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“Yeah, you,” says Mike.
Seth gives me a look, his gaze drifting to my foot, watching the artist wipe the blood away. “I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to,” says Mike while beaming at me. “I guess it’s perfectly fine that the fastest runner on the team has the wing tats. It actually makes sense.”
My heart drops to my stomach, and I chance a glance at Seth, seeing his mouth open and close. His shoulders slump, and I watch all the fire in his eyes deplete. Wow, Mike, way to kick a guy while he’s down. I guess Seth kinda deserves it, since he’s usually an ass to everyone, but even I know that’s a low blow.
All talking ceases, and the only sound filling the silence in the parlor is the buzzing from the tattoo machine. My gaze shifts to Seth every now and then, watching Mike’s words play over him. His eyes look like they’re staring into the distance, his face abnormally pale, as if he’s reliving that race in Paris over and over again.
I wonder what he’ll say when he finds out Coach told me to train for the Olympics. Would he congratulate me? Would he stomp his little foot and throw a tantrum? Would he break down like he is now?
*****
“Finished,” says the artist while pushing himself away.
He rests the needle down and grabs a jar and some saran wrap. I stare down at my ankles, at the wings on either side. The lines are crisp. The shading is brilliant. It’s as if I actually have two wings on my body to help me soar through the track meets, to help me soar to the Olympics.
“Amazing,” I breathe while the artist massages the cream into my skin.
“Keep the wrap on for at least two hours and try not to do anything physical for two days,” says the artist while wrapping my feet.
I purse my lips. Keeping the wrap on should be easy, the physical… not so much. I jump down from the table.
“Wow, so cool!” Mike shouts while leering over my feet. “I can’t believe you actually did it. Did it hurt?”
I close my eyes and swallow the lump in my throat. “Like a fucking bitch,” I say, annunciating each word.
“Well, it’s nice to know someone actually follows through on their promises,” says Seth, his back facing me. “Now, are we going to that party or not?”
Mike gives me a look and shrugs. “Yeah, let’s go.”
“We’re going to head out,” says one of the Sophomores. “It’s a Monday night and all.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Party poopers!” He turns to me, placing his hands on his hips. “Goode, you in?”
I nod. “Of course, I’m in.” I go to pick up my socks and shoes, wincing as I pull them on. Maybe getting a tattoo during running season was a poor choice.
Too late now.
After paying, I follow Seth and Mike out the door. Seth is moving pretty quickly for being injured. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, walking down the sidewalk towards the rows of houses. Doesn’t he live close to town? Maybe Rachel will be attending the party…
I wince. She’ll probably want to know why I wasn’t at French today. I don’t think she’ll be very happy if I say she’s the reason for my skipping.
“Maybe I can get a tattoo on my back,” Mike prattles on, his words going in one ear and out the other as I focus my attentions on Seth’s hunched shoulders and reddening ears. “Or maybe I can start off with something small, like on my shoulder.”
I nod so Mike thinks I’m listening, but it’s hard to focus when there’s a possibility of running into Rachel. What should I say to her? I wasn’t feeling well when I woke up? I was hungover? No, that won’t come off all that great. I don’t want her to think I go partying all the time when I don’t, despite the fact I’m currently following Seth and Mike to a house party now.
I should just play it cool. Seth didn’t say anything about Saturday. He practically pretended like nothing happened. Rachel might do the same. Seth turns onto a driveway leading towards a small house with students standing outside, drinking from their red cups. Girls hover by the doorway, giggling amongst themselves while they surround a boy dressed in his sports jersey with his pants hanging at his hips, exposing his underwear.
If I was my mother, I’d grab those pants and yank them so high up he’d squeak. Why the hell do guys dress like that? It’s so dumb.
“Mike!” I hear several people shout, lifting their cups in a cheer.
“Where’s my beer?” Mike shouts while strolling towards them and leaving me alone.
I follow Seth inside, feeling anxious since I don’t know anyone here. He’s the only person I actually feel comfortable speaking with, which does not bode well for me at all. I pause in the doorway, all the air leaving my lungs as I see Seth sidle up close to Lucas, Hunter, and Rachel.
Oh, God. I’m way too sober for this.
