Tattoo Atlas

by Tim Floreen

  “They’re nice,” he said, ignoring the sarcasm in my voice. He pitched backward onto his bed and tucked his hands behind his head.

  “She asked me if I knew of any reason why you might be faking your feelings for her.”

  That got his attention. He picked his head up to look at me.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t say a word. But, Tor, if you don’t really like her, you have to end it. She’s not just some random girl. She’s one of your best friends, and one of mine, too. You can’t lead her on.”

  “It’s none of your business, Nice Guy.” His voice had turned serious now. “Leave it.”

  I slumped back against the desk and bit my lip. If Tor didn’t want to discuss something, no power on the planet could get him to talk.

  “What’s the latest on Franklin Kettle?” he asked.

  “That’s what everyone wants to know.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Lydia was just asking the same thing.” I glanced over my shoulder. From here the roof of Ethan’s gazebo, covered in snow, looked like a perfect white upside-down bowl.

  “So?” Tor said. “Did your mom turn him good or whatever?”

  “Unclear. Still testing.”

  “Ah.”

  I turned back to where he lay staring at the ceiling. My teeth pressed into the flesh of my lower lip again. “Tor, do you ever think about the way we treated him?”

  “Franklin? No. What do you mean?”

  “You have to admit, we were sort of jerks.”

  “So was the entire Duluth Central student body.”

  “Yeah, but he lived on our block. He was our neighbor pretty much all our lives, and most of the time we just acted like he was invisible. And when we didn’t . . . we could be pretty vicious, Tor.” In a lower voice, I added, “Especially you.”

  He raised his head again and squinted at me. “What do you mean, ‘especially me’?”

  “Didn’t you make up his nickname? Kettlebot? And Nil, didn’t you think of that one too?”

  “They’re just nicknames. I like making up nicknames. That’s my thing. Plus, you four messed with him plenty.”

  “But you were usually the one who had the idea in the first place.”

  “Bullshit. What about that time Lydia tore him a new one at the Halloween dance?”

  It had happened junior year. Lydia, as the class president and the dance’s head organizer, had been working the door that night. She stopped Franklin and Nil when they tried to enter carrying toy rifles. I wasn’t there to see it all happen, but apparently things got pretty heated. When Lydia told them it was against the rules to have fake weapons on school grounds, Franklin pushed back in that quiet, creepy way of his, talking about freedom of expression or the right to bear arms or something stupid like that. Finally she lost it and said, “Why don’t you just leave? Nobody wants you here anyway.” Probably the most scathing words that had ever fallen from Lydia’s lips.

  “And I had nothing to do with it,” Tor said.

  “I know. She felt horrible afterward. I think she even wrote Franklin a letter of apology.”

  “Of course she did,” he said, chuckling.

  “But remember what happened after that?”

  Franklin and Nil had come back to the dance entrance a few minutes later claiming they’d ditched their rifles, and Lydia let them in. When I first noticed them circulating through the crowd, the sight of them made me do a double take. Franklin had on a vintage slim-cut tux with a bandolier slung over each shoulder, and Nil a ball gown made of dark camouflage fabric. Both of them wore Son of War masks, the off-the-shelf variety. The effect was both disturbing and weirdly cool. But then they hauled out their rifles, which it turned out Nil had hidden under her dress, and their outfits became just plain disturbing.

  By then word had gotten around about Franklin and Lydia’s altercation, and it outraged Callie when she saw what Franklin and Nil had done. More than anything, she saw it as an insult to Lydia. She was just about to rat on them to one of the chaperones, but Tor stopped her. “I have a better idea.” He bent close, eyes glittering, and whispered into her ear.

  Moments later, he threw down one of the firecrackers he’d brought with him as part of his (shirtless) magician’s costume. Callie splashed a cup of bloodred punch across the front of her white snow-princess dress. Tor’s firecracker went BANG, and Callie let out a bloodcurdling scream. Thrusting a finger at Franklin, she yelled, “He shot me! Kettlebot shot me!”

  Mayhem ensued. Everybody stampeded for the cafeteria exits and threw themselves behind tables, leaving Franklin standing alone in the middle of the dance floor.

  Callie later told Principal Chen it had all been a misunderstanding. Someone had let off a firecracker, someone else had spilled the punch on her dress, she’d seen Franklin’s gun and, in her fright and confusion, jumped to a conclusion. She ended up getting off without punishment. Franklin and Nil got a week’s suspension each.

  After Pete’s death, the thought would sometimes weave into my head that maybe that prank had given Franklin the idea for the Big Bang in the first place. Maybe he’d discovered he enjoyed seeing all his classmates running from him in terror.

  Tor might’ve had the same thought now, because the grin faded from his face. He shook his head and propped himself on his elbows so he could get a better look at me. His eyes narrowed. “What about you? That day in the locker room. Mr. Nice Guy wasn’t so nice.”

  My stomach tightened. Instead of answering, I lifted my hands and studied the ink marks and paint smears on my palms like they were a Rorschach test with the power to reveal something deep and important about me.

  “Rem,” Tor said, “why are we talking about this? I really hope you’re not about to spew some bullshit about how we’re the ones who turned Franklin Kettle into a monster. About how Pete deserved what happened to him.”

  I looked up. “What? Of course not.”

  “Your mother seems to think it has more to do with the fact that the guy has a fucked-up brain.”

  “Look, I didn’t come here to talk about that.”

  He shrugged his huge shoulders. “You brought it up.”

  “I came here to talk about Lydia.”

  “Right. You’re standing up for your friend. So selfless of you. So noble.”

  “I’m not being noble, I’m just—”

  He sat all the way up and raised one hand to silence me. “Come on, Nice Guy. Fess up. Why did you really come here?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I hated how weak my voice sounded.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that we haven’t been going down to the steam tunnels? And maybe you’re missing it? And maybe you’re wondering if I am too?”

  I looked down at my hands again. He scooted forward on his bed and knocked my leg with his bare foot to get my attention.

  “Because maybe I am.”

  I did a face-plant a half hour later on my way back to my house from Tor’s. I’d been sneaking through the trees between our yards, paranoid Lydia might see me while out walking her dog or something, when my boots flew out from under me and I landed on my belly deep in a snowdrift. I must’ve jostled a tree, too, because a few chunks of snow punched me in the back. Within seconds snowmelt had soaked my jeans and found its way under my coat and down my boots. Somehow it felt like an appropriate ending to my visit at Tor’s, during which he’d broken his “our houses are off-limits” rule but not the one about no kissing.

  It took some flailing before I managed to get back on my feet. I trudged the rest of the way home. Mom had gone to bed by then, so at least I didn’t have to bother concealing the wretchedness most likely painted all over my face. I took a hot shower, balled myself up in my bed, and called Callie for the second time that night.

  This time she didn’t pull up her blinds.

  “What the hell, Rem? I was asleep.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, Callie. I wouldn’t be calling right now if I didn’
t really need to talk.”

  As usual I told her about my most recent encounter with Tor, and also about my conversation with Lydia beforehand. True, I’d promised Lydia I wouldn’t talk about that, but I felt pathetic enough having to keep my nonrelationship with Tor, and all the drama surrounding it, a secret from the rest of the school. I couldn’t keep it from my best friend, too.

  “What an asshole,” Callie fumed. “Thinks he can have his cake and get a hand job too. So when he got all sexy, you just went along with it?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “I missed him.”

  “Jesus, Rem, do you have any willpower? Or self-respect?”

  “I know, I know, you win, Callie. I was hoping it would make me feel better and it just made me feel like shit, okay? For three weeks I’ve had to watch him acting all romantic with Lydia, even if it has just been a show. Meanwhile what he does with me he treats like something necessary but gross, like going to the toilet. And to top it off, he refuses to admit how bizarre and fucked-up it all is.”

  “Now will you listen to me and just stay away from him? If you can’t do it for yourself, at least do it for Lydia. She’s your friend, remember?”

  “I know she’s my friend. I do feel bad for her. That’s the whole reason I went over to Tor’s place just now: for Lydia. To speak up for her. To get him to treat her better.”

  “Stop kidding yourself, Rem. It was a booty call, plain and simple.” Across the street, Callie’s bedroom light had snapped on, and I could see her in silhouette pacing back and forth behind her blinds. “Lydia needs to know about this. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Are you kidding? Tor would freak! Plus, how do you think it’ll make her feel to know her boyfriend and one of her best friends have been fooling around behind her back?”

  “She can handle it. She’s a plucky girl.”

  “Not as plucky as she lets on. You didn’t see how she was tonight. Obviously I agree Tor needs to end it with her, but in a nice way.”

  “Nice.” Callie spoke the word with maximum contempt. Then she heaved a sigh. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to try talking to him again.”

  “Because that approach worked so well tonight.”

  “Look,” I said. “He’s in a difficult position. I wasn’t sure before, but now it seems pretty clear he’s gay and in the closet and not really into Lydia. I want to try to help him. He must really be confused.”

  “Whatever you’re doing with him right now, I don’t think it’s helping. At least not in the way you mean. Man up, Rem. Tell Lydia. Being a nice person isn’t the same as being a good person, you know.”

  My phone chimed. I glanced at the screen and saw I’d received a photo from a number my phone didn’t recognize. I couldn’t make it out clearly from the thumbnail.

  “Hold on, Callie.”

  I tapped to bring up the picture and froze.

  Someone had created the image using some kind of art software. It depicted a face. Mine. No body or background to give context. Just me from the neck up, staring at some spot in the distance with a thoughtful expression.

  I told Callie I had to go, feeling too startled even to tell her why, and stared at the digital painting some more.

  My first pathetic thought was that it had come from Tor. That he’d meant it as a sign that he’d enjoyed tonight and was thinking about me. But that made no sense. I’d never known him to have any interest in art, let alone talent, and whoever had made this knew how to paint. The image had life, and also detail. The artist had captured the cowlick in my short strong-willed hair, the way I tended to scrunch my mouth to one side when I was concentrating on something, even a stray smear of green paint on my left cheek by my ear.

  I thought of that gangly junior in art class, Spencer something—one of the five other out gay boys I knew of at Duluth Central. He was always painting tacky pictures of rainbow flags blowing in the wind, or big equal signs, or two boys in silhouette holding hands. I’d never known him to do anything like this. Or this good. But sometimes I caught him staring at me across the art classroom. Had he sent this?

  Then Franklin Kettle jumped into my head. He’d admitted he drew sometimes, though he’d denied having any real interest in it. But that was crazy. He was locked up, without access to a computer or a phone. How could he have sent this? And why?

  No, it had to be Spencer. Too bad the guy did nothing for me.

  That same night back at the lab a security camera fixed to the ceiling in Franklin Kettle’s room captured him sprawled on his bed and propped up on his elbows. His iPod and a few comic books lay scattered in front of him, illuminated by the small lamp clipped to his headboard. On the back of his head a white wad of gauze, held in place by medical tape, covered the place where Mom had put a hole in his skull. On either side of that white earbuds nestled in his ears. His feet, hanging over the edge of the bed, clad in white socks, knocked rhythmically together.

  Security personnel monitoring the camera feed that night wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual, but when I watched the footage later, I saw it: Franklin tapping on the screen of his iPod. Franklin glancing at the badge reader on the wall next to the door, where a small light changed from red to green. Franklin smiling a tiny, secret smile.

  While I warmed up the Saab the next morning, I watched Lydia cross Boreal Street in my rearview mirror. Her eyes were cast down, her hands buried in her coat pockets. Maybe it was my imagination, but her ponytail didn’t look as neat and shiny as usual. She went to Tor, who stood on the sidewalk waiting for her. He slung his big arm around her neck, and they continued to the wagon without saying a word to each other.

  Just like last night when Lydia had told me about how busy she and Tor weren’t getting behind closed doors, a warm, pleased feeling slithered through my body as I watched them now.

  They scooted into the backseat.

  “Morning,” I said, my voice brighter than I’d intended.

  “What’s up, Nice Guy?”

  “Hi, Rem,” Lydia added in a low murmur.

  That was when I noticed: Lydia looked happy. Not “putting on a brave face even though I think my boyfriend might not actually be into me” happy. Really, truly happy. She nestled herself against Tor’s shoulder and shut her eyes, her freckly cheeks pink, a drowsy smile on her face. Now that I could see her close up, I realized what I’d taken for misery was actually exhaustion.

  Callie noticed it too. She dropped into the passenger seat, glanced back at the two of them squashed against each other with their eyes closed, and raised an eyebrow at me as she hooked her thumb at them. I shrugged and put the car in reverse. While I backed the Saab down the driveway, I had to turn around in my seat to see out the back window, so I found myself staring straight at them. Tor had taken Lydia’s head in his hands and started to kiss her. A deep, full, passionate kiss. And Lydia didn’t pull away blushing, like she usually would’ve done. She seemed to have forgotten Callie and I were even there.

  “What the fuck is with you two this morning?” Callie said. “Lydia, I thought you were waiting to kiss with tongue until after marriage.”

  Now Lydia blushed. She broke the kiss, gave a self-conscious laugh, and buried her face in the curve of Tor’s neck. I could imagine exactly what she smelled there: soap and sweat and chlorine.

  “We had a late night,” Tor said.

  Callie squinted. “Both of you? Lydia, don’t your parents have you on lockdown by eleven on weeknights?”

  Too shy to look up, she stared at Tor’s hand holding hers. “Yes, but a sort of crazy thing happened. I woke up at one o’clock in the morning to find someone tapping on my window.”

  “Who?” Callie thrust a finger at Tor. “Him?”

  “He’d climbed up the trellis,” Lydia said. “He could’ve broken his neck.”

  “I just couldn’t stay away,” Tor put in.

  “I tried to explain to him what my dad would do if he found him there.”

  “I
believe it involved the removal of one of my testicles.”

  Lydia knocked his chest with the back of her hand. “No, it didn’t.” Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and she gave a little nod. After showing up on my doorstep in such a wrecked state last night, she probably thought it would make me happy to know her relationship with Tor had some spark left in it after all.

  “Wait a second.” Callie’s voice had become a growl. She jabbed her finger at Tor again like it was a switchblade. “You mean you went over to Lydia’s last night to jump her right after—”

  My heart nearly hurled itself out of my chest and onto the dash, but Callie caught herself just in time.

  “After what?” Lydia asked.

  Callie’s face had turned red. She looked ready to climb into the backseat and rip out Tor’s intestines with her bare hands. “You’re such a fucking pig, Tor.”

  The car went silent, and it made me think of the silence in Ms. Utter’s class that had followed the Big Bang.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say,” Lydia whispered. “I know things are different, Callie, but you’re just going to have to accept it: Tor and I are together now.”

  She didn’t have a clue what was going on.

  But Tor did. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror, and his eyes burned as they held mine.

  Tor kept it together, though. He looked away and forced out a chuckle. “Jesus, Elvira, get a grip.”

  I faked a laugh too. “Yeah, relax. They didn’t get caught. Tor didn’t lose a testicle.”

  “Too bad,” Callie muttered, under her breath but still loud enough for all of us to hear. “It might solve a lot of problems if Lydia’s dad just chopped off both the fuckers.” She slumped down in her seat with her arms crossed and settled into an angry silence. The rest of us didn’t say much after that either.

  When we got to school, once Callie and Lydia had peeled off to head to their first-period classes, Tor grabbed me by the collar and steered me all the way down the winding first floor hallway to the far end of the building, where the locked door to Ms. Utter’s former classroom stood. He turned me around and slammed me against the door. A shock of pain went through me. I’d never seen him like this. Even when angry, he usually did a lot more with a sneer and a cutting remark than with his fists. Right now, though, as he crushed me against the door with one arm and started to raise the other, I felt absolutely sure he was about to punch my head clear through the little papered-over window in the door behind me.