and still wanted one, and my dad never goes back on his word.”
Joni’s dad’s follow-through seems to mean a lot to her. I file that bit of information away for future negotiations with Hope.
“What did you get?” I ask, taking the Laconia exit.
Joni gives me a closed-lipped smile. “Tell me how you got your eyebrow scar and I’ll tell you about my tattoo.”
I shake my head. “No deal.”
“Is it a soccer injury?”
I just look at her, expressionless. “Yup. Soccer injury.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll get it out of you one of these days.”
“You can try.”
We get to the tattoo place, and Joni fills out a bunch of paperwork, chatting with the girl at the front desk about Sherlock like they’re best friends. I’m beginning to think Joni is best friends with everyone she meets.
Then we’re ushered to the back, and Joni’s sitting in the chair. The tattoo artist is snapping on rubber gloves and placing the elephant stencil on her shoulder, saying, “Ready?”
Joni nods and grabs my hand and closes her eyes tight as the needle makes contact with her skin.
She squeezes my hand tighter and tighter the longer the needle presses down. “Jesus fuck, that hurts,” she says.
“Are you okay?” I ask, unable to take my eyes away from the elephant slowly forming on her shoulder and the tiny droplets of blood the artist keeps wiping away.
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s a good pain. Addictive.”
I shake my head. “There’s no such thing as good pain. You’re crazy.” But I keep her hand tight in mine.
She squeezes so hard that my hand starts to go numb, and it’s easy to imagine I’m holding Meg’s hand instead, talking her through a contraction, wiping her sweaty hair away from her face as she pushes her way through labor. “I’m here,” I tell her. “I know it hurts but it’ll be over soon. You’re doing great.”
She smiles at me and squeezes my fingers as she follows the doctor’s order to push again.
Is it possible to have a flashback to a moment that never happened?
The alternate universe only lasts a second, and then I’m back with Joni, and the tattoo guy is wiping off the last of the excess ink and showing her what it looks like in the mirror. Joni claps with glee, then he covers her shoulder in ointment and a bandage, she pays her bill, and we’re back in the car.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she says.
“No problem. It was fun…in a sadistic kind of way.”
“You want to go get some food? I could use a sugar boost after all the bloodletting back there.”
“Works for me.” Really, she could suggest crashing a wedding or shoplifting a mouse from the pet store or going to buy nipple clamps, and I’d probably agree. Tonight, I’m free.
We get grilled cheeses and milk shakes and a giant tub of waffle fries to share and sit along the lakeshore. It’s strange, hanging out with a girl who eats junk food. If I’d ever seen Meg eat a waffle fry, I would have collapsed in shock.
Joni tells me more about her family. Her dad and stepmom got married when she was four, and she has one full sister (Stevie, the girl I saw at her house), two stepbrothers (Elijah’s the only one who still lives at home), and two half-siblings—the Super Soaker twins. Her real mother died in a boating accident when Joni was two, so she never knew her.
“What’s it like having such a big family?” I ask.
“Loud.” She shakes her head. “I love my little brother and sister, but they’re intense, man. Always running around and screaming and demanding attention. I got the job at Whole Foods ’cause I was sick of being stuck in the house with them all the time. I guess I’m not a kid person.”
Not a kid person. Good to know. I make a point of taking a huge sip of milk shake so I don’t have to respond.
“What about you?” Joni asks.
I wait a minute for the brain freeze to subside, and then say, “Not really a kid person either.”
“No, I mean what about your family? Your life?”
I figure the best way to approach this conversation is to pretend the last year and a half never happened. Anything post-Meg is off limits. Anything pre-Meg is fair game. It’s still being honest—just with some restrictions. I tell Joni about my mom and my nonexistent dad and soccer and UCLA.
“Have you ever thought about trying to find your father?” she asks.