I was so confused.
“I’m waiting for an answer!” Freddie Krueger screamed at us while he held a white handkerchief to Slate’s face. Eww, is that the handkerchief he used to blow his nose?
I stepped forward, “Mr. Krueger, Slate tripped and hit his face against the edge of the…desk.” Oh my God, I lied.
Mr. Krueger’s eyes tightened into thin little slits as he looked at me. “Is that really what happened?”
Everybody nodded.
“Okay then, let’s get you into the nurse’s station, shall we?” he said to Slate, walking him to the door. Drake followed right behind him. “The rest of you, go find your parents and go home.”
Jase, Joey, and I were left in the music room alone.
“THAT was the COOLEST THING EVER!” Joey yelled, jumping up and down in front of Jase “Where did you learn to punch like THAT?”
“My mom,” Jase said, walking out the door without saying another word to us.
Later that night when I got home from school, I climbed into my tree house by myself to sketch. Leaning up against my beanbag chair, I closed my eyes and tried to picture the tiny fireflies I noticed on my way home, and how they glowed their bright little bodies as the late summer sun set.
Something made a heavy thud against the wooden floorboards of the tree house, sending vibrations along the planks. I opened my eyes and Jase Delaney was right next to me, his alien eyes watching me.
“How’d you get up here? I pulled up the rope ladder, there’s no way…”
“I climbed up to the roof of my garage and jumped over,” he said quietly.
I ran to the open window and stuck my head out, “But that’s like a million miles away!”
“Yeah, I know. For a minute I thought I might die, but I jumped anyway,” he chuckled. “I just ah…wanted to say thank you, for you know, not saying shit to Krueger. That was pretty cool.” He talked like someone who was much older than me.
“Thanks,” I answered quietly, not able to look in his eyes.
“You know, you don’t look like a Charlotte,” he said.
I snapped my eyes to meet his, “Yeah, I know. I was named after my father’s grandmother. I hate it. It reminds me of Charlotte’s Web and I hate spiders.”
“You’re always reading…books like Charlotte’s Web and shit.”
“Yeah, I really like to read.”
“I’m not gonna call you Charlotte, since you hate spiders. I’m gonna call you Charlie.”
That made me smile. Charlie. I liked it. “Did your mom really teach you how to punch someone?”
“No, she taught me how important it is to block someone,” he whispered.
The memory slowly faded as the sounds of the coffee shop poured through my ears, and the sweet smell of pastries attacked my other senses. My last thought as the young images of us vanished from my mind, was wondering if we’d still be able to recognize each other, or had life left its mangled scars on us and the kids we once were could no longer be seen.
I sat up in my seat a bit straighter, kicking the cobwebbed thoughts out of my mind, and noticed that the person sitting at the table behind me was reading the screen of my iPad over my shoulder. The woman even had the nerve to clear her throat to get me to turn to the next page. She was so close to me that I could smell what her flavor of coffee was - Pumpkin Spice.
Mischievously, spurred by thoughts of Jase, I felt my lips tug up at the corners of my mouth, quickly swiped my screen to my favorite photos, and pressed on my slide show of black and white erotic pictures.
The woman gasped loudly behind me, and her coffee spilled across the table. I stood up to leave, smiled wide, and gave her a little wink before I left.
Slowly making my way back to the shop, every step I took closer to the place I’ve called home for almost ten years made my smile falter, until I felt it turn into a straight, tight line.
All because the closer I walked to my future
The further I was from my past.
And sometimes your past just doesn’t let go
Of you.
Police Report
Investigation: Criminal Sale of Controlled Substance
Date: September 17, 2014
Time: 1634 Hrs.
Location: Corner of Bleecker and Barrow Street
John Doe “Doc” [CASE SUBJECT] Male/Caucasian, Approx. 25-30 Yrs. Old. 5’11 -6’2”, 200 LBS. Wearing: Black suit jacket, white dress shirt, and black suit pants.
On September 17, 2014 at approximately 1634 hours, while in a long term operation in an undercover capacity under the supervision of Lieutenant Masterson who was conducting a case buy operation in the confines of the 16 Precinct, I Undercover (UC) #C5192 picked up approximately 25 grams of alleged cocaine from John Doe “Doc” for the set price of $880.00. The circumstance to the above is as follows:
Prior to Meeting my subject John Doe “Doc” [Case Subject] at the above location mentioned, I had spoken and made arrangements yesterday via cell phone to pick up the above amount of cocaine from John Doe “Doc.” When I reached above location I again called John Doe “Doc” via cell phone and told him that I was there. “Doc” stated, “You’re here already?” I replied, “Yeah, get down here.” After waiting approximately 2-3 minutes, I observed “Doc” walk out main door of building # 420 towards my direction. Once “Doc” approached me we shook hands. At that point “Doc” wanted me to follow him upstairs. But I told him “Let’s do it the way we always do it.” “Doc” pointed to cameras on ledge of building as we walked towards Bleecker Street. Once we reached the corner of Bleecker and Barrow I observed “Doc” take out one clear plastic twist bag white powdery/ rocky substance, from his right pants pocket, which I believed contained cocaine and handed it to me. In return I handed “Doc” $880.00 USC/PRBM which he placed in to his front pants pocket. I then mentioned that I had a big party that weekend, like the last time (100 gram pickup) and I asked for Oxycontin also. “Doc” stated that for the pills it would cost me $2000. I told “Doc” that I would call him the next day to confirm. I also invited him to party. I then shook his hand and informed the C.O. what transpired. No arrest made-Case Buy.
Chapter 2
Charlie
Slipping off my glasses to rub my tired eyes, I stepped past the gothic style painted glass doors of the shop. The cool, air-conditioned room brought a prickle of goose bumps along my skin, and a small shiver rumbled across my shoulders.
The raspy voice of Austin Winkler, lead singer of Hinder, was pouring out the lyrics of “Better Than Me” through the gallery’s state-of-the-art sound system, and the sterile smell of bleach and lemon filled my nose.
I glided my fingers against the long, smooth marble of the countertop, lined with delicately decorated gothic portfolios, containing the most talented works of art by the best tattoo artists in all of New York City. Hell, we were the best in the country. I wasn’t being biased because the shop was mine. We were actually coined, “the best in America,” by ForeverArt Magazine. Stone Caresses Tattoo Gallery was way more than your traditional tat studio; it was a 5,000 square foot art gallery of the best female tattooists to ever live.
Ever.
My girls and I treated the studio like a fine art museum. The shop had cathedral-like ceilings and elongated walls of exposed brick, which were entirely covered from floor to ceiling by photographs of tattoos, original drawings, and oil paintings. Some tourists even came in to browse through the walls and snap photos of themselves with the girls. We’d even seen our fair share of celebrities in here.
You usually didn’t come to Stone Caresses when you wanted a tiny ladybug inked on your ankle, even though we had my girl, Sky, there to do just that. You came in to get an intimate experience with a talented artist, and you left with a piece of authentic, original, fine art on your skin, forever. We usually had a two-month waiting list for appointments, except for the handful of walk-ins that just came to meet with Sky and her little ladybugs or skulls.
The
shop wasn’t always this upscale. Before it was handed down to me six months ago, it was called Under The Gun—My New Addiction, and the greatest woman to have ever lived, Auburn Tequila Rose, owned it. Auburn wasn’t her real name, but Tequila Rose was, which always made me wonder about her parents and what crap they had to have been smoking when she was born.
Tequila nicknamed herself Auburn, because of the deep, brownish-orange color of her eyes. She nicknamed everybody after the color of their eyes or hair; that’s why everyone called me, “Sage,” now. I was seventeen when she saved me; and she did save me. She saved me from the world, from my demons, but mostly from myself. “Give me a cooler nickname, like Jade or Hunter Green. Something badass,” I said.
“No, baby girl. Sage it is,” she said, smirking at me.
“But, Sage makes me think of an old wise woman with saggy boobs, who says profound stuff and knows the meaning of life. That ain’t me.”
“Sage fits you, Charlotte, you’ll see,” she said.
Walking through the main gallery of the shop, I headed for my private studio. It was only ten o’clock, and I still had two full hours before I had to officially open the shop’s doors. I figured I’d pound on my heavy bag for a while.
Making my way down the long, back hallway, I noticed Hazel’s studio door open and poked my head in to say hello to her. Four sets of red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes looked back at me.
Holy crap, did somebody die?
Throwing my bag on her counter, I crossed the small room and headed straight for Violet, who stood in the middle of the other three girls, sobbing the loudest. Her face was streaked with tear-soaked black mascara; her long, midnight black hair (with violet streaks) was pulled back into one of her flawless frizz-free ponytails. I really wondered how she did that; my hair had so many split ends they flew all over the place.
“Oh no, what happened? Whose ass am I kicking?” I asked, taking her chin into my hand. One eye and her cheekbone looked swollen, and it was just beginning to turn a sickening purplish-blue color. Anger flashed through me.
Hiccupping and gasping for air, she just about got out a full sentence before covering her face with her hands. Unfortunately, the sentence made no sense to me, something about a surprise pig’s tail wrapped in sheets.
“Can someone translate?” I asked, sitting heavily onto one of her chairs.
Blowing out a long breath next to me, Hazel gave Violet a sympathetic smile and sighed, “She went to surprise Matt last night, and he was hiding a naked girl wrapped in his bed sheets in his room. Vi was there, messing around with him for a good fifteen minutes before she heard a noise in his bedroom and had to push him out of the way to get inside his room.”
Sitting on the floor next to Violet was Ginger, looking up at me with her big brown eyes, “The little slut had pigtails in her hair, held up with hot pink bows, and a school girl outfit was crumpled up on the floor. When Violet flipped out on the both of them, he punched her,” Ginger said, looking at Vi with sympathy. Shaking her head, she added, “I say we kick both their asses right now, and then call the cops.” With her pixie haircut and tattooed arms, she looked like a badass fairy; all Ginger needed was black wings.
Violet sobbed louder and slammed her fists against her thighs, “Two years, Sage! Two years I gave that cheating son of a bitch! And instead of getting a proposal, I have to be thinking about getting tested for sexually transmitted diseases!” She took a deep, shaky breath and started bawling again. “What am I going to do?” she wailed. I noticed, we all did, the big pink elephant of him hitting her in the face wasn’t what she was upset about. Truthfully, I’d had a sneaking suspicion for a while that he sometimes knocked her around, but whenever I tried to talk to her about it, she would just deny everything. Even though we all worked together, I wasn't very close with the girls. I was more of a loner.
“We could kill him,” Sky shrugged, smiling at me. Her perfectly sculpted, dark eyebrows were arched, waiting for my response.
Putting my fingers around Violet’s wrists, I gently lifted her up off the floor, “Come with me for a sec, Vi.”
“How am I supposed to forgive him?”
“Forgive him? Ah, no way. Vi, you’ve got to forget him. You don’t forgive someone who physically hurts you. They don’t deserve it, and they’ll just do it again.”
I pulled her into my studio and handed her a lollipop out of my candy container. I always run to food when things go wrong.
Or go right.
Or just go.
Shut up; don’t judge me.
Anyway, while she was unwrapping the candy I grabbed my boxing gloves off the hook that hung from my workout corner next to my punching bag. I dangled them in front of her face and smiled at her.
She held up the round, pink lollipop, looked at it, and started crying again, “Lollipops always remind me of having sex with Matt.”
“What? Seriously?” I laughed. “What? Does he have a really round, tiny dick?”
“No. It’s just that he’s not going to be around anymore for me to, you know, have his lollipop. I was used to having a lollipop at least four nights a week,” she whined, the honesty dripping from each word.
That’s it, right there, that sentence comes out of Violet’s sad, little mouth, and my poor lonely girl parts start fantasizing about strangling the horny bitch. Four nights a week! I never got it four nights a week from Bren, ever.
“Hey, you know my favorite thing about having a lollipop is biting and gnawing off the edges of the sucker and crushing them with my teeth. Especially if it’s cheating and domestic violence flavored,” I growled out a sarcastic joke.
Violet looked at me and laughed. “I just feel like such a loser, like I lost the popularity contest. I wasn’t better than the hooch dressed up like a school girl.”
“Vi, there are no winners in relationships—there are just survivors. Now, I’m going to show you how to punch that bag like it's that jerk’s face, because if he ever hits you again, I want you to know you have the power to hit him right back.”
I shoved my sparring gloves over each of her hands and tightened the Velcro on them while she crunched the sucker to pieces in her mouth. Yes, I know not many normal women have a punching bag and sparring gloves on hand, but it’s one of the things I do to de-stress and work out. And someone showed me a long time ago that every girl needs to learn how to throw a punch. And throw it well. With rage and vengeance behind each blow.
“Okay, Vi. Ball your fists up tight and do not bend your wrists.” I demonstrated with my hands. “Hold your hands in front of your face, like this, and give me a little slow jab like this…” I punched the bag softly with my right hand, keeping my left hand blocking my face.
Violet mimicked my stance and punched the bag gently.
“Now, punch a little harder, Violet.”
She punched the bag again with the same gentleness and sighed, “I can’t do this, Sage; I’m not a mean person. Matt didn’t mean to hit me, and he’s been asking me for so long to dress up like a little school girl, but I haven’t and…this has got to be a mistake…”
I watched Violet turn the whole messed up situation around and place all the blame on herself. I desperately wanted to grab her in my arms and shake the stupid right out of her. “Cheating on someone is a choice, not a mistake, Vi. Matt chose to have sex her. But that’s not why you should forget him. Forget him because he also chose to hit you. You were nothing more than this punching bag to him.”
She looked at me wide-eyed.
“Hit the bag, Vi.” I got close up to her face. “Don’t pretend this was the first time. You deserve flowers and candy, Violet, not punches and bruises.”
She hit the bag harder, and a small whimper escaped through her lips. “He’s a bastard,” she sobbed as she hit it over and over, landing punches harder and harder each time. “I HATE HIM!” she screamed, slamming her gloved fists against the bag.
I threw a punch alongside her. “You know, Matt doesn’t deserve yo
u, Vi. It hurts to be cheated on, and I know you feel alone, but don’t spend any more tears on a guy who doesn’t love you like you deserve to be loved. It’s going to take some time, but trust me, you’ll forget about him, and someday, it won’t hurt so badly anymore…”
Then she went all Rambo on my bag and kicked the crap out of it. I stepped back and let her get it all out. The vibrations of the bag against the chain it hung from resonated against the walls, and all the little knickknacks on my shelves started jumping around and falling. I cheered her on, screaming her name, until a loud crash of a falling picture broke her from her wrath.
“Oh crap, Sage. Sorry,” she said, picking the frame up off the floor. Strangely enough, the glass hadn’t shattered. “I always wanted to ask you about this picture,” she said through heavy pants.
I scanned the old photo in its pewter frame, and a thick band of steel tightened around my chest. It was the last full day of summer vacation before sixth grade, and we were sitting in the tree house, all three of us. We were all ten and inseparable. On one side of me stood Jase, sticking up his middle finger at the camera, and on the other side of me was Joey, with his eyes crossed and tongue sticking out. My arms were around both of their shoulders—a giant goofy smile plastered across my face. The photograph captured us perfectly, full of fierce affection for each other, always laughing and joking together. There was an awe-inspiring relationship between the three of us, as it always is with innocent children, before there is any darkness in their lives.
The day that picture was taken my father took us to an amusement park in Long Island, something called Adventure Land, or some other clichéd amusement park name. My father, being the greatest dad in the universe, handed us ten (ten!) twenty-dollar bills and sat on one of the benches at the front of the park and told us to have a blast. He said to meet him back there in four hours and shooed us away with his hands.