P. Hoover - Solstice

I hear Chloe stand and walk up behind me. She wraps her arms around me and squeezes. “Don’t worry about it. You need to do this.”

“Having second thoughts?” someone says.

We both turn at the sound of the voice, and Chloe lets me go. I put my hands in my pockets and try to take deep breaths but find it’s harder than I thought. When I get home with a tattoo, my mom is going to kill me. I won’t have to wait for Global Warming to do it. That will be my fate.

“Nope,” Chloe says, pulling the piece of paper with the Greek letters out of her pocket. “We’re ready.”

The Asian girl who’s walked into the room smiles. Her head is shaved, and Polynesian tattoos cover it. Tikis of all sizes and shapes. I can see the top of it because she’s probably under five feet tall. But the strangest thing is that for just a second she seems to be covered in patchy mold. It’s mostly got an orange hue, but spots of dark fill in gaps here and there. I watch it shift and grow on her skin because it’s among the oddest things I’ve ever seen.

When I blink, it’s gone.

She doesn’t make eye contact with either of us. “Good. Tattoos are easy,” she says. “They heal fast these days. Used to be they caused all sorts of scabbing and infection. But now we seal each puncture once the ink’s inserted.”

I nod and decide the orange mold was just the lights flickering. It had to be.

Chloe’s brother once told us that tattoos had been used to mark slaves, and that they were used now to barcode criminals. I wonder if my dad got tattooed when he was in prison.

“So who’s first?” the girl asks, turning and walking into the next room. The red tiki on the back of her skull watches me as she goes, daring me to follow.

I look to Chloe, who smiles. “Piper is.”

I am right. My mom wants to kill me. As soon as I walk into the Botanical Haven, I know she knows. The Botanical Haven is enormous, with glass walls and ceilings that reach so high entire trees grow straight into the air, and the entire lower level is filled with growing things: flowers, fruits, and herbs just to name a few. But my mom’s anger finds me, even amid all the vast space, and focuses. A dampness settles into the air around me, and the Easter lily next to me seems to wither as if even the plants can sense her anger. She’s still in the back near the rows of sinks we use to water the plants, and I have a last minute urge to try to cover my newly tattooed left arm before she gets to me. But I know she’ll still find out, so I don’t bother.

I start for the stairs to the apartment we live in above the shop. One step. I feel her getting closer. Another. She’s about to turn the corner. The tile floor echoes with her footsteps. Deep breath. I take another step. I’m almost to the cash register.

“Piper.”

Her voice sounds calm. Too calm. Like it’s water that she’s placed inside a copper pot, but it hasn’t yet boiled.

“Hi, Mom.”

She comes around the corner and smiles when she sees me. But it’s not her normal smile which makes me feel safe and secure, although a bit smothered. This smile is thin. Calculated. School only let out a half hour ago, but she definitely knows I’ve skipped.

“How was school today?”

I shrug, keeping my left arm away from her. I can’t help myself. I sling my backpack so the strap hangs over the tattoo and lick my lips. My freshly inked skin protests against the strap, but I hold my position. “Fine. Aren’t you supposed to be at your meeting?”

She looks to one side, and another plant seems to wilt under her gaze. I swear when she’s mad my mom can kill plants with a glance. Apparently, it offsets my eternal green thumb.

My mom catches my eyes with hers and holds them. I can’t tear them away, and I think of Tanni from the Drag, taking me captive with her empty eyes. I force myself to maintain my mom’s gaze.

“Did it hurt?”

Her voice is still calm, but the anger is inside, seething just below the surface. She walks closer to me, brushing past a fern, and brown leaves fall to the ground.

“You’re going to kill all the plants.”

Another leaf falls from the fern, and purple flowers on a nearby iris crumple.

“I asked you a question. Did it hurt?”

I nod and tears spring into my eyes, but I fight to keep them back. “Yeah. It hurt. It hurt like hell.” But it also felt blissful. Like every stick of the needle was setting me free. Giving me hope for a new life.

“I’m glad,” she says.

I look around. Dead leaves litter the floor. “It’s a mess in here,” I say.

My mom undoes the clip holding her long black hair. It falls around her shoulders, and she smoothes it down. “You can clean it up. I’m already late for the council meeting.”

I don’t bother arguing, and I don’t reply. I’ve gotten through the worst of it, and once I hear the front door shut, I look down at my arm and smile. The black ink smiles back at me. I actually did it. My very own tattoo. Complete rebellion. I sweep some of the leaves out of my way and move behind the register, dropping my backpack. I think about Shayne and how he’d singled me out in class. Not some other girl. Me. Talking to him was total rebellion, too. I want that rebellious life.

I brush my tattoo with my hand. The skin’s raised underneath the black ink. The tattoo artist, Morgan, told us the skin would stay that way for months. Maybe even forever. She also mentioned the pain would persist at least a week, but mine’s diminishing with each minute that passes. I move my hand over it and close my eyes. It’s like having Braille stamped into my skin. I decide I like the bumps, and I hope they never go away. Even in the dark, I’ll be able to see my tattoo. My first sign of freedom. And a permanent reminder of my friendship with Chloe.

I turn on the news so I can listen to it while I clean. The team of global weather experts is predicting another heat bubble. They flash to an image of the city council chambers where a press conference is just starting. Councilman Rendon is up front, and in the background are the other members of the council including my mom. They must’ve waited for my mom to get there. She sits just to the left of Rendon, and even though it’s impossible, I feel like her eyes find mine across the broadcast.

Councilman Rendon calls for the first question.

“Is it true that the domes are now inoperable?” a reporter asks.

Rendon looks equal parts charm and concern. My mom’s told me he plans to run for the state Senate next term. “The glass within our dome structures needs eighteen days to regenerate between activations,” he says.

“That means the domes can’t be used for the next eighteen days, correct?” someone calls out.

“Yes, that is a correct statement,” Rendon says. “Next question.”

I grab a bottle of soy juice off the shelf and sit down to watch the broadcast. As long as I can see my mom on the tube, it means she won’t be home.

“We’ve heard rumors the disperser missiles are negatively impacting the environment. Is this true?”

This is the same rumor that came up in Social Sciences today. The one about the chemicals inside the missiles tearing layers from the atmosphere.

Councilman Rendon tries to laugh. “Who here in the audience felt relief from the heat on Friday? Raise your hand if you felt the bubble disperse.”

Everyone in the audience raises his or her hand.

“If we relieve the heat, we are helping the environment,” he says.

Behind him, I see my mom stiffen. She glances away from the eye of the camera, and the council leader takes the next question. But as he talks, green the color of seaweed seems to ooze down him, starting at his head, until it covers him in a sheet of blackish fungus.