Ink for the Beloved Page 10

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Annika beamed. “I can’t wait for us to become friends.”

  I’m sure my mouth dropped open at that last remark. Thank God, no flies were buzzing around to zip in. With an incredulous expression, I looked up and caught an unspoken exchange between my mother and Todd. My mother had her eyebrows raised, and Todd was flashing the “thumbs up” move. But when Todd looked back at me, I’m sure his expression was more like checkmate. I got the vibe he had one-upped me in some competition only he knew about. What was going on?

  I’m just going to point out something here…just because everyone thinks you are paranoid; doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.

  I was introduced to Annika. Annika Kane. Annika was going to begin her apprenticeship in the shop. Apparently, Annika was a big fan of my mother’s. Years ago, when she was just old enough to get a tattoo without parental consent, Annika had raced to Cosmic Hearts and had my mother do a sleeve on her arm of the colorful characters from Alice in Wonderland. The girl had a mosaic of the Cheshire Cat, the Mad Hatter, and the Caterpillar, and all of them were surrounded by red roses, dripping with paint. The dripping paint was Annika’s idea, which works if you know the story. The soldiers, who were made up of playing cards, were painting the white roses red because they were afraid of what would happen if the Red Queen discovered the wrong colored flowers had been planted. My mother pointed out it would look like dripping blood to most people no matter what she did to tweak the design. The dripping red from the flowers combined with the unsettling grin of the Cheshire cat made the whole design look diabolical. Regardless, Annika was happy with her Terry Wynters original ink work.

  So happy that she had spent the last two years in art school and her ambition was to follow in my mother’s footsteps. Blah. Blah. Blah. Rah Rah. Rah. (Here is where I shake the red and yellow pom poms) What a way to feed my mother’s ego. I could see Annika was a royal ass kisser.

  It also turns out Miss Annika is the lead singer in an emo/electronic band known as Sugar City. (This just keeps getting better and better) Sugar City is a popular local band. (But I can’t say since I am not allowed into clubs). Annika is a big draw with her smoky hipster voice and slick blue/black hair. Todd thought she would be just what the doctor ordered as an asset to the shop and the Beloved ceremonies.

  There’s that Todd again.

  “Think about it,” my mother explained. “It’s a perfect marriage.” My eyes widened at her usage of the word “Marriage.” “She’s got a direct pulse into another generation of clientele. People see her onstage. They think she’s hip, she’s cool. They see the awesome work on her arm.” My mother laughed, and Annika giggled, waving her arm around with the Alice in Wonderland artwork.

  I thought I was going to gag. My mother used the word “awesome.”

  “Plus, people KNOW HER. It will be great to be able to use her name value as leverage. Wouldn’t you like Annika Kane of Sugar City to serenade your mother’s favorite song as part of the Beloved ceremony? Oooh, I’m getting goosebumps.” My mother giggled AGAIN and then shivered to sell her earlier comment.

  This whole thing was beginning to smell like a sales job. Why were the three of them (thankfully, Dusty was off minding her own business) surrounding me as if I had to sign off on this new addition to the tattoo shop?

  “I didn’t know we were looking for another apprentice,” I offered, and, I admit, the comment sounded lame. “I thought you said you wanted to keep it just you and Dusty for a while.” My mother hadn’t said that directly. She had hinted she wanted some downtime, and she didn’t feel up to training a new artist. Frankly, she said it was exhausting.

  However, this is an interesting note - the last apprentice in the shop had worked with Dusty, not my mother, and his name was Rafael. The exhausting element for my mother was the fact Rafael developed an enormous crush on her, making things complicated and really, really awkward. This was shortly after she had kicked Luther out and filed the restraining order, so Rafael took it upon himself to be the protector of Cosmic Hearts. Because goodness knows, we couldn’t have the big bad Luther show up and huff and puff and blow the place down.

  Rafael would continuously check with me as to what the security aspects of the place were as if he were in charge. He wanted to know when doors were locked, how and when supplies were delivered, and the information about the security company we employed. I complained to Dusty about this. I pointed out Rafael shouldn’t be asking me all this information. It was information beyond what an apprentice should know. Besides, he shouldn’t be bugging the teenage girl. I hate it when people look at me as a soft touch because of my age. Dusty had to go to Rafael and tell him to reel it in. He was crossing the line. However, Rafael firmly held on to the idea he was my mother’s savior. She winked at him and touched his arm, and the ignorant fool didn’t notice she did this with everyone – man or woman.

  Extracting Rafael from Cosmic Hearts had been exhausting. It took days and weeks of teary exclamations, and my mother dodging him on the phone and at the house. Now that I look back on it, new apprentices at Cosmic Hearts are tiresome for everyone involved, and it flashed in my mind the addition of Annika may be intended to distract me. Her comment about being friends played in my head. I don’t need any new friends.

  Todd had a pleased as punch grin on his face, so it was apparent he had orchestrated this and was pounding his chest like the dominant gorilla.

  “This will keep our bookings at a two-month waiting period,” my mother continued with the exuberance she was feeling. “This will take the Ink for the Beloved ceremonies to a whole new level.”

  “It’s great for advertising,” Todd interjected.

  My jaw dropped at that. And inwardly, I was shaking my head. Part of the appeal of the Ink for the Beloved ceremonies was they were an underground thing. Word of mouth and direct recommendations is what made it special. You had to know about it and then know where to go. Like a secret handshake or password to enter an exclusive club. If we advertised, then any Tom, Dick, or Harriet would come waltzing in. It would become tacky and gimmicky. I shuddered at the thought.

  “I have an idea.” I threw out with as much sarcasm as I could muster. “Why don’t we hang constellations from the ceiling like Jupiter and Venus with beaded strings of stars and hearts. You know Cosmic Hearts – get it. And then Annika could sing songs like “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

  “I know that song!” Annika said excitedly. “I can sing that.” My mother giggled AGAIN. This was nauseating.

  I glared at the trio in front of me. “I was kidding,” I said. “But oh my God, you people are serious. I can’t handle this. I’m outta here.”

  I went in search of a hot sauce packet. I kept a stash in the cupboard over the sterilization unit. As I found my way to inner balance with the soothing pepper kick in my throat, it dawned on me that perhaps Todd’s intention wasn’t to distract me with Annika, but maybe keep me out of the shop. He knew a personality like Annika would drive me bananas. She may look cool, but the need to please part of her character was annoying as shit.

  I opened a second packet of sauce and watched them talk about suggestions for enhancing this new element of the Ink ceremonies. It was a good idea, I knew that. On the one hand, I was glad my mother had found a replacement singer for Joanie. However, it bothered me Todd had been the one to find the replacement. I admitted it bothered me because now he looked like a hero. I watched and listened as Dusty joined the conversation. The laughter increased as Dusty suggested songs like “Weird Science” or even Bjork’s “Mutual Core” for people who were doing biotech ink. Annika screamed about how much she loved Bjork, and my mother did too, at the same time. Then they giggled and hugged. Todd gleefully pumped his fist in the air.

  At that moment, I realized I was standing outside the inner circle.

  MUG WARS

  Todd’s continual presence at Cosmic Hearts kept me away. I would go in, do the task that needed to be done, and get
out quickly. But I was also beginning to feel under siege in my own home. The man was an intruder, and he kept doing things to remind me he was an intruder. My mother would try to cloak the misfires like we all were adjusting to him being around, and the awkwardness was natural. I was not having it.

  Their morning routine was plain ridiculous. For weeks after my mother and Todd began seeing each other, my mother maintained this pretense that Todd was not spending the night. The whole charade bordered on the absurd. If it had only been Echo in the house, then maybe, and I emphasize maybe, they could have pulled this off. But there was a teenage girl in the house for goodness sake! (I really try not to say God or use Jesus Christ in my exclamations since Joanie told me it bothered her. I still catch myself at times. Well, frankly, I catch myself a lot.)

  This was the charade my mother and Todd would pull after Todd had spent the night. This was their answer to the awkwardness after Todd had displayed himself in his underwear. My mother has her own bathroom attached to her bedroom, so morning constitutions were not a problem. There wasn’t the danger of having a child or teenager waltz in while Todd was in the bathroom. The problem was having one of us see him emerging from her bedroom and heading down to the kitchen. That scenario screamed of over-familiarity and sex.

  In the morning around seven o’clock on school days and eight am on weekends, Todd would get dressed in his clothes and climb out the window of my mother’s bedroom. That’s right. He would scramble out the window like a forbidden lover who is running from a shotgun. Then, and this part is absurd, he would walk around the side of the house and ring the front doorbell, and my mother or I would let him in as if he was just arriving. My mother made a big show of it, wrapping herself in her robe, hurrying down the hallway, and opening the door with a big ‘Hi sweetheart! Good morning’. If it was me who answered the door, I just opened it, mumbled at his disheveled look, and then rolled my eyes for good measure. Todd would flash his Tom Cruise grin like he was happy to see me. Oh, happy day.

  One-time Todd didn’t have his balance in check, and he tumbled out the window, landing hard on his back. From my room, I could hear the fall and the snap of the bush branches. I stifled a laugh because I could tell that one hurt. After his tumble, they placed an old plastic stool of Echo’s under the window for Todd to lower himself onto. Whenever I was in a vindictive mood, I would move the stool. I loved hearing Todd fall out the window on his ass.

  We had our little warfare going on. Our silly games of oneupmanship. Each one of us was seeking ways to get underneath the other’s skin and tapping emotional buttons like they were slow controls on a frustrating elevator.

  One of Todd’s favorite ways to get my goat was to use my mug in the morning for his coffee. I had a favorite mug, which is common in most families. It wasn’t anything special - just a bright red mug with no designs or words on it. I liked the shade of red and had purchased it when the mug caught my eye in a shop on College Avenue. Due to the communal nature of the household, there was a large stack of multi-colored cups in the cabinet over the counter space where the coffee maker sat. There was also a mountain of tea boxes and tea tins for folks who liked a smaller dose of caffeine in the morning. That would be me. I disliked coffee but loved tea. I had designated which mug was mine so the coffee drinkers would not taint my mug with the essence of coffee. You think this is weird, but it’s not. Ask any devout tea drinker how they feel about coffee grounds.

  There was a vast variety of coffee mugs – something for everyone. Anybody who came into the Wynters’ kitchen in the morning when the pot was brewing had their choice of mugs with birds, mugs with presidents, mugs with dinosaurs, mugs with cute messages, and mugs from some out of the way destination nobody remembered. Some mugs hadn’t been purchased by anyone in the household but had magically appeared in our kitchen anyway. For instance, there was a tall yellow mug with a chicken on it that said ‘Rochelle,” and nobody had any idea who Rochelle was. Then you had the mug I had purchased personally and claimed as mine. Everybody knew the bright red mug was Bess’ mug. Todd knew it, and that’s why he would use it if he got into the kitchen before me.

  The first time I saw him sitting nonchalantly at the breakfast nook reading the newspaper with my red mug clutched firmly in his grasp, I felt a slow heat rise through my chest.

  “That’s my mug,” I said, trying not to sound like a bratty three-year-old.

  Todd raised the red mug, like a toast, and smiled at me. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

  “I do,” I replied. “Everyone has their own mug. Even Echo has one for her hot chocolate. I don’t see you using the dinosaur one.”

  Todd looked at my mug like he was examining a finely chiseled diamond of rare origins. “I like red,” he replied and then delivered his dopey pearl white grin.

  “What’s going on?” my mother asked as she entered the kitchen. She headed over to the cupboard to extract her favorite mug, which was black with an explosion of white daisies.

  I said, “Nothing,” but at the same time, Todd said, “Bess is unhappy with my mug choice.” And, of course, my mother went with what Todd was saying as an assessment of the situation.

  “Good God, Bess, just take another one.” My mother reached back up into the cabinet and grabbed Echo’s dinosaur mug and handed it to me.

  I looked at the mug with the growling Tyrannosaurus Rex flashing his impressive incisors as if they were mocking me. And they were. “Are you serious? I asked. “This is Echo’s.”

  My mother waved her hand as if she were saying “potato patatoe,” which is probably what she was thinking. “I knew somebody used it. It’s a mug, Bess. What’s the big deal?”

  The slow burn I had felt earlier erupted into a firestorm. I knew it looked childish to complain. And making me look childish was Todd’s endgame. I held up the dinosaur mug like I was displaying it on the Home Shopping Network. “Mom, this is clearly Echo’s. There is a dinosaur on it. Look at all those sharp teeth. Roar. All I am saying is everyone has their mug. Everyone has their OWN mug. You have the daisies. Ollie likes the one from Yellowstone. I have the red one I got from Sweet Dreams on College Avenue. Todd can choose his own OR buy one and add it to the collection. Hey, that’s a thought. Todd could BUY something.”

  Todd and my mother just looked at me like I had grown alien antennae and was making beeping and farting noises in the middle of the kitchen. Todd threw on his customized Tom Cruise smile and said once again. “I like red.” My mother leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She then nuzzled his neck and added: “And he makes a damn fine pot of coffee.”

  Oh, Gross.

  It was then that Echo shuffled into the kitchen, yawning and using her fists to rub away the sleep in her eyes. Dinosaur figures that had come from a birthday cake were popping out of her braids. Her feet were in dinosaur slippers, and she was wearing dinosaur pajamas. Of course, Echo looked at me immediately and said: “What are you doing with my mug?”

  I. HATE. TODD.

  PITY FOR A BROWNIE

  My last class of the day was the easiest. I was taking beginning guitar, and it was an excellent class to end the day with. When Terry had seen it on my registration sheet for junior year, she had praised me for my desire to study music. She has wanted me to pick up an instrument for the longest time, but I shied away from it. Band and orchestra aren’t my thing. I needed art credits to fill out my college preps for applications. There was no way on God’s green earth, I was going to take anything that smelled like a tool from Terry’s toolkit. No art, ceramics, design, or painting.

  I knew Terry liked the idea of me playing the guitar because she had visions of me sitting in the living room and strumming songs like “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore” or something from Godspell, with everyone singing along like we were at a campfire. There was a music camp near the Russian River Terry talked about. They had family sessions, and she had memories of going there as a kid with her parents. My mother reminisced about listening to the music under the
giant redwoods and the concerts with steel drums and other ethnic instruments. Whenever she told me these stories, I was reminded my grandparents were a bit on the hippie side. They didn’t attend Woodstock or anything, but they were on the cutting edge for their time. My mother’s artistic rebellion and her biracial child weren’t as big a deal as she likes to believe.

  It’s okay for my mother to have this dream I’ll join the creative members of the group in this way. But I doubt it will happen. I just see myself managing talent rather than being a part of them. Or maybe I’ll become a lawyer.

  But seriously, I’m taking guitar for the credit.

  I locked up the instrument assigned to me for class and headed outdoors with the throngs of students exiting the structures heading out towards downtown Berkeley and the buses home. I usually met up with Rueben and Joanie near the bike racks near the C building, where I locked my bike. We’d talk and then head off in the various directions the rest of our day dictated.

  Joanie was already there waiting. I could see her wearing the leggings and long T-shirt she wore for cheerleading practice. Her book bag was on the ground, and she was staring at the screen on her phone, reading something, and then she would look up at the sky as if she were trying to think or remember. Her movements are so transparent.

  I called out to her as I approached. “Is that a new phone?”

  “It’s a new cover,” she answered. She held out the phone, so I could see it. “Look, I got one with red and gold all over it. You know like the yellow jackets. (FYI the yellow jackets are our school mascot and red and gold are the school colors)

  “You’re taking this cheerleading thing too far.”

  “I’m trying to show school spirit. You should try it.”

  I made motions of gagging myself with a finger. Joanie ignored my immature actions and kept talking.

  “I downloaded an app that gives me a new SAT word every day. See.” She showed me the display on her phone where the word “atrocity,” and its definition was clearly presented. “Plus, I’m starting an SAT study workshop next Tuesday. I can’t do the one scheduled on Saturdays.”