12 RITES AS SUTURE
12
R ITES AS S UTURE
It rained the rest of the week. Dead storms, soundless and gray, the clouds a thin threat overhead.
Saz and I got up early each day and went to bed late. I don’t think she actually wanted to spend as much time in the studio as I did, but there was mutual pressure between us—if Finch and I went, Saz would too, and she’d last throughout the day as long as her interest would hold. But she was a faster painter, and surer of herself. Now Saz had fourteen pieces to show at Survey. And they were good pieces, though I was biased. But these recent paintings were special; iconographic canvases with fragments of Saz’s life worked into the smaller, sketchy details, like a road sign from her grandparents’ street in South Korea, the phone booth she could see from her childhood bedroom in London, the outline of the window in the Manor’s living room. Each one felt like getting to know her all over again.
Finch, Saz, and I left the studio by dinnertime on Sunday. Campus was filling up again. Suitcases rolled over brick. The air smelled like the possibility of snow. I burrowed my fists deep in my pockets, trying to stay warm. The chill cut down to the bone anyway.
But the Manor was aglow. It stood like a queen on a throne at the end of the promenade. All peaks and eaves and gingerbread, those imposing stairs, those crosshatched windows, elegant columns that had stood the test of time. Lights on in every window. Figures moving behind the curtains and glass. I could see the shadow of Caroline there, at the top, and someone in the hallway on the second floor, head bobbing near the little circular window. They’d turned the porch light on, knowing we’d come back eventually and need it.
“Looks like everyone’s home,” Saz said with affection.
We kicked our shoes off at the back door. I could smell someone’s lingering coffee made too late in the day. Amrita’s red scarf hung over a dining chair, and weed smoke clung in the air. The clock read 7:36, and my heart swelled with anticipation of hearing their delight come pouring down the stairs when the minute changed. I closed my eyes and stood there beside the stove, listening.
“Seven thirty-seven!” Saz called, and the distant chorus answered her. Coming home to them would never get old.
We piled around the dining table that night. Caroline had been the one smoking, and she brought her ashtray downstairs to pass around the joint. She sat shirtless in a lacy bralette as the radiator cooked the room. Someone had trimmed her hair while she was away. Now it sat just past her shoulders. She frowned around the joint as a long pull flared the end red, and then said, “I hate being back at that house.”
Saz put an arm around her. Low music played from a speaker. Every so often the Manor’s poor wiring would falter, and the lights would give a halfhearted flicker.
“Well, you’re home now,” Amrita said gently. “You don’t have to think about it anymore.”
Saz smiled. “Yeah, next time we’ll just go back with you. Then you won’t have to deal with it alone.”
Caroline looked like she wanted to say something self-pitying, so I cleared my throat and interrupted. “Can you imagine how fun it would have been if we grew up together? What it would have been like to be teenagers at the same time?”
Finch said, “Caroline would have bullied us. She’s too hot.”
Caroline shoved Finch’s shoulder, but the look that passed over her softened. She cracked a grin.
“Sometimes I can’t believe I didn’t grow up with you all.” Saz smiled. “You’re too important.”
Amrita’s laugh was bashful. “Please don’t be earnest, I’ve been up since six.”
Finch was grinning. “Seriously. We would have worn those necklaces that are two halves of a heart and played with Ouija boards, or pierced our ears with sewing needles and apples.”
“We would have started a band.”
“We should still start a band.”
“We would have been so fucking insufferable. Like seriously annoying.”
“Our parents would have disowned us.”
“We would have gotten expelled from whatever school was unlucky enough to enroll us.”
“I was already halfway to expulsion,” Finch cut in again through the overlapping voices. “My mom always said I was a horrible kid.”
I could imagine them younger. I’d seen their baby pictures, their downy adolescence, and I’d shown them mine. Sure, I guess we were still kids. At least, we were hardly adults—we played at maturity as if claiming it might make it true, like our dedication was enough to prove that we deserved to say we knew what we were doing.
“I wish I’d been worse,” Amrita admitted. She rested her chin on a fist and touched the candle Saz had lit in the center, toying with the wax. “I think that’s the only thing I would change, if I could.”
“What, you wish you had our bad influence?” Finch asked, giving a piece of Amrita’s hair a gentle tug.
Amrita tipped her head at Finch and smiled. “Honestly, yeah.”
There was a lull, the five of us steeping in the quiet.
“We could do something to prove our friendship,” Finch said.
“Didn’t we already sacrifice the life of our worst enemy in girlish solidarity?” Caroline asked as she raised the joint to her mouth again.
“I mean like, a friendship bracelet. But forever.”
Amrita’s fingers danced up the candle, dangerously close to the wick. “Like what? Want me to brand you with my initials?”
Finch shook her head, smiling. “Nah, I have a better idea.”
She slid away from the table and up the stairs, sock feet thumping the whole way up. Saz raised her eyebrows in a silent question. We shrugged in unison. Finch reemerged with something in her hands that appeared to be a shoebox.
“Oh my god,” Saz said, sitting up straighter.
“What is that?” Amrita asked, nervous now.
“My stick-and-poke kit,” Finch said. “I let Saz borrow it.”
“You were going to tattoo yourself?” I asked Saz, incredulous.
She shrugged. “Finch said it was easy.”
“It is easy.”
“No way. You are not sticking a needle into me,” Caroline said immediately.
Finch gave Caroline a real, true-to-life pout.
“No fucking way,” Caroline repeated.
Amrita surveyed the box suspiciously. “Is it ... sanitary?”
Finch scoffed. “You know I’d never hurt you.”
We answered her with hesitant silence again. Finch looked exasperated. “Seriously! Come on, I’ll do it to myself first.”
“You’re high,” I said, looking for an out.
“Only a little. It’ll hurt less like this.”
“I don’t know if that’s how it works,” Saz said doubtfully.
The kitchen chair made a ragged sound when Finch pulled it out again. We watched her set up all the materials—a vial of India ink, a packet of long needles, latex gloves, alcohol wipes, a bottle of witch hazel. The lights wavered overhead, and the music fluctuated with them.
“This is probably a bad idea,” I said.
“Jo, do you love me?”
Finch gave me a beseeching look. Her brows arched up as if daring me to challenge her, prepared to challenge me back.
“Of course,” I said.
Her answering smile beamed at me. “See, Jo gets it. You’ve all said that you wanted a tattoo at some point, and now that I’m giving you the opportunity, you want to shoot me down?”
“I meant from a professional,” Caroline answered. “Like, with a license and the right equipment.”
Amrita picked up the India ink and examined it, her expression thoughtful. I thought if anyone would cling to sensibility, it would be Amrita. The rest of us had less backbone. She’d always been a stable pillar.
“Okay,” Amrita relented. “I did say I wanted one.”
Saz laughed, giddy with permission. “Hey, if Amrita does it, I will.”
“My mom would fucking crucify me,” Caroline said.
“Isn’t that half the fun of it?” Finch asked.
Caroline hesitated, but a smile forced its way through. “You know what? You’re right. Fuck it.”
Fuck it was right. Finch began to set up a little cup filled with ink, leaning down to eyeball the liquid’s level. When she deemed it acceptable, she rose and undid her belt, then slid her jeans down around her thighs. We whooped accordingly. I cupped my hands around my mouth as we cheered, mostly to disguise the immediate heat that rose to my cheeks.
We crowded to watch Finch ready herself as she cleaned her thigh and prepped the needles. She met my eyes when she asked, “What should we tattoo? We all have to match.”
“The Rotham insignia.”
“Gag, that’s ridiculous.”
“Moody’s name.”
“The Manor.”
“Do I look like I’m capable of that kinda detail?”
“Oh, my bad, I thought you were an artist .”
“Give me something easier. Like, a leaf, or something small I can’t fuck up.”
“That gives me a lot of faith in your abilities.”
“I’m just being straight up.”
“You’ve never been straight. Not even for that spring semester in sophomore year when you pretended so a guy would give you free tickets to see The Internet.”
“You promised that you would never bring that up again.”
“Can you do a flower?” I interrupted. “Something with meaning?”
Saz sighed. “Jo, that’s corny.”
“No, it’s cute.” Finch’s eyes gleamed. “What are you thinking?”
They were all looking at me. I thought about the allegorical vanitas paintings we loved, and all the gravity in a memento mori. I cleared my throat and said, “In Greek mythology, hyacinths are supposed to represent devotion beyond death.”
Finch gave me a lingering look. Finally, she said, “Okay, that’s kind of metal. Someone pull up a pic and let’s get to work.”
Amrita obeyed, propping her phone against someone’s beer bottle. Finch swiped her leg clean again and got to work. It was a meditative process, with the in and out of the needle and her brow furrowed in focus. The lines were more even than she had promised they would be—she was actually good at it.
“Look at that,” Saz said, marveling.
It really was beautiful, after she wiped away dots of blood with an alcohol pad. The design was small and delicate. Outlined petals burst from the stem, lupine leaves soft as a rabbit’s ear, Finch’s careful hand etching the shape along the top of her thigh. Caroline volunteered to go next. She wanted the flower along her ribs where she might be able to hide it from her mother for a little while. If it hurt, she didn’t show it—her expression remained pleased. Saz followed after Caroline’s was cleaned up, with Saz’s inked on the inside of her left bicep where it could press close to her heart, and then I gave a little wave.
“I’ll go,” I said.
It was just after midnight. Something bumped against the kitchen window with a dithering hum—a moth beating its wings against the glass. Finch motioned for me to take my sweatshirt off, and I obeyed, sitting there in my sports bra with my bicep clutched in her hands. She wiped down the skin and gave me a look of confirmation. “You can start,” I reassured.
“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” Finch said with a reassuring brush of her thumb. My skin prickled beneath her touch.
“And leave me with a half-finished tattoo? Yeah fucking right.”
My stomach tittered with the same fluttering motion of the moth. I sucked in a hard breath, and Finch gave my bicep one more little squeeze. “Alright, Jo. One, two, three ...”
The first poke was just a light prick. Finch was quick and sure of herself, acutely aware of my skin and how to maneuver it. Her thumbs stretched my bicep taut. I leaned into the touch, my head fuzzy, the room too close, something creaking upstairs. But we were all down here, weren’t we? Who could be standing above us?
There was a damp titter beside my ear, like something with wings taking flight. I flinched.
“Quit moving,” Finch said softly, her exhale fanning across my cheek. I closed my eyes—
And opened them again in a daze. My back was against the floor. I had slouched out of the chair at some point, limp with forgetting. Caroline peered down at me, framed by the comet of the overhead light behind her head.
“Look at me,” Caroline said, her hands cold against my cheeks. “You’re okay, just take a deep breath and relax.”
“What happened?” I asked. Fingers combed through my hair, a little rougher than needed but kind all the same.
“You fainted, baby,” Saz’s voice answered. “For no reason, really. It’s just a little needle. Come on, sit up. Amrita, get her some water please. No, don’t splash her with it, let her drink.”
I felt for my head, which was already pounding with the promise of a lump. My fingers prodded a tender spot, and I winced. It was like cracking open the back of a beetle, hearing the crisp exoskeleton crunch. Amrita was there in a blurred-out shape, and I felt her press the glass to my lips, heard her encourage me to swallow. When I finally focused my gaze, it landed on Caroline again, scrubbing my skin with a spit-dampened thumb. Her eyes were blown wild and wide, blue pupils pale as chemtrails. She gave me a grin and turned her teeth into a barrier.
“Good morning,” she said.
My arm throbbed. The skin above my elbow was tender as a fresh burn. I reached for it, instinctively, and then Finch was there to push my hand away.
“Don’t touch it,” she said under her breath, hand just grazing around the place that stung. “You’ll get something infected.”
My eyes fell on the flower blooming half-finished in Finch’s linework. The tattoo wept fresh red tears.
“We match now,” Saz said with a grin. She held her arm up, a diagonal blur of skin. I struggled to trace the hyacinth petals inked into place there.
Finch pushed a strand of hair away from my eyes. “I didn’t get to finish yours. Do you feel well enough to sit up?”
The whole weight of my body pressed down on my elbows against the kitchen floor. That room felt like a staged scene, a sculpture about to tip. Like one of my paintings carved out of the canvas. Each of them sat around me in a circle, angling into my space as if they thought I might speak a prophecy out loud, some lasting and strange insistence.
“Jo?” Amrita asked, her fingers pressing into her lips as she studied me. “Are you alright? Should we call the clinic?”
“Are you kidding? We’ll get kicked out for the tattoo alone,” Caroline cut in.
“I’m fine,” I insisted thickly, my tongue heavy in my mouth. “Sorry, that’s so embarrassing. I can’t believe I fainted.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Saz laughed. She helped me sit up all the way, and they got me back into the chair as Finch ran her fingers over my skin, right where the tattoo ended.
“Finish it up,” I said. “I’ll just look away.”
Finch sighed. But her hand slid down my arm and intertwined with my own, fingers locking with fingers, palm to palm. She gave it a squeeze, and I set my spine straighter. Then she released my hand and tugged my arm into her lap. The needle in her hand steadied again. She dipped it into her pot of ink. I kept my eyes trained on Caroline, who sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her own tattoo bandaged in plastic wrap.
She smiled when she caught me watching and gave me a thumbs-up. I let that gesture and the feeling of Finch’s hand in my own carry me.
“Almost done,” Finch said softly. When I shut my eyes this time, I remained upright. I went somewhere else in my head, sank deeper into the moment and their touch and their collective joy in watching me join them. It felt like an answer to our sacrifice. Like we actually held all the power we had taken from Kolesnik with our Boar King effigy. Like we were witches, conjurers, necromancers, animating the life out of his body, drinking it into our own.
Or maybe we were just girls obsessed with the occult, and each other, and all the different ways we could mutilate ourselves. Playing at liturgy until we could call it our own.
But couldn’t this be ritual enough? Couldn’t it be religion, the way I felt beside them? Did anyone else feel like this? Had I found the hidden panel in the wall, the sliding bookcase, the peeling crack in the plaster?
Finch dragged a soothing thumb along the skin that framed the tattoo. I slitted my eyes open and met her searching ones. “Done,” she murmured, and she gave me one final squeeze.
My arm stung desperately. I reached for it, longing to scratch, to dig my nails into the wound and rip it farther open. But I just pushed my fingertips into the soft fat padding my bicep instead. I pressed down and down and down until the hurt was the only feeling that remained.