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“Just talking shop,” Xavier said. “We’re planning a charity day for breast cancer survivors.”
“Oh yeah?” the guy said. He was a large guy and he looked like he was in the process of covering his whole body with ink. “That’s a great idea — my aunt had breast cancer. I’ll let her know.”
“I don’t think it’ll be too hard to get the word out,” Cora said. “Breast cancer is one of the most common types. Almost everyone knows someone who either has or had it.”
Emma’s eyes glistened with excitement.
“Maybe we won’t even need the radio ads then. Between social media and your contacts at the hospital, word should spread fast.”
Xavier gently touched the guy’s shoulder and he lay back down, and Xavier continued his work as Cora and Emma went upstairs to work on their ads. I stayed downstairs, making myself a hot chocolate.
I didn’t have any appointments — Xavier and Jackson had kept my schedule clear so I could take Emma anywhere she needed to go, but since she was safe upstairs, I figured I could always take a walk-in, if there was one. In the meantime, I wanted to work on tattooing realistic nipples.
Jackson had his art training and Xavier had what felt like a hundred years of experience, but I’d started tattooing much later than them. I’d received tattoos in my early twenties, before I went to prison, but I’d never thought about being an artist until a cellmate named Mouse asked me to ink his daughter’s name with a gun he’d made from items he’d bought at the commissary, plus a few things his brother had smuggled in.
My first attempt was awful.
His daughter’s name was Bella and my hand trembled so much that the L’s were jagged and hard to read. Still, he was happy with it, and that night I decided to practice by tattooing myself. The needle wasn’t as sharp or sterilized as the ones we used in the shop, and I winced as it tore into the skin on my forearm.
I hadn’t thought about what design to etch on my skin, and I moved the gun like I was doodling in a notepad, making loops and lines that looked like something a kid might have drawn.
But that didn’t matter.
I held my arm up, full of wonder at the fact that I’d permanently changed my own skin, the pain and the newness of the experience filling me with happiness. Before prison, I’d worked as a boiler maker, but I already knew my boss didn’t want me back.
Maybe if I practiced, this was something I could do instead.
The prison had a library and I used it to research as much as I could, learning about basic techniques and tattoo styles from books with battered pages. By the time Xavier had taken me on as an apprentice, I was designing my own tattoos and doing a decent job with symbols and shapes.
But a nipple? That was another challenge altogether.
I went into the studio, pulled out a piece of fake skin and gave it my best shot, copying a photo I brought up on my phone. Unlike Xavier’s lifelike nipple, mine looked too flat and the proportions weren’t right, and I didn’t have the artistic skills to fix it.
I sighed and put the piece of fake skin aside, then pulled out another one, ready for a second attempt. I’d almost finished it when Cora and Emma came back downstairs.
“Cool!” Cora exclaimed as she saw my work.
“You think it’s good?” I asked, turning it sideways and squinting, trying to see what Cora saw in it.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’d have that tattooed on me.” She pivoted around and pointed to the back of her neck. “Do you think I should put one here?”
“She’s kidding,” Emma said, and gave her friend a stern look. “Besides, don’t you have to go back to work?”
“Killjoy,” Cora said with a pout. “But yes, I do. Give me a call if you need more information.” She gave Emma a friendly hug and left.
“That sounds promising,” Jackson said.
“It is,” Emma gushed. “She’s given me so many suggestions. Look at this!”
She opened something on her phone and showed us an ad creative to Jackson, then me. One of them must have had graphic design experience, because it looked professional and polished. They’d used an image of the pink breast cancer ribbon, and a curly pink typeface.
“Free nipple tattoos,” Jackson read. “If you’ve had a mastectomy and want to reclaim your femininity, come in for a free nipple tattoo on Saturday the 6thof October. Nice!”
Emma saw my pieces of skin into the trash and pulled one out.
“You’re not happy with them?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “If I can’t get this right, Jackson and Xavier will have to do the tattoos, and I’ll serve coffee. It’s too hard to get the details right from a photo.”
