Summer of Supernovas (4 page)

Adjusting the bag at my shoulder, I wait as traffic clears the crosswalk. My eyes fix on the freestanding single-story brick building. Its neon sign flashes:
INKPORIUM TATTOO & PIERCING.
Wexler Street isn’t the slums, per se, but it also isn’t the side of town where you want to look lost. Yes, Gram knows I come here. But Gram also remembers Wexler as it
was,
not as it
is.
Now it’s a mix of pawnshops, bars, and check-cashing facilities that get seedier the farther west you go.

The bell chimes as I push through the glass door. Heavy guitars assault the speakers, and the vocals sound like someone with a wicked case of stomach flu.

“How’s the sheep, Bo Peep?” Crater calls without looking up from his artistry. His string-bean frame is hunched, vertebrae poking from beneath his T-shirt.

The burly customer in Crater’s chair quickly wipes the pain from his expression. While he might be wearing a brave face, his complexion is paler than milk and he’s squeezing the life out of the armrest.

“Crate, I wore that dress
once
and it was adorable,” I holler over the metal music. “Just because it was white and had crinoline, it does not make me a sheepherder!” But arguing’s a lost cause. Once Crater names you, it’s as permanent as his tattoos. Could be worse. I could have Irina’s nickname. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Because.” Crater adjusts the volume before turning around to swap out vials of ink. Then he flicks the overgrown Mohawk from his eye and grins. “You smell like a bakery. Dead giveaway.”

I grin wryly. “Hazard of living in one, I guess.”

“Least you’re not the old lady who lived in her shoe. Imagine if you had to go around smelling like a foot.”

I laugh, then peer down at the sample tattoos in the portfolio that lies open on the counter. The page shows off every ornate dragon tattoo Crater has ever done, along with every place he’s ever put them.
Oh…eww.
I can’t fathom a reason to tattoo
that
part of my body. I swiftly close the book.

The guy in the chair squirms and grimaces. “How much longer, man?”

“Hour,” Crater snaps. “Maybe more if you keep up your worm-wiggling.” Good thing what the twenty-something tattoo artist lacks in charm, he makes up for with talent.

Crate glances back to where my hand rests on the portfolio. “Just promise when you finally decide to ink that virginal skin, you’ll come to me. Don’t trust anyone else. I’ll practically do it gratis.”

“I promise.” And it’s a promise I have to reaffirm virtually every time I step foot in Inkporium. Crater, in his way, is very sweet. He’s also very Leo, so I forgive his fixed and headstrong ways. He can’t help that his ruling planet is the Sun.

The electric needle whines as Crater resumes his work on Worm-Wiggler. “The harpy’s in back.” He means Irina. “Hey, you got anything in that basket for me?”

I take out one of the muffins and set it on the counter. “You’re lucky I’m feeling charitable today.”

He pauses, sniffing the air. “Banana-nut?”

“Yep.”

“Right on. Later, Bo Peep.” Crater winks—lion through and through. The incessant buzzing drowns out the sound of his chuckle at my annoyed expression. Stupid nickname.

I head for the narrow hall toward Irina’s private studio. The exposed brick on my right is littered with leaflets for local bands, local support groups, and local…well, you name it. I slow at a flyer for Absinthe showcasing a band called Wanderlust. Nice name. A lot better than Charred Biscuits or Pocketful of Lint.

Irina’s door is ajar. About now I’m really hoping Crate didn’t send me down here if she’s with a client. I’d pass out if I walked in on a piercing in progress—not to mention those south-of-the-border ones. Seriously. Irina’s pierced everything you can imagine, and a whole lot you can’t.

“Knock, knock?” I give the door a little push. I gain more confidence when I see the reclining chair in the center of the room is empty. Thankfully, Irina’s alone. The studio itself is small and well lit, with a perpetual scent of rubbing alcohol.

Irina holds up a finger. She then points to the phone in her hand and rolls her eyes. It’s her
tetya,
her aunt. My friend replies in an equally loud stream of Russian. Irina is first-generation Russian American. But I suspect the shouting will be multigenerational.

“She’s mad,” Iri translates in perfect English as she hangs up. “When am I going to settle down, find a nice American man like she did—blah-blah-blah. What’s new, right?” Irina has this theory that her
tetya
talks for two since her uncle rarely speaks. “Oh, and fair warning, she’s making borscht for dinner. Which you’re going to have to pretend you
love
unless you want to start another cold war.”

My toes curl. “Then I’ll love the hell outta that icky pink soup, because your
tetya
is scary.”

“Yeah.” Irina plucks a few platinum strands of her long hair from her tunic. “But better than my mom.”

The fact that she’s brought up her mom is more jarring than hearing her switch from Russian to English.

Iri
never
talks about her mom. Any more than she talks about why, at the age of twelve, she came to America with her aunt. But I’ve pieced together enough to know there was poverty. Neglect. And that it was likely her mom’s drinking and the revolving door of men that caused Iri’s aunt to assume guardianship. I also know it took almost five thousand miles to create a comfortable distance from that past.

I quickly change the subject.

“So, what’s with the flowering cactus?” I ask of the tiny plant beside the sink, dumping my stuff on the nearest counter.

She smirks. “Oh,
that.
I had a consultation earlier with this guy. He asked for my number.”

I pull out the doctor’s-office-like stool and take a seat. “And? Did you give it to him?”

Her tall and thin form stoops as she restocks the cupboard beneath the sink with gloves. “I gave him
a
number. I think it was to some support group for the wheat intolerant—Wheat Beaters maybe?” She shrugs. While Irina’s only a couple of years older than me, sometimes it feels more like twenty.

“You didn’t!”
I laugh. “And he got you a cactus because you’re so prickly? That’s kinda clever and cute.”

“Or maybe it’s because I work with lots of needles. Either way, I don’t think I could date anyone named Jordan Lockwood.”

“Jordan Lockwood sounds like he wears a suit.”

“Actually, he does—total stiff. Hey, what’s the deal with you not texting me back last night?” Her kohl-lined gray eyes glint, competing with the diamond Monroe piercing above her lip.

“Oh. Last night was a
spectacular
disaster. I mean, I
really
outdid myself.”

Her forehead immediately furrows. It doesn’t take much to rouse Irina’s protective-lioness streak. Not surprising she and Crater are always butting heads. Two Leos under one roof is one Leo too many. “Are you okay? What happened,
dorogaya
?”

So I tell her—everything. Right down to flashing my undies.

Irina stops the fretful turning of her diamond stud to ask, “Wait. Since when do you wear thongs? I thought they were your sworn enemy. You called them ass floss.”

“Laundry day.”

“Ah.” Her head tips knowingly. She opens a drawer that contains clamps and a slew of medieval torture devices.

Looking at the hostile implements, I recall the exact sensation of how my navel retreated to my spine the day I met my Russian friend. My belly button never did get pierced those two years ago, but we forged a close bond anyway.

“Really? That’s your only question?”

“Well, the other things seemed to be more”—she waves her hand—“in character. Speaking of in character, you haven’t even asked about my surprise. You’re usually a curious kitten.”

Before I can reply, Oscar—another piercer at Inkporium—appears at the door. His short black hair has a streak of vibrant blue in the front, similar to the color of Irina’s shirt. Because of his bold appearance and carved features, people never expect him to be as soft-spoken as he is.

“I’m heading out.” Oscar crams one of his infamous battered copies of Shakespeare into the outer pouch of his backpack. “Hey, Wil.” He gives me a cursory glance. And I will never get why the Almighty would gift a guy such amazing eyelashes. Oscar’s hazel eyes briefly pan back to Irina’s fishnets as she bends to shut the bottom drawer. “So, Iri”—he cracks his knuckles—“the new seafood place on the riverfront is getting rave reviews. Can I interest you in—”

“Sorry, Wil and I already have plans.”

“Oh…okay.” Oscar toys with the ring on his lower lip, his thoughts as cryptic as his expression. “Maybe another time. Later.”

“Bye,” I say as he slips away.

The back door slams shut and I swivel to Iri. “Uh, excuse me, comrade, but did something happen between you two?”

Irina hefts her messenger bag, decorated with metal rivets. She waves her hand airily. “We might’ve made out at a party last night.”

My mouth drops open. I fight gravity to pull it shut. Irina rarely breaks her own rules, I think because there are so few to follow. “But doesn’t that go against your strict no-messing-with-coworkers policy?”

“Momentary lapse in judgment. Won’t happen again.” A wistful grin touches her lips. “Pity, though. Why is it always the quiet ones who make the best kissers?” She shakes her head.

“You and
Oscar
?” I’m going to need a crash helmet. “Sure, he’s cute but”—I scrunch my face—“seems like a lot of hardware to negotiate.”

Irina rolls her eyes. “And this observation would be coming from your extensive make-out experience?” She laughs when I give her a playful shove. “All right, grab your stuff and let’s fly.”

On the drive to her place, I’m quiet. I can’t shake the joke about my “extensive experience.” Of course, she’s fully aware I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. I’m just not sure if she’s aware why.

Irina pauses at a stop sign before rolling through. “What’s wrong?”

I pull my gaze from the signs advertising liquor and lotto tickets outside the corner store. “What do you mean?”

“There’s always something wrong when you breathe like that. Like you inexplicably have an oxygen shortage.”

How she could discern my breathing over the deafening exhaust system of her ’95 Ford Taurus—lovingly named Natasha—is miraculous. I angle toward her and take another breath. “Okay, I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

Her eyes veer from the road, measuring my seriousness. She holds up her pinky, which, in turn, I hook in mine. We shake.

“All right, here goes. Irina, I think there’s a possibility I might be…
asexual.
”

She snorts, quickly clamping her lips together.

“Okay, that, that right there, counts!” I holler. “Asexuality is a very real and legitimate condition. I looked it up.”

Irina works to regain the neutrality in her face. “You’re not asexual, Wil. You were not given that body to be asexual. It would be a crime against nature.”

I sniff, recalling how Brody Cooper had kissed me freshman year under the football-field bleachers. His tongue had done a full cavity search of my mouth. It was
disgusting
and totally pointless, seeing as how I already have a dentist and my own saliva.

And it wasn’t like sophomore year had gone any better when I dated Dylan “The Dyson” Murphy for an eye blink. The guy took the phrase “sucking face” way too literally. If I’d ever sought proof of my ill-fated romantic endeavors, then those boys had delivered it.

“Yeah? Well, tell that to my underwhelmed teenage libido.” I sigh, pushing shut the temperamental glove box. “Maybe I’m just being too picky. You know, Gram’s got this theory that I’m a late bloomer. Which is sort of tragically funny given my measurements.”

“You haven’t met the right person, Wil. The right person will change
everything.
”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. The fact is, I lack…
passion
!” The word explodes from my chest. “How am I supposed to embark on a search for the love of my life without
passion
? I’m so screwed.” I poke her arm. “And I’m ending our friendship if you make a joke about that.”

We stop at a traffic light.
“Dorogaya moya.”
Irina gazes with a softness that can’t be masked by heavy makeup or an abundance of piercings. Beauty this delicate and pure can’t be hardened, even by metal. But she tries anyway. Her fingers close around mine. “You live life with more passion than most people I know. Just because you don’t have the burning desire to hike up your dress for every guy with a line doesn’t mean you have a medical condition.”

“
Pfft,
you’re confusing living and loving.”

Her eyes narrow as Natasha lurches forward, tires squawking. “And you’re an absolute fool if you think there’s a difference.” She mutters something else in Russian.

“(A) I’m not a fool. And (b) don’t call me a hemorrhoid.”

“I didn’t call
you
a hemorrhoid. I’m talking to the Corsica who just cut me off.” She lays on the horn and waves her middle finger. “And your Russian is far too literal, Wil. Hand me my bag.”

I grumble my displeasure, but dutifully reach in the backseat, hoisting the bag between us.

She swerves in the process of her search. “Aha!” She pulls out a folded paper, tossing it to my lap. “Your birthday came early.
That’s
my surprise.”

I unfold it, pushing up my glasses. “An astrological chart?”

Her mouth curls up at the corner. “You know how you only have twenty-two days to find your perfect match?”

“Twenty-one now, but yeah.”

“Well, I might’ve fast-tracked it.” She smiles triumphantly. “Wilamena Carlisle, say hello to Mr. Right.”

I snap my head up. “Is this…?”

“You bet your sweet, star-obsessed ass. I discovered this program where you can upload your chart and cross-reference it with tons of potential matches. What you have in your hand is the one ranked most astrologically compatible.”