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Every couple has arguments…
Maybe I’m just still annoyed by Fred’s words, and that’s all. Annoyed at myself for feeling so defensive, for feeling insecure and unsure about my decision so that his words sting and make me waver and question myself all over again.
I’m so absorbed by the debate going on inside my head, I don’t see it until we’re entering through the wide-open door:
The party is at Damage Control, the tattoo shop where Seth is doing his apprenticeship.
Crap.
***
The place is packed, and loud rock music plays over the speakers. Lots of tattoos peek under rolled-up sleeves and over open collars, curling on forearms and shoulders. Huge black and white photos of men and women with punk hairdos, piercings and tattoos line the walls. I linger in front of one of a guy’s profile. You can barely see his face, which is cast in shadow—just a hint of full lips and long lashes. Something familiar about it I can’t put my finger on… and the tattoo of a snake curls on his shoulder, whorls and diamond shapes, and a fanged mouth that seems to be going after his heart.
I shiver and step back.
“They’ve expanded the place,” Fred is saying, checking something on his phone, then glancing around. “Doubled it, really.”
“You’ve been here before?” The thought of Fred having tattoos is strangely exciting. Not something I’d ever considered before.
“Yeah, with a friend who wanted to get some ink.”
“Do you have any tats?”
“Me? Good God, no.”
And how strangely disappointing it is that he doesn’t. He looks positively appalled at the thought.
As I should be. A ballet dancer would never dream of inking her skin, or of her fellow dancers doing anything crazy like getting piercings and shaving off their hair. Would never care for such acts of body modification, of statements about one’s identity. The body of a ballet dancer is a malleable thing to be dressed, made up and made into any character that is needed for the show.
But I’m not a ballet dancer anymore. That dream-like world of tutus and pointes is a thing of the past. I’m about to land in the real world, work behind the scenes instead of on the stage.
I clamp a hand over my mouth because I’m getting an uncontrollable urge to laugh. It will probably turn to tears if I let it happen.
“Come on, the concert is about to start,” Fred says, and despite my misgivings and my anger at him, I follow him where the crowd is at its thickest. There’s a microphone and a set of drums, and I recognize Rafe, Zane
’s blond and big-shouldered friend, when he takes a seat and grabs his sticks.
He’s wearing a black tank top with what has to be the group logo stamped in silver on the front, same as the T-shirts worn by the other people joining him with guitars: a kind of weird moth with the motif of a skull.
‘Deathmoth—Punk Rock Group,’ a banner behind them proclaims.
Right. Of course. A deathmoth.
Then the singer walks up to the front, and I recognize Zane’s girlfriend, Dakota.
What about Seth? I haven’t seen him in the crowd. Chances are he didn’t make it. Despite my resolve not to see him again, I did ask Asher if he was better yesterday, and apparently he is, but still tired, and a little unsteady.
I almost dropped everything and went back to check on him when I heard that. Stopped myself right before I did. Reminded myself it’s not a good idea. That I may want to be his friend, but maybe he doesn’t.
The music starts, and God, that girl sure can sing. Her powerful voice fills the shop like thunder and swallows the whispers and the noise of cars from outside the open door. The drums and the guitars join in and I’m transfixed, lost in a violent world, filled with anger and sorrow—but also power and magic and a struggle to overcome the pain.
It’s beautiful. Powerful. Like an ancient ritual, it takes me out of my body. Makes everything and anything seem possible. Makes me want to try.
At some point, Fred taps my arm and gestures that he has to go. I watch his pretty mouth form words, and all I can think of is that anything is possible. That it’s up to me to make it so.
So I follow him as he turns to leave, pushing between people, out onto the street. His blond hair catches the light of the streetlamp, the halo of an angel, and the beat of the song still vibrates through me, setting the rhythm of my heart like a war drum.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
