is. I’m one for long hair, but her short wild cut is giving me a boner.”

  “Shut up, assholes.”

  I recognize the last voice as the driver’s.

  Trying to hide the flaming color heating up my face, I step to the window with all my confidence and hand over the coffee.

  “Five seventy-five, please.”

  “Pay it up, bitch,” Pretty boy hollers.

  The driver snatches his wallet from the middle console and hands me cash, shooting me a little wink.

  “Remind me to never bet you again. You’re shameless and will pretty much do anything to win a bet,” the driver says as I gather his change.