"I talked to Mom last week," I say. "About not going out so much."
"Why?" Devanie’s nose scrunches.
I don’t think she cares so much that Mom’s always gone. In fact, I think she prefers it that way. It’s not like they’d spend much time together when Mom is home, but still. Someday Dev’s going to be an adult and she’s going to look back on her childhood and wonder why her mom was never there, and then she’s going to be angry. And then she’s going to turn to drugs or food or sex or gambling or God knows what to fill that gaping hole in her chest that won’t go away no matter how much she tells herself she’s over it.
"Because I give a shit. And because you need more supervision."
"No, I mean why do you waste your time even talking to her about that?" she asks.
Valid question.
"All right. I'm out." I ruffle her pale curls before swiping my keys off the counter and heading for the front door.
The screen door slams behind me, and I turn to pull it all the way shut. Glancing through the tear in the storm door's screen, I watch my sister stand in the middle of the kitchen where I left her, arms folded across her chest as she stares at the ground. She’s still as a statue, and I wonder if she's waiting for me to leave or if she's just lost in thought.
I'm sure all the other kids her age are texting each other on their phones - something Devanie has never been able to experience - making plans for summer or meeting up at the pool. I need to cave and get her a phone ... mostly for safety reasons ... but no good has ever come from a teenager having a cell phone, especially an unsupervised teenager having a cell phone.
Dev still hasn't moved, and I realize now that I recognize that look on her face.
She's lonely.
And of course she is.
She's alone. Constantly. And while I'm more than familiar with the feeling, at least I'm alone by choice. Devanie isn't.
I force myself to turn away, to go, to leave her behind the way I've done hundreds of times before. One of these days, I just might take her with me. But it won’t be that simple. Or that easy. Mom won't allow it. Dev is her meal ticket. Her tax refund. Her extra little bit of food stamps that she trades for who the hell knows what.
Cranking the radio, I head back to the south side and pull into my reserved parking spot in front of Madd Inkk.
The white Volvo with the boot is already gone by the time I get back. Good to know Dustin was able to make that happen. I'd never seen a girl so antsy to get out of here, like she was late for a flight to the Maldives or wherever rich assholes go.
Not that she was an asshole.
Quite the contrary.
She was polite. All "pleases" and "thank yous." Proper grammar and all of that. I’m willing to bet she's fluent in French and takes tennis lessons, and judging by her dainty, nimble fingers, I’m sure she plays piano – classically trained by European dignitaries or something. The kind of shit her parents can brag about to their friends over dinner at "the club."
I've seen a lot of shit in my day, and in all the years I've run Madd Inkk, I've met all kinds.
But today? Some preppy little thing with a sugar-spun voice and honey gold eyes telling me to put anything I want on her body as long as it's hidden?
Definitely a first.
Definitely something I couldn’t forget if I tried.
I head inside, smirking to myself and shaking my head as I shove my keys in my pocket and consider the irony in the fact that she cared so little about the ink I was permanently embedding into the side of her ribcage and cared so much about the fact that I don’t have any tattoos myself.
Three times she asked.
And in three different ways, like she thought she could trick me into giving her an answer. She finally stopped prying when Pierce told her I was “commitment phobic.”
Little will she ever know, commitment phobic doesn't even touch it.
Three
Brighton
* * *
"Ah, there she is! Happy Birth-"
I lift my finger to my lips, pleading with my eyes for Eloise, my family’s loyal and beloved housemaid, to be quiet.
Her hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, followed by a wash of confusion over her porcelain complexion, and finally, the smallest of winks.
The number of times I've snuck in through the service entrance, I can count on one hand.
My parents made dinner reservations at my favorite restaurant tonight, and I should've been ready by now. If I could make it to my room unseen, I could throw on a quick dress, pull my hair up, and they'll be none the wiser.
With a sweaty palm wrapped around my purse strap and my heart inching into my throat, I round the corner past the kitchen, trek through the carpeted dining room, and poke my head through the double doors leading into the foyer to ensure the coast is clear. I make it to the foot of the stairs when my mother clears her throat.
Glancing up, I see her standing at the top, her lithe arms folded and worry lines etched across her forehead, deep and furrowed as ever.
"Where have you been, Brighton?" she asks.
"Library," I answer, just like I practiced in the car on the drive home. "I lost track of time."
I climb the stairs, slow and easy, hoping she doesn't notice the slight, square-shaped protrusion along the left side of my ribcage. Holding her eyes like my life depends on it, I offer a smile. Casual. The confidence of a skilled liar, not that I speak from experience. This is all very new to me.
"Where are your books?" Her cool gaze moves to my small purse.
I glance down, pausing mid-step. "Oh. Must have left them in the car. That's what I get for being in a hurry."
My mother's gaze warms and she reaches for my cheek when I approach the top landing. A smile tinted with relief spreads across her thin lips.
"Well, you're home now. That's all that matters. Get cleaned up and meet us downstairs," she says. "Happy twenty-second birthday, my sweet girl."
"Thanks, Mom." I slip away from her and duck into my room at the end of the hall. As soon as I close the door and listen for the sound of her footsteps trailing down the stairs, I tear off my blouse and pad into the bathroom to examine my new "piece."
That's what they call it in the industry.
Peeling back the taped gauze, I study the small drawing sketched in black and blue ink, permanently drawn into my skin, the simple yet beautifully drawn butterfly.
I don't even know what it means—if it’s symbolic or it’s nothing more than a butterfly. Madden, the artist, made me promise not to ask what it meant, which I thought was strange. But stranger yet is the fact that I agreed.
Had I said no, I would’ve been left to my own devices, and I probably would’ve walked out of there with some cliché quote or word or worse … nothing at all.
Peeling out of today's clothes, I slip into a dimpled seersucker dress, white with pale blue stripes, and I twist my pale hair into a summery bun at my crown. I finish with earrings - platinum and diamond studs my parents got me on my tenth birthday - after "the incident." The family tragedy that marred our family history and sent my parents into a frenzied state of overprotection that’s yet to show any signs of letting up.