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I know I shouldn’t. I’ve always thought tattoos are dumb, for people who live in the now and later regret their actions during their youth. However, I’m feeling particularly celebratory given Coach’s words, and there’s something else; something akin to rebellion stirring within me.
“Yeah, I’m in,” I say, watching as Seth spins around, his mouth set in a deep frown.
“You hear that, Garcia?” Mike shouts. I feel like Mike will never be able to lower his voice. He’s always shouting. It’s probably because life excites him.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Seth while waving a hand. “But I doubt any of you will actually go through with it.”
Mike straightens, puffing out his chest as if he’s some sort of rooster about to attack his rival. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” says Seth menacingly, “I don’t think you’re getting a tattoo, Mike. You’ve been talking about getting a team tattoo since Freshman year. Yet every year you chicken out.”
“Well, this time I mean business.”
Seth tosses back his head, laughing bitterly while stalking towards the door. “Sure, you do, Mike. You always mean business.”
I hold back my laughter, knowing Mike will probably explode into a fit of rage. His face is turning red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the guy scowl so angrily at anyone. He jerks towards me, jutting out his chin while saying, “We’re getting those fucking tattoos, Goode.” He juts his finger at me and I still any movements, fearing he’s going to poke me in one of my eyes. “Mark my words, Goode, we are getting those tattoos, even if you have to pin me to the table.”
*****
“Wait!” Mike shouts over the heavy metal music while sitting on the table with his ankle facing the tattoo artist.
Seth crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow while staring down at Mike’s sweat-glistened face. Poor Mike. His brows are tented with concern, and he bites his bottom lip to keep it from quivering. The artist hasn’t even poked him, and he’s already gripping the black table’s edge.
“Gimme a minute,” says Mike, yet his tone goes upwards into more of a question.
The artist sighs, leaning back in his seat. My gaze lingers on his arm sleeves, appreciating the shading of a snake going down the length of his arm and the fire surrounding it. Thick gages hang from his ears, and dark tattoos cover his neck, going up to his spiked black hair.
The artist meets my gaze, clenching his jaw, probably in an attempt to keep himself from saying anything rude. This is the third time Mike has told the artist to wait, and I can see the poor guy is getting irritated yet trying to remain as professional as possible. The place is clean. Tattoo designs hang on the wall. The floor is so shiny I could probably eat off it. I also watched the artist clean Mike’s skin and take out a needle from a sealed container.
I actually would have gone first, but Seth insisted Mike show us how it’s done.
Poor Mike.
“Well,” says Seth, “it’s been a minute.”
“Then gimme another,” Mike bites back.
The artist’s eyes narrow, and I can see he’s close to ordering Mike off the table. “If you need another minute, I can go,” I say while stepping forward.
“No, no.” Seth waves at me without meeting my gaze. “Mike wants a tattoo. He should go first.”
“I have no problem with going first.”
Seth scowls at me. “But Mike is the one who insisted we all get one.”
I tilt my head to the side, crossing my arms. “You’re not the boss, Garcia. Obviously, Mike isn’t ready. I am.”
“Can I please tattoo someone already?” the artist groans, shooting us both a withering look.
“You can tattoo, Goode,” says Mike, jumping down from the table and disappearing behind two Sophomores who decided to join us. “I’m happy to wait.”
I smile bitterly at Seth while moving to the table. Seth scowls at me as I jump up. I kick off my shoes and pull off my socks, hoping my feet don’t stink too much from practice earlier. The artist doesn’t say anything as I move my leg towards him, so I suppose it’s not too bad, or maybe he’s just happy to finally be tattooing someone. He goes to grab another flimsy piece of paper to put the design on while I twiddle my fingers, feeling fear creeping into me. I hear him muttering under his breath and feel sorry for the guy. He’s probably used to better clients. Although Seth really isn’t making his job any easier.
Seth leans in close, his hips nearly touching the table while I get cozy on the surface. I have no clue how painful an ankle tattoo is. Given it’s on bone, I’m expecting it to feel like a needle ripping through my skin after sitting over an open flame.
Great.
Why am I doing this again?
