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She does.
It takes ten minutes, but she finally manages to do one star with straight lines.
The steady hum of the tattoo gun ceases as she sets it down. The air-conditioning whirs, drowning out the sound of her soft, steady breath.
Her fingers curl around the banana. "How did I do?"
"It's a good start."
"But?"
"You tell me."
She looks to the first star. "It's almost as ugly as mine was."
"Yours was—"
"Horrible. But I did love it. At the time."
"Why?"
"Why was it horrible?"
"Why did you love it?"
"It was my first real rebellion. My parents were confused by the combat boots and the dark eyeliner, but they didn't really care. I got perfect grades. I did volunteer work. Made varsity swim team. I did everything I was supposed to do."
"I get that."
"When did you ever follow the rules?"
"Believe it or not, my parents adore me."
"Probably true. Everything falls into your lap."
That isn't true. But I don't bother correcting her. Chloe has some idea of me. I can't blame her for it. I'm the one who made sure she saw me a certain way.
"These are kinda lopsided."
"A stencil will fix a lot of that."
She nods.
"But so will holding the gun right."
"Oh."
"Like this." I pick up the gun with a soft grip. Model the proper technique.
She stares back at me like I'm crazy.
"Here." I motion for her to put her hand on the gun.
She does.
I place mine over hers. Press my palm into the back of her hand, modeling the pressure she needs.
Slowly, her grip softens. Her lips part with a sigh.
