The Rest of Us Just Live Here (17 page)

We don’t say much through the rest of the tattoo. It takes a little over an hour, but from the area where I see Martin working, I don’t think it’s going to end up too big. A tattoo is out of character for Henna, which I think is her entire point, but a big, ugly tattoo and she’d stop being Henna altogether. It’ll be something right-sized and good.

She looks down at it once, only once, during the whole procedure. “I didn’t know they bled,” she says.

“No one ever does,” Martin says.

He finally finishes, gently pats the blood away, then covers it with a square of clingfilm, taping it to her body. “No swimming for a month,” he says. “And try to keep it out of the sun for as long as you can.”

“Do you have a mirror?” Henna asks.

Martin gets up and brings over a large mirror that reflects her side and the brand-new tattoo.

Under the cling film, her skin is livid from where it’s been poked and written on. Blood wells up but not as much as I might have thought. The tattoo is there, clear as day, reflected in the mirror. It’s just one word, in some really amazingly beautiful lettering. No wonder she wanted Martin specifically.

Henna takes my hand again. And she cries again. And I wipe away her tears again. “I don’t even think your parents would mind if those were the rails you were coming off of,” I say.

“I don’t want them to know,” she says. “This is mine. All mine.”

In the mirror, reflected backwards, Henna now has a tattoo that reads, simply,
Teemu
.

I wake in the middle of the night for some reason or another. Maybe my own snoring was getting too loud or a dream I can’t remember.

I say this because I know it’s not the car that wakes me. I don’t hear it until I’ve turned over and made myself comfortable again. A car not my family’s is rare at our end of this very, very wooded road, but not impossible. There’s a turning just before us and sometimes people miss it.

But then I realize it’s heading in the wrong direction.

It’s coming from the Field.

I get up without turning my light on and look out through my curtains. There’s a car pulling slowly out of the entrance of the Field, like you have to do because of all the mud and bumps. It’s got its headlights off and all I can make out are those small yellow lights on the side that some cars have for no apparent reason.

I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that it’s dark out here. We’ve got streetlights, but they’re spaced far apart and the closest is down the road a bit, only enough to cast a shallow light as the car pulls out of the Field and past my driveway.

But it’s enough to see the driver.

It’s Nathan. He’s been parked in the Field in the middle of the night, and now he’s driving away with his lights off, hoping nobody sees him.

“But you said you didn’t want to go,” Meredith says to our mom. “You said people took advantage of politicians in crowds and that it was like having squirrels crawl all over your naked skin.”

“Try not to say that in public, sweetie,” Mom says. “And while that may be true, Mommy’s running for Congress now and to be seen at a Bolts of Fire charity concert in my own future district, hopefully–”

“But you said you didn’t want to go,” Meredith says again, apparently too stunned to get past her main point.

“I didn’t then, but I would like to go
now
.”

Me and Mel wait behind Meredith. The concert’s in an hour, pre-dusk so all the little kiddies get home in time for bed. Meredith is covered head-to-toe in Bolts of Fire fan gear: T-shirt, twisty bracelets, belt, shoe buckles, tasselled trousers like Sapphire wears in the “Bold Sapphire” video, a cowboy hat that has the clean-shaven Caucasian faces of Bolts of Fire around the brim.

“But you said–”

“Meredith,” Mom warns. She looks at me and Mel. “I’m going to take her. Why is that a big deal?”

“It’s a little out of the blue,” Mel says, frowning. “Almost as if a campaign person heard you talking about it and suggested you go instead.”

Mom’s face hardens. “Neither of you even
like
this band. You’re about eight years older than their target audience.”

“And you’re about
thirty
years too old,” Mel says.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” our mom says briskly to Meredith. “I’m your mom. I’m taking you.”

“But I’ve got three tickets,” Meredith says.

“Even better. Do you want your brother or your sister to join us?”

Meredith looks back at both of us, looks at Mom, looks at both of us, looks at the floor, mumbles something.

“What was that?” our mom asks.

“I want them both,” Meredith says, sticking her brave little face up into the air, her chin trembling a little. She’s so freakin’ brainy you sometimes forget that she’s still only a kid.

“Well, you can’t
have
them both–”

“I want them both,” Meredith says, more strongly. “They both said they would take me. I got tickets for all of us. If you had wanted to come, I could have tried to get four, but you didn’t. You said
you
didn’t want to come
–”

My mom’s eyes flash. “There’s always the possibility that no one gets to go.”

“I thought this campaign wouldn’t interfere with our lives,” I said.

“When did I ever say that?”

“What about Ferocious Mama Bear?” Mel says. “Did that mean you were just going to be ferocious to your kids?”

My mom throws her hands up. “I genuinely don’t understand what the problem is–”

“They’re
leaving
,” Meredith nearly shouts. She’s really crying now, her little arms crossed against her chest.

“Hey,” I say to her, picking her up before my mom has a chance to. She’s big, getting bigger, an unrecognizable teen before too long, but I can still lift her, even if it makes my still-tender ribs ache. She cries into my neck, the brim of her cowboy hat cutting into my ear.

My mom looks at the ceiling, hands on her hips. She taps her foot so fast Mary Magdalene comes running over and starts whapping at her shoelaces.

“Stop that,” Mom says, under her breath. She looks at us. “Fine.”

She leaves the kitchen. I can feel Meredith relax in my arms. “Good,” I hear her say, her voice thick. “Can we leave now before she changes her mind again?”

“We’re younger than every single parent,” Mel says, looking around, “and older than every single fan.”

The performance space at our pitifully small county fairgrounds is an outdoor amphitheatre, built next to a huge, sheet-metal stable where they have the livestock competitions during the fair. The biggest star that’s ever performed here before now was a local girl who came third on a TV singing competition. Bolts of Fire are playing in the domed arena in the big city tomorrow night, where there’ll be approximately eight million times as many fans.

We’re about nine rows from the back, but the amphitheatre is so small and deep – dug partially into the ground – that there really isn’t a bad seat. There are actually fewer parents than I expected, though it’s also possible they’re commiserating with each other at the coffee bars before the actual music starts. Mostly it’s just little girls. More than you’ve ever seen. More than you would think could possibly fit into a small county fair amphitheatre. So many it’s like space and time folded together and every little girl who ever lived will arrive eventually.

“Do you see any of your friends?” I ask Meredith.

“Bonnie isn’t coming,” she answers. Bonnie is the other girl in her grade who takes all the insane extra tutoring that Meredith does. They have Jazz & Tap together. Bonnie’s mom is the meanest person I’ve ever met in my entire life.

“Anyone else?”

Meredith doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking around. I begin to wonder if there
is
anyone for Meredith besides Bonnie. God, poor Meredith.

“You don’t have to sing along,” Meredith tells us, “but I’m going to. Just don’t make fun of anything.”

“We won’t, Merde Breath,” Mel says.

“And don’t call me that.”

“Where’s the cancer girl?” I say, trying to see if they’ve roped off a VIP pit somewhere down front.

“She’s called Carly,” Meredith informs me, very seriously. “Our Thoughts and Prayers are with her.”

“I heard these tickets were going for $3,000 on the internet,” I say.

“NO TRUE FAN WOULD DO THAT!” Meredith yells. “And it was fan-club members only and you had to
prove
that you lived here and everyone had to show ID at the gate.”

She has a point there. It was like getting on an international flight with the President just to get inside. And that was
after
the half-hour it took to get through the rows and rows and rows of TV newsvans and journalists covering the story. We kept hearing reporters say “this little middle of nowhere” as we passed. Which, yeah, I also say a lot, but it’s different when I say it.

“Anyone want a pop or something?” Mel asks.

“No!” Meredith says, horrified. “It’s going to start in five minutes.”

“Oh, please,” Mel says, “concerts never start on–”

“Ladies and Gentlemen!”
the loudspeakers announce.
“Please take your seats, as the Bolts of Fire concert will start in FIVE minutes!”

There’s a deafening scream from around the amphitheatre that happens at about the height of my ribcage. Little girls jump up and down and hug each other and go crazy and are just otherwise disturbingly hysterical, while their parents start streaming in from the side, holding, yep, cups of coffee – no alcohol for adult prisoners of Bolts of Fire.

“That’s it?” Mel asks, having to shout over the whoops and hollers. “A five-minute announcement? No opening act? No music and lights to warm up the crowd?”

“If the crowd were any warmer,” I shout back, “we’d need paramedics.”

Somehow a group of voices singing “Bold Sapphire” has emerged from the sound avalanche, and more and more of the girl crowd join in, including Meredith.
“I broke Bold Sapphire’s heart on the day she turned eighteen/I never meant to do it and I hope she still loves me.”
Within seconds, the amphitheatre is one loud, off-key, but really enthusiastic voice singing the band’s biggest hit.