Tattoo Atlas

by Tim Floreen

  During the night more snow had fallen. Boreal Street ran along the side of a steep ridge, and our house stood on the uphill side of the street, so from my window I could see the whole city of Duluth spread out beyond the homes opposite ours, all the way down to frozen Lake Superior. A fresh layer of white covered everything. No one else seemed to have woken yet. I couldn’t hear a sound except for Mrs. Kettle’s wind chimes.

  I sat down at my desk—a real artists’ table, the kind professionals used. Mom had bought it for me three years ago as a coming-out present. She was one of those cool, progressive, supportive parents who thought coming out of the closet was “something to celebrate,” and if that meant getting presents, I certainly wasn’t going to argue. Now smears and drips of ink, acrylic, and pale watercolor covered the desk’s angled white surface. My pencils and pens and brushes stood in mason jars lining the shelf above, along with a framed photo of my brother, Ethan, and a few stacked paperbacks: Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Picture of Dorian Gray. All around, on the marked-up carpet, lay stacks and stacks of the sketches and paintings I’d done on paper. Some canvases leaned against the walls too. I reached under the bottom of the stack closest to my desk and pulled out the sketchbook I’d hidden there.

  My Tattoo Atlas didn’t look like anything much from the outside. It had a plain black cover, just like most of my other sketchbooks, but to distinguish this one from the rest I’d glued to the front a drawing of one of the little winged creatures I called imps. They looked sort of like creepy, huge-eyed, hairless kittens with bat wings, and I’d also incorporated them into most of the drawings inside the Tattoo Atlas. I flipped through the pages, some of them crinkly where I’d used watercolors, until I found a blank one. I spread the book out on my desk.

  It didn’t take me long to sketch the image in pencil: a knife cutting a straight diagonal line across the page, with trickles of blood seeping from it. Two imps held the knife aloft, and below that, two more supported a banner with TOR written on it. On the knife’s blade, in neat, loopy cursive, were the words Guys are straight lines.

  I grabbed a brush and roughed in some color: bright red for the blood, brown for the knife handle, various shades of blue and green and purple for the imps. Then I sat back to look at the image. The watercolors would have to dry before I could ink in the design, but it was already half past seven anyway. I jotted in a lower corner left upper arm and got up to take a shower.

  “I’m running out the door,” Mom said. “I put out the breakfast things for you.”

  I hadn’t seen her last night. She’d been working even longer hours than usual lately, getting ready for the whole “putting a hole in Franklin Kettle’s head” thing. She looked tired today, with dark circles under her eyes, but even with everything else she had to do, she’d still taken the time to style her gray-and-white hair. It made a neat sphere around her head, like an iron helmet.

  “Thanks.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, and it slopped out of the pot like syrup. Mom had made it extra strong this morning.

  She paused with her metal travel mug halfway to her lips. “Are you okay, Rem?”

  I looked away and shrugged. “I guess I’m feeling a little run-down. Abigail’s keeping us all really busy with the prep for the Big Bang memorial.”

  Just because I’d come out to Mom and she was cool and progressive and supportive didn’t mean I had to let her in on all the messed-up minutiae of my love life. Anyway, she didn’t press. With her brain so full of brain-related thoughts these days, she probably didn’t have room for much else.

  “What about you?” I said. “Are you holding up all right?”

  She gave an impatient wave. Mom didn’t like it when I implied she was anything less than invulnerable. “It’s been a busy week, but exciting, too. We’re so close.”

  “When’s the procedure happening?”

  “Tomorrow, if all goes well.”

  I shook some cereal into the bowl Mom had set out. “And how’s Franklin?”

  She let out a humorless snort. “A handful. He’s refusing to cooperate. Won’t even talk. Which is making data-gathering difficult.”

  “He won’t talk to anyone?”

  Mom shook her head. Then her eyes dropped to her mug. She’d started prodding the pad of her thumb with her fingernail. “Rem, I’ve been trying to decide whether I should even tell you this.”

  “Tell me what?”

  She peered into the murk of her coffee, hesitating. “Franklin did say there was one person he’d talk with.” Her eyes flicked up to meet mine. “You.”

  The back of my neck went cold. “Why?”

  “He said if I brought you in, he’d feel comfortable talking to you. I know you two weren’t exactly friends, but you’ve lived down the street from each other since you both were tiny. And he told me you were one of the few kids at Duluth Central who was ever nice to him. Does that sound right, Rem?”

  Did it? I dodged her eyes, grabbing my bowl from the counter and sitting down at the kitchen table. “I’m not sure.”

  She twisted the cap onto her travel mug. “I’ve been thinking if we did put the two of you together in a room, just for a short time, and saw how he interacted with you, it might yield a lot of valuable data. But I wouldn’t want you to do it if it made you uncomfortable.”

  “When?”

  “It would have to be this afternoon.”

  I stirred my cereal. The back of my neck still felt cold and tingly. Like one of my creepy little imps had landed there.

  “I realize it might sound unorthodox,” Mom pressed. She set down her mug and crossed over to where her coat hung from a hook on the wall. “He killed one of your closest friends right in front of you, and here I am asking you to meet with him face-to-face. But just hear me out on this. I think you might actually find it therapeutic to—”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  She stopped, looked over her shoulder at me, studied my face. “Are you sure? I do want to warn you, honey, even if he’s positively disposed toward you, he may be . . . unpleasant. At least at school and around the neighborhood he kept himself reasonably in check.” She grabbed her coat and thrust her arms through the sleeves. “I mean, until he didn’t.”

  “Mom, I can handle it.”

  She nodded as she buttoned herself up. “I know you can. You’re like me: tough when you need to be. That’s why I don’t worry about you.”

  Of course, she might’ve had a different opinion if she’d seen me yesterday with Tor.

  On the wall next to Mom hung another photo of Ethan, this time in formal military dress, grinning at the camera from under the brim of a sleek black-and-white hat. She shot a glance at the picture. Her nail dug into her thumb. “Anyway, Franklin will be in restraints,” she said. “And we’ll have guards in there with you. And I’ll be watching the whole time. You’ll be completely safe. Nothing will happen to you.”

  “There you go. No reason to worry.”

  “But don’t let any of your friends at school know you’re doing this. Not even Callie or Lydia or Tor, okay? There’s a lot of controversy surrounding this project. I don’t want to put you in the middle of that. At least not any more than you already are.”

  “I know, Mom. I’ve seen the news.”

  To one side of Ethan’s photo hung one of my paintings—Mom’s favorite, even though it wasn’t the kind of thing I usually liked to paint. I’d done it for her a few months ago. A garden-variety watercolor of the Lake Superior shoreline in summertime, it had the bright greens and blues and pinks that looked so alien here in the middle of winter. She nodded at it now.

  “Art. That’s something you two can talk about.”

  “Franklin Kettle’s into art? Where did you get that idea?”

  “Listen, we’ll go over all that at the lab.” She grabbed her mug from the counter and leaned over the table to plant a kiss on the top of my head. “Thank you, Rem. This is a big favor. I know you have your doubts about what we’re trying
to do, but—”

  “What are you talking about?” I got up from the table so I could look her in the eyes. “Usually when there’s a school shooting, everybody acts all shocked and outraged, but then nothing changes. You’re actually trying to do something. I think that’s huge. I’m proud of you, Mom.”

  Which was the truth.

  Mostly.

  Lydia hadn’t seemed to notice that Tor and I hadn’t put up any posters yesterday, but I felt guilty anyhow, so after we all got to school I took Callie aside and convinced her to help me do the job before class. That also gave me a chance to catch her up on the latest chapter in the saga of the steam tunnels.

  Because of course I’d lied to Tor about keeping the tunnels a total secret. Callie was my best friend, and I was pretty certain if I couldn’t talk to at least one person about the whole Tor drama, I’d go psycho. Maybe not Franklin Kettle psycho, but close. Anyway, she knew how to keep a secret—although yesterday morning in the Saab I’d seen how much effort it was costing her. That was the real reason Tor and Lydia’s new coupledom was getting her all worked up.

  “So he just drops you the second he suspects you might want more out of him than a quick knuckle shuffle.” Her wedges pounded down the hall. “Jesus Christ, that guy can be such an asshole. I understand how you must be feeling, but if you want to know what I think, it’s for the best. That thing you two had going was so fucking dysfunctional. It was just making you miserable, wasn’t it?”

  “Not totally miserable,” I mumbled.

  “Well, it should’ve been. He was treating you like fucking garbage, Rem. One of you had to put a stop to it. I just wish it had been you. Plus, things have changed now that Lydia’s involved. I couldn’t have cared less about those other pinheads he cheated on, but to do it to her was just wrong. And you’re not entirely blameless yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” I shot back, the posters under my arm flapping as I hustled to keep up with her. “I was with Tor first, wasn’t I? Lydia’s the interloper here, not me.”

  “She can’t interlope if she doesn’t even know the situation exists. I’m sure she thinks I’m a major bitch right now, but the truth is, I feel more sorry for her than I do for you. Tor knew perfectly well she’d been in love with him for years, and then he went and started something with her just so he could keep up his pathetic charade of straightness.” She shook her head in disgust, her complicated arrangement of black hair rustling. “So why didn’t you call me and tell me about this last night?”

  “I didn’t feel like talking about it. Look, it’s true Tor’s been acting like a jerk, but he’s probably just feeling really confused. I know what it’s like being in the closet.”

  “Stop making excuses for him. You wouldn’t have behaved like this before you came out. What’s he so scared of anyway? You did the Big Gay Reveal freshman year, and a week later you were runner-up for Freshman Homecoming Prince.”

  “Maybe it’s harder for him because he’s such a guy-guy. I was always the sensitive artist type. When I came out, can you honestly say anybody was surprised?”

  Callie wasn’t buying it. “Someone should just out him already.”

  “Don’t even joke about that, Callie.” I shot my eyes around the hall, suddenly paranoid. “The two of us are the only ones who know. He has no idea I told you. If we let it slip . . .”

  “What?” she said, her wedges hammering the wood floor so hard they were probably leaving dents. “What would he do?”

  “I don’t know. Get mad. Look, if Tor’s such an asshole, then how come you’re still friends with him?”

  “Good question,” Callie muttered, her scowl deepening.

  I knew the reason, even if she wouldn’t come out and say it. It wasn’t just that he was charismatic and good-looking and smart (second only to Lydia in our class, gradewise). Tor Agnarson was also the most exciting person we knew. At least once a week he’d get this glint in his eye and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, I have an idea.” Whenever he said that, you knew something outrageously fun or hilarious or magical would happen. Maybe on the first really warm day of spring we’d all skip class so we could go swimming in Lester River. Or maybe we’d end up on his roof at midnight, watching the aurora borealis. Or maybe he’d take us to spy on a family of wild red foxes.

  Tor was the gravitational center of the Boreal Five, the star the other four of us orbited around. I think in our own ways we were all a little in love with him. Even straight-as-an-arrow Pete, who’d done pretty much whatever Tor had told him to do, including joining the swim team despite the fact that his chunky body had really made him better suited for football. Even prickly Callie, who, though she probably would’ve denied it, seemed to get a weird enjoyment out of constantly butting heads with him.

  By then Callie and I had barreled all the way across school. Duluth Central was a sprawling behemoth of a building, built about a hundred years ago out of red brick and limestone and added onto many times after that. The hallways had almost as many twists and turns as the steam tunnels did. It took me a second to figure out where we were. I realized if we took one more turn, we’d reach Ms. Utter’s former classroom. I’d made it almost a year without passing by that door, and I didn’t feel like starting today. “Slow down. We’re supposed to be putting up posters, remember?” I took one from the stack. “Hold it up so I can put on the tape.”

  While I went to work, she cocked her head to one side and scrutinized the poster. “God, this thing is tacky. Was all this glitter really necessary? Like Pete’s headlining a show in Vegas or something. It fucking terrifies me to imagine what Abigail has cooked up for the memorial.” She smacked the poster on an empty piece of wall, where it stuck at a haphazard angle, and then she went quiet. She was still studying the glittery image of Pete, but the grimace had left her face. “Maybe because we’re the Boreal Five,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m still friends with Tor. The five of us grew up together. Now that Pete’s gone and there are only four of us left, and we’re all about to graduate and go off to different colleges and stuff, it would make me sad if we stopped being friends.”

  “So underneath it all, Callie Minwalla’s really just a softie. I had no idea.”

  She smacked my arm. “It’s just that we’re sort of like a family. A seriously fucked-up family, but still.” Her face lapsed back into an expression of disgust. “And that’s yet another reason why Tor and Lydia shouldn’t be together. It’s like incest or something.” She turned away. “Come on. That’s enough for today.”

  “Callie, we put up one poster.”

  The hall was thick with students now. Their voices glanced off the walls and floors. A locker slam drew my eye, and I spotted Nil Bergstrom—Nell really, but everyone called her Nil—about to shoulder her mysteriously massive backpack. She and Franklin Kettle had been best friends. Safety-pinned to Nil’s pack, and staring me in the face, was a red patch with an image of a black military mask embroidered on it. The mask incorporated a helmet that covered the head, high-tech goggles over the eyes, and a gas mask over the nose and mouth. It was the insignia for that video game they played, Son of War. Franklin had hauled around a backpack just as massive as Nil’s, with that same patch safety-pinned to that same spot. I couldn’t believe Nil hadn’t removed her patch or the principal hadn’t forced her to do it. Glimpsing that mask always caused my breath to stop, and I knew it must make other students feel uncomfortable too. Seeing it now, I wondered if I was really as ready to meet with Franklin as I’d claimed earlier. Maybe I should just bail.

  But no. I needed to do it. And not just because I was being the Nice Guy and trying to make Mom happy. For myself, too. Seeing Franklin in the flesh somehow seemed like a more meaningful way to come to terms with the Big Bang than the endless parade of assemblies and rap sessions and candlelight vigils people like Abigail Lansing got so excited about.

  Or maybe the reason wasn’t as idealistic as that. Mayb
e I wanted to come face-to-face with Franklin Kettle for the same reason I’d been reading all those classic horror novels lately. Maybe I wanted to see a true monster. Talk to him. Understand him.

  And find out why he really wanted to see me. Because one thing I knew for sure: it wasn’t because I’d been nice to him at school.

  Nil froze. She’d caught me staring at her. Her eyes narrowed and held mine for a second before she spun around and slouched off. The mask on her backpack seemed to glare at me with an equal amount of menace as she dodged away through the crowd.

  That afternoon I told the others I needed to do something for Mom and couldn’t give them a ride home. I headed to the lab, driving three miles northeast along the Lake Superior shoreline on Highway 61, turning off at a small sign imprinted only with the institute’s initials, and crawling down a narrow road with snow banked high on either side. After a mile’s worth of twists and turns, the pine trees opened up and the glass behemoth appeared in front of me. Hulking and glittering and ultramodern, the lab stood there all by itself on the edge of the lake like it had dropped from the sky. The Mother Ship, Tor had once called it. Like all his nicknames, that one fit perfectly.

  I gripped the cold metal steering wheel and stared at the colorless, cloud-choked sky reflecting on the lab’s glass surface. The whiteness of one of the glass panels made me think of the whiteboard in Ms. Utter’s classroom last year. She’d hung a banner above it that read “History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”—Maya Angelou.

  I could still picture everything else too. All of us sitting at our usual desks. To our left, narrow windows looking out on bare, black trees loaded with snow. To our right, a map of Europe on the wall, with red arrows pinned on it to show the movement of troops during some war or other. Tiny Ms. Utter, dwarfed by the big metal desk she sat behind. Pete Lund standing at the front of the class, giving a presentation about the Manhattan Project.