Free Out of Order by Robin Stevenson Page A

picture of a birthday cake and a note for your mother.”
    I squirm. “I know, but...”
    â€œSo,” Zelia says decisively, “we’ll go.”
    ZELIA AND I both have a fifth-period math class but we decide to skip. I rarely skip classes. Not that I think it’s wrong or anything, but I’m always scared of getting in trouble. Besides, I actually like math. It’s always been easy for me. But I don’t want Zelia to think I’m chicken:
chickenshit, chickenshit, fatso’s chickenshit
, hisses the voice in my mind. With a surge of anger and defiance I shove the voice away and say, “Sure. Let’s skip.”
    Zelia tells me she has a surprise for me. I follow her across the wet grass of the school fields. We slip through a gap in the fence and drop down a few feet onto the slippery cobblestones of the square.
    â€œWe’re going to get pizza?” I guess.
    Zelia grins. “Nope.” She points at the tiny tattoo parlor sandwiched between the coffee shop and art gallery.
    â€œTattoos? I can’t. I mean, I really can’t. Mom would kill me.”
    Zelia laughs scornfully. “You should see your face. You look like a goldfish.” She makes a fish mouth at me, opening and shutting her lips. “Don’t panic. No tattoos. I think they’re tacky anyway.”
    My ears are burning. I say nothing.
    Zelia pulls a fifty-dollar bill out of her pocket and waves it in the air. “We’re getting our belly buttons pierced. It’s on me.”
    Inside the door, a few steep steps lead down to a tiny studio. A woman in jeans and a sleeveless shirt is tattooing aman’s shoulder. The buzzing of the tattoo gun vibrates inside my chest.
    â€œI’m almost done,” she says. She doesn’t lift her eyes from the tattoo. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
    The wall beside us is covered in tattoo designs and photo­graphs of freshly inked arms, legs and backs.
    â€œI’d get this one,” Zelia says, pointing at a photo of a woman’s arm, the bicep encircled with thin black lines twisted to look like barbed wire. The skin beneath the tattoo is red and swollen.
    â€œYou’d have it forever,” I say.
    Zelia looks at me like I’m completely hopeless. “Duh. That’s the whole point.”
    The woman wipes blood from the man’s shoulder and looks up. “Are you girls eighteen?”
    â€œYeah, we are.” Zelia turns to the rack of body jewelry and we pick out our favorites: mine is a thin silver ring, Zelia’s a softly curved stainless steel bar that ends in a sparkling blue stone.
    â€œMom really is going to kill me,” I whisper.
    Zelia doesn’t answer. She picks up a small silver ring. “Maybe I should do something different,” she says. “Get my nipple pierced instead.”
    I wince. “Don’t. It’d really hurt. Anyway, no one would see it.”
    Zelia’s eyes are hard, disdainful. “Please. We’re not little kids anymore. Besides, who’s going to see your navel?”
    â€œThat’s different,” I say, feeling my face get hot. “Anyway,I want us to both get our belly buttons done. You know. Together.”
    Zelia grins. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I was just teasing.”
    The woman finishes up with her customer, laughing a little at something he says as he hands her a credit card. Finally she turns to us.
    â€œSo, you want piercings?”
    â€œYeah. Navels.” Zelia gestures toward me. “Both of us.”
    The woman looks apologetic. “I’ll need to see ID for you both.”
    Zelia frowns. “I told you, we’re eighteen.”
    â€œNothing personal,” the woman says. “Just policy. If you’re under eighteen, I need your parents here to give consent.”
    I tug at Zelia’s arm. “Forget it. Let’s just go.”
    â€œIt’s my goddamn body,”