I cross it out again.
Dear Leah, I’m so fucking sorry.
I cross it out three times and flip the page of my journal.
Mom and Dad, I’m disgusted with your response to Patrick’s assault on my friend?—
Ugh. Nope. I already shouted most of this to their faces. Revisiting it in my “unsent letters” journal is only continuing what Dad used to call my “Danica Doom Spiral.” I cross that out, too, and start a new letter below it.
Patrick, you asshole. You’ve ruined everything and everyone. Fuck you and fuck your stupid fucking?—
I pause. Fuck his…what? I don’t even know. Words are too hard.
I close the journal, slip it into its place on the shelf next to my bed, and take out my math notebook. I’ve had this book for years. I flip past the first several pages, a bunch of nonsense numbers I started writing when I was a kid. After that, there are lots of geometry sketches, although I lovingly wrote out the quadratic formula in fluorescent purple, block letters on one of them. It’s just whatever I feel like, because numbers are calming. They’re firm, true. Words are messy. Take the word “hot,” for example. It can mean all kinds of things. Hot food, hot mess, hot days. Hot guys.
Hot guys…like Troy and Edmund.
It’s been two days, and I haven’t heard shit from either of them. Which is fine. I’ll just fill a page with Pascal’s triangle. Numbers and numbers and numbers, as far as I can go. Calm. Easy. One answer.
My tabby cat, Cackle, sits at the end of my bed. Every now and then he attacks my foot, as is his god-given right. I keep my feet safely underneath my blanket, as is my god-given right.
I get all the way to the bottom of the page. 1, 16, 120, 560—all the way to 12,870 and then back again. My emotions are managed. I feel better.
I love my math journal.
Since I seem to be on a journaling tear, I grab my sketching journal next. This is the ugliest of my journals, because I can’t draw for shit.
When I open it, a photo slips out from between the pages. I put the photo in here so I could practice sketching it. It’s a close-up of Dmitri’s tattoo. He has the Aseyev family symbol on his bicep—a dagger and crown.
This is it. This is the solution. Granddad thinks that by calling the cops on Patrick, I betrayed the family. But I’m just as much a family member as Patrick and Dmitri. Both of them have the tattoo.
I’ll get the tattoo. I’ve wanted it for a while, but I never got around to it. Well, it’s finally time. It’ll show Granddad and Mom that I’m just as invested in the family as my brother and Patrick.
Four hours later, I’m walking into San Inksteban. This is the place Leah had her tattoo done, five years ago. It’s clean, comes well-recommended, and even better, they have an opening. Today.
What are you doing, Danica, a voice in my head whispers. This is too impulsive, even for you.
Normally, I’d call Leah and let her talk me down. I can’t do that, though. I’m on my own.
A gruff, red-haired woman stands at the counter when I walk in. She looks to be in her thirties or so. Her hands and arms are covered in tattoos, and her light brown eyes look me up and down.
“Hi.” I give her a little wave. “I called earlier. I have an appointment. Danica.”
“Oh, that’s with me, Grady.” Her lips turn up in a slight smile, like she’s forcing it for the sake of customer service. I like this lady. She nods at the journal in my hand. “So you know your design already?”
“Yeah. Same one as my brother’s. Here.” I open the notebook and pull out the photo.
Grady’s auburn eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “That’s a gang tat, I can’t give you that.”
“Um, no. It’s part of my family crest. My brother has the same one.”
She laughs. “I hate to tell you this, but it’s an organized crime symbol.”
“I swear to god, I’m not in any gangs.” Why won’t she believe me? Dmitri has it—so does Granddad and Patrick. How did they get theirs done if it’s a gang tat? “Please. It’s just a family thing.”
Her brown eyes search mine. “You are absolutely certain that this is what you want?”
“If you don’t do it, I’ll keep asking around. Even if I have to leave the city. This is my family’s symbol. If some gang has co-opted it, that’s their business. This is mine.”
