Page 65 of The Do-Over

I once wrote “Beth Mills smells” on a bathroom stall at my junior high after she told everyone that the summer camp I attended was actually asthma camp.

After leaving the First Bank building cafeteria, Nick gave me a piggyback ride to the tattoo shop, letting me bury my cold nose in his neck without complaining, and when he finally stopped, he straightened and I climbed down. The 402 Ink storefront looked cool because it had no markings at all, other than a red neon sign at the bottom of the window.

He pulled open the door, and I followed him inside.

He said over his shoulder, “Getting scared?”

“Not at all. Bring on the needling.”

I strolled through the lobby, where there were drawings of tattoos all over the walls and the ceiling. I was nervous, yes, but mostly I was excited. Getting a tattoo was something I’d never considered, something I never would’ve had the guts to do before this whole repeating-days fiasco.

Now, however, it felt like something Ihadto do while I had a free pass. It would serve, however temporarily, as a printed reminder of the day where—for once—I did what I wanted insteadof what I thought Ishoulddo, instead of doing what everyone else expected.

I barely had a chance to take it all in before I heard Nick say, “Is Dante working today?”

I raised my eyes from the wall and looked at him, standing in front of the reception desk. “So youdohave a contingent.”

He just looked over at me and winked.

I’d always thought winking was cheesy until that day. Nick’s winks made me warm and melty.

The person I assumed to be Dante came out from the back room and they did a whole handshake thing while I strolled the room, looking at pictures. After a solid ten minutes of low-talking, I heard Nick say, “What are the odds that you could fit my friend Emilie in this afternoon?”

“Sure.” Dante glanced over at me and asked, “Do you know what you want? And have ID?”

I pulled my ID out of my pocket, walked over to him, and ran a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Here. And it’s just seven words. I took a screenshot of a font I like.”

“What seven words?” Nick put his hands in his pockets and looked at my ID suspiciously.

“None of your business.”

“That’s four,” Dante said.

“Keep in mind that this is on you for life, Hornby,” Nick said.

I don’t know why, but I really liked it when he called me by my last name. “Er, doy, Stark.” But little did he know that I’d wake up tomorrow on another February 14, skin fresh and un-inked.

Dante had to go help someone who walked in after us, and Nick gave me a look. He leaned closer, lowered his voice, and asked, “Why doyouhave a fake ID?”

My face got warm as I stuttered, “I don’t—I mean, it’s not—”

“I’m not going to tell on you.” He nudged me with his elbow, and my stomach went wild with butterflies. His deep voice rumbled out, “I just can’t believe bookish Emilie Hornby has a fake. A fake library card, maybe, but a fake driver’s license? Not so much.”

I felt a little less ridiculous and said, “Chris works with a guy who bought some kind of black-market machine and he practiced on us.”

His mouth dropped into an O. “Chris? Ultra-nice Chris from Drama?”

“Yup.”

He shook his head, smiling. “You goody-goodies are out here running wild. Who knew?”

“Ready?” Dante was back, and I followed him to a room, grateful Nick was with me; I was actually a little nervous. When I showed Dante what I wanted—one of my favorite lyrics—Nick said, “Are you sure? I mean, I get that you’re feeling brave today, but in a few years, or even hours, you might regret having this tattooed on your skin.”

I said, “Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”

I didn’t, or at least with regard to the technicalities of a tattoo I didn’t. I started to get nervous as Nick sat down on the chair to my left, and Dante grabbed the stool to my right. After Dante wiped down my forearm, rubbed on the template, and turned onthe gun, I quickly learned just how painful getting a tattoo was.

I mean, yeah, it was relative. It wasn’t like getting a tooth extracted or getting stabbed in the face with a screwdriver, but it felt like someone was sticking a needle in my arm and then dragging it down my skin.

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