Every wall was covered in sketches--bugs, trees, sometimes people, but rarely anyone I recognized. On a stand next to Rafael's bed was a glass case filled with inks. He pulled a tin box out from under the bed, and when he lifted the lid, I saw that it contained hand-hewn needles. I suddenly realized he was going to do this the outdated way.
"Your skin clean?" Rafael asked.
I nodded. I sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Where?"
I shrugged my arm out of my jacket, rolled my shirt sleeve up past my shoulder, and indicated my upper-arm.
"What do you want?"
I hooked my thumbs together and mimed wings. I wanted that atlas moth.
Rafael gave me a dubious look. I returned it questioningly.
"Some dumbass outside the reserve thinks you're wearing a butterfly on your arm, you'll get your ass kicked," Rafael said.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Fine," Rafael said gruffly. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
If I had known exactly how excruciating of an experience tattooing was, I don't think I would have agreed to it. One time Dad had taken me to a gas station, back when we'd still had a car. In his clumsiness, or maybe drunkenness, he had spilled half a tank of gasoline down my leg. I remember how it burned and peeled for days. The crude needle weaving in and out of my skin felt exactly like that burn, only multiplied by a thousand. I might have yelped noiselessly, once or twice, but even I didn't know that for sure. Rafael held me by the shoulder when I flinched, probably to keep my arm steady. He stopped his onslaught only when he needed to change inks, allowing me the very briefest of reprieves. I guess it was impressive that he didn't need to use an outline for the tattoo, but back when it was happening I could only think of the burning in my arm, a companion to the burning in my chest; how Dad was just fine, but had left me worrying about him for a whole month; how Dad didn't want me with him in Wyoming, or wherever he was headed. I was hurt. I wanted to hurt. I almost thought I wanted to hurt Dad. Almost. Even then, I knew that wasn't true.
The skin around the tattoo was very sore by the time Rafael had finished. He warned that it would flake for a while, and then it would heal. He leaned back to observe his handiwork; I did the same, except from an upside-down vantage point. The atlas moth, tawny and ragged, looked stark against my skin. It had eyes but no mouth. I liked it already. At the same time, looking at it made me feel indescribably lonely.
"Dads," Rafael said. "Screw 'em."
I laughed. It was soundless but tangible, rippling through my chest. Rafael laughed with me. Suddenly I didn't feel lonely anymore.
"I hate being indoors," Rafael said. "Wanna go down to the lake? We'll get watercress."
I didn't know what watercress was, but if he was going, I wanted to go, too. I unfolded my legs and stood up. Rafael stood with me and swung a friendly arm around my shoulders. Instantly, I felt calm.
We walked through the woods, the cicadas in the treetops boisterous and loud. Rafael pointed out the beech trees; he said they made for better firewood and he'd show me how to cut them sometime. In a clearing beneath uninterrupted blue sky was a wide, silver-faced lake, and a few men sat on the muddy banks, fishing poles in their hands. I spotted Annie's dad among them and felt a brief stab of returning anger; it ebbed away when Rafael twisted his hair back in a ponytail and knelt by the water, beckoning me with his hand.
"You should take your jacket off," he said. "You'll get it wet."
I compromised by rolling back the sleeves. Rafael gave me a long, scrutinizing look. I replied with a neutralizing smile. I don't think he fell for it.
We scooped sodden leaves of watercress out of the lake and laid them out beneath the sun. Rafael scraped the dirt from the watercress with his
"Your skin clean?" Rafael asked.
I nodded. I sat cross-legged on the floor.
"Where?"
I shrugged my arm out of my jacket, rolled my shirt sleeve up past my shoulder, and indicated my upper-arm.
"What do you want?"
I hooked my thumbs together and mimed wings. I wanted that atlas moth.
Rafael gave me a dubious look. I returned it questioningly.
"Some dumbass outside the reserve thinks you're wearing a butterfly on your arm, you'll get your ass kicked," Rafael said.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Fine," Rafael said gruffly. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
If I had known exactly how excruciating of an experience tattooing was, I don't think I would have agreed to it. One time Dad had taken me to a gas station, back when we'd still had a car. In his clumsiness, or maybe drunkenness, he had spilled half a tank of gasoline down my leg. I remember how it burned and peeled for days. The crude needle weaving in and out of my skin felt exactly like that burn, only multiplied by a thousand. I might have yelped noiselessly, once or twice, but even I didn't know that for sure. Rafael held me by the shoulder when I flinched, probably to keep my arm steady. He stopped his onslaught only when he needed to change inks, allowing me the very briefest of reprieves. I guess it was impressive that he didn't need to use an outline for the tattoo, but back when it was happening I could only think of the burning in my arm, a companion to the burning in my chest; how Dad was just fine, but had left me worrying about him for a whole month; how Dad didn't want me with him in Wyoming, or wherever he was headed. I was hurt. I wanted to hurt. I almost thought I wanted to hurt Dad. Almost. Even then, I knew that wasn't true.
The skin around the tattoo was very sore by the time Rafael had finished. He warned that it would flake for a while, and then it would heal. He leaned back to observe his handiwork; I did the same, except from an upside-down vantage point. The atlas moth, tawny and ragged, looked stark against my skin. It had eyes but no mouth. I liked it already. At the same time, looking at it made me feel indescribably lonely.
"Dads," Rafael said. "Screw 'em."
I laughed. It was soundless but tangible, rippling through my chest. Rafael laughed with me. Suddenly I didn't feel lonely anymore.
"I hate being indoors," Rafael said. "Wanna go down to the lake? We'll get watercress."
I didn't know what watercress was, but if he was going, I wanted to go, too. I unfolded my legs and stood up. Rafael stood with me and swung a friendly arm around my shoulders. Instantly, I felt calm.
We walked through the woods, the cicadas in the treetops boisterous and loud. Rafael pointed out the beech trees; he said they made for better firewood and he'd show me how to cut them sometime. In a clearing beneath uninterrupted blue sky was a wide, silver-faced lake, and a few men sat on the muddy banks, fishing poles in their hands. I spotted Annie's dad among them and felt a brief stab of returning anger; it ebbed away when Rafael twisted his hair back in a ponytail and knelt by the water, beckoning me with his hand.
"You should take your jacket off," he said. "You'll get it wet."
I compromised by rolling back the sleeves. Rafael gave me a long, scrutinizing look. I replied with a neutralizing smile. I don't think he fell for it.
We scooped sodden leaves of watercress out of the lake and laid them out beneath the sun. Rafael scraped the dirt from the watercress with his
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