Chapter 8 #2
“We haven’t made any permanent arrangements for the fall yet,” Sarah’s voice was measured. Kind. Professional. “You’re an excellent teacher. I’d hate to lose you. If you’d only apologize to the Quinns…”
I imagined it. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Quinn, I am sorry that you are stupid, closed-minded, book-banning fascists.
I swallowed. “What about my students? They’ll wonder what happened. They deserve an explanation. They need closure.”
“The students are used to your substitute now. I think your return so close to the end of the school year would be more disruptive for everyone, not less.”
“But Colin—”
“Will not be in any of your classes next year,” Sarah said firmly.
“I’d like to at least say goodbye.”
Sarah sighed. “Anne, you know how short their memories are. These kids were raised on TikTok. They have the attention span of fruit flies. They won’t retain anything over the summer. Which makes this the perfect opportunity for you to put all this behind you.”
My mind whirled.
“One more thing,” Sarah was saying. “Once they’re gone, I need you to come in to pick up some of your things.”
“My things.” I sounded like a parrot.
“Your books,” Sarah clarified.
My underground library.
“Sarah, you know how important having access to books—all kinds of books—is for these kids. If I can get them reading, they’ll be better students, better thinkers, better people. I can’t give that up.”
“It’s nonnegotiable, I’m afraid,” Sarah said, sounding like my boss, not my friend. “Jim was quite clear. Ned’s already boxed everything up for you.”
I was numb. I didn’t know how to respond.
Dimly, I heard her saying, “Let’s give it the summer, shall we?
” It was not a question. She would not buck the system, I realized.
Not for me. But what about my students? “I think Jim might be willing to let this whole thing blow over once everyone calms down. The break will do you good. We can make a fresh start in August.”
She ended the call.
I cradled my phone, looking down at the tattoo on my arm. Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet.
I hadn’t made a mistake. Had I?
Jim Curtis certainly thought so. So did Sarah. She was forcing me out on leave, no matter how supportive she tried to sound. Even my mother, even Chris…“He’s your supervisor. It’s his job to keep you from making mistakes.”
Only Dad…Longing closed my throat. Dad believed in me.
—
The tattoo gun whirred over my arm like a swarm of bees, releasing a buzz of adrenaline, a rush of dopamine.
I breathed in through my mask, studying the designs pinned to the wall—preliminary sketches of skulls and roses, pets and pinups, spiders and butterflies.
Photographs of completed tattoos outlined in angry pink skin.
Reminders of death, celebrations of life, everywhere.
I blinked back tears.
The needle paused. Lifted. “Need a break?” Daryl, the tattoo artist, asked.
I’d been sitting in his chair for over an hour. I shook my head. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Try not to move.”
I stilled my restless leg. “Sorry.”
My forearm stung as he bent again to his work, shading in the outline with exquisite attention to detail.
I admired his concentration. Obviously, I could never be a tattoo artist. (I wondered what was involved.
Did you need to be certified? Do an apprenticeship?
Go to school for that?) But it would be nice to have that kind of focus.
To finally finish something. Touch someone.
Create something meaningful and important.
The deep, intense itch of the needle scratching over my skin pulled me back into the moment.
Daryl pushed his glasses up on his forehead, blotting blood and ink from my arm. “All done.”
I looked down at the shaded black design—a chisel with a wood-grain handle and my father’s initials etched into the blade. The date of his death was needled into my skin below the handle.
“It’s beautiful.” My voice was husky. “Thank you.”
“Your dad, you said?”
There was a lump like a sledgehammer in my chest. I nodded wordlessly.
Daryl patted my arm with his black-gloved hand. “Well, he’ll always be with you now.”
The tattoo blurred.
My dad was dead. But I was alive. The pain in my arm proved it.
—
I paid Daryl and left the studio, my arm wrapped in plastic, my mind buzzing and whirring like the tattoo gun. A fresh start. A new day.
I called Chris from the L platform.
“Anne.” His voice flowed into my ear, warm and reassuring. “How are you feeling today?”
As if I was sitting on his exam room table in a stupid paper gown, waiting to be treated for some minor ailment. Not that he saw many minor ailments. His specialty was life-and-death-type stuff.
I opened my mouth. Shut it.
“Honey? Is everything all right?” More personal now. Worried.
Probably it would have helped if I’d rehearsed what I was going say. What actually came out of my mouth was “I got a tattoo.”
“What?”
A train rumbled down the track, the noise reverberating on the platform. I raised my voice. “For my dad. Do you want to see it?”
“I can’t believe you went out. You have Covid.”
“I tested negative. Twice.”
“So you decided to get a tattoo.” His voice hovered in the middle range between amused and disapproving, Dr. Reasonable to my Miss Flaky. “Honey, do you know what kind of germs are in those places?”
I flushed. “Everything was very clean. And I wore a mask.”
“You shouldn’t be going anywhere right now. Not until you’re fully recovered.”
“Actually, I was hoping I could come see you tonight. We need to talk.”
“You need to rest.”
Again, he wasn’t wrong. My energy was draining away through the soles of my feet. A headache ticked behind my eyes. Under the bandage, my arm stung.
“Then why don’t you come to my place?” My mind darted to the veggies moldering in the fridge, the used tissues and dirty laundry piled by my bed.
I suppressed a twinge. Chris wouldn’t mind if my apartment was a bit of a mess.
We hadn’t seen each other—really seen each other, hugged or kissed or had sex—in weeks.
“We could order Chinese,” I suggested. “General Tso’s chicken and some of those dumplings you like? ”
He hesitated.
Unease squiggled on the back of my neck. Didn’t he want to see me? Or was he operating out of an excess of caution for his patients? “Or we could meet somewhere. Eat outside. Like a picnic.”
“Honey, I’d love to. Unfortunately, I need to pack tonight. I’m flying to Atlanta tomorrow.”
I stood stock-still, phone in hand. Blindsided. “Your fellowship doesn’t start for another month.”
“The hospital requires an on-site physical before I start work. I thought I’d look around while I’m down there. Find a place for us to live.”
I seized on the reassurance of that tiny us. Chris and I were a couple. We had plans, a life, a future, together. But…visions of his sterile, devoid-of-personality apartment danced in my head.
“I thought we’d pick out someplace together.”
“There’s no time. I’ve got meetings this entire trip. And you shouldn’t be traveling now, anyway.”
Reasonable. Chris was always reasonable. But he was making another decision without me—always in my best interest—and assuming I would go along. Like Sarah, telling me a break would do me good while she hired my substitute and boxed up my library. My stomach hollowed.
“Don’t worry, I’ll send you the listing,” Chris said. “I want you to be happy.”
I believed him. And yet…did he even know what would make me happy?
“I haven’t said I’ll come with you” came out of my mouth.
And there it was.
“It’s not like you have a lot of choices. The writing’s on the wall, isn’t it? They’re obviously pushing you out at Ravenscrest. This could be a fresh start. For both of us. You can always find another teaching job.”
He was right. But he was also minimizing my experience, my feelings.
It’s only an apartment, I told myself desperately. It wasn’t his fault that I was stuck, lost, while he continued on his unbroken career path.
“Chris, you can’t make decisions for me. We’re a team. Partners.”
Unless we weren’t.
I had never felt the inequality between us so keenly before. I waited for him to reassure me, to convince me to change my mind.
He sighed with exaggerated patience. “Look, honey, you’re upset. You’re not feeling well. We’ll talk when I get back.”
On the opposite side of the tracks, a train screeched and squealed into the station, headed in the wrong direction.
I swallowed. “I won’t be here.”
“I can’t hear you. What?”
“I’m going home.” I felt a spurt of panic. But the words were already out there, round and solid.
“For a visit.” Not a question.
“For the summer,” I said.
What did I want him to say?
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Not that.
“You know how you always jump into things.”
Not that, either. My heart ached with the things he didn’t say. Don’t go. I love you. I need you. Because the truth was, he’d never needed me.
The train pulled out of the station, rattling along the rails, building speed.
“That’s why I’m going. I need time away to think. To figure out what I want.” Against its bandage, my tattoo throbbed in time with my thudding heart. “I might even work on my novel.”
The one my father would never have the chance to read.
My laptop was full of writing fragments, chapters that went nowhere and characters in search of a plot. I was pretty sure the world didn’t need another novel about a confused, entitled Sad Girl trying to figure out her life. But right now, that was all I had.
Maybe, if I went home, I’d find a different story to tell.