Free Black Chalk by Albert Alla

too?’
    â€˜Paul, Tom, and me.’
    â€˜And what sort are they getting?’
    â€˜Tom’s getting a Maori design. And Paul’s getting the same thing.’
    â€˜What are you getting?’
    â€˜An eagle. Here.’ I tapped my shoulder. ‘I saw one I liked in the shop, but then I changed it. It’s better, I think. Do you want to see?’
    She studied my face. Then she turned away and I saw tears coming.
    â€˜Nate, you don’t have to get one because Tom and Paul are getting one.’
    â€˜I’m not! I want to get one for myself.’
    I watched her crying, and I felt like crying too, but the tears wouldn’t come.
    â€˜What am I going to tell your father?’ she said.
    â€˜I can talk to him.’
    She grabbed my hand:
    â€˜Think about it first. Tattoos, they don’t go anywhere. You grow old, they grow old. Do you want the same tattoo when you’re sixteen, when you’re thirty, when you’re sixty? And you want to go to some tattoo parlour where they don’t check how old you are… How good are they going to be? What if they make a mess of it?’
    That night, I did as I promised her I would do: I thought about it. Every time I looked at my design (an eagle’s neck, head, and beak in as few strokes as I could manage), I yearned to have it on my shoulder. But then I remembered my mother’s words, and I told myself that she was right – it would wrinkle with age. By the morning, I couldn’t remember why I’d wanted one in the first place.
    â€˜So you don’t want one anymore?’ she said.
    â€˜No. I’m only fifteen. Who knows what I’ll like by the time I’m eighteen?’
    â€˜Yes, exactly what I was thinking,’ she said quickly, but then she started again, a questioning, almost disappointed touch in her voice. ‘Are you sure now? You told me you were sure you wanted one last night.’
    â€˜Oh, you know, that’s just Tom and Paul.’
    â€˜Right, yes. You’re right, of course, tattoos look silly anyway.’ She glanced at me. When I nodded, she added: ‘You could get your ear pierced if you want.’
    ***
    I wasn’t a week in hospital by the time my mother made me watch television. She came to me, found an articulated arm tucked under the bed, and rotated it until a screen appeared in front of our eyes. Plugging in some earphones, she gave me the right, took the left, and turned the television on. It was all happening before I had time to say anything.
    â€˜Daytime television,’ she said switching through the few channels available. ‘You might have to start watching Neighbours , or cooking shows even.’
    I thought of protesting but from the tense resolve in her face, I knew what she would say – this is very important, Nate, please do what I tell you, don’t argue now – at first with the same artificial ease, but as I pled my case, her words, her face would only harden up before they would budge. There was only one reasonable option: I turned away.
    We didn’t have a television at home. We’d never had one. As a child, I’d loved to visit friends’ places and sit in front of the flashing colours and brash songs. Very young, I felt left out and clamoured for our own, of course. My mother still laughs at some of the scenes I made then: the tears I shed squirming on the floor but only when my mother could see me. But I wasn’t very good at brooding. And soon I was rather proud of our lack of television. Friends would give me incredulous looks and I’d have offhand answers at the ready. Finding other things to do was easy enough: I read a lot, I drew, I played squash, tennis, cricket, football, I spent time with my brother and my friends.
    â€˜There’s a special starting at 3 p.m. we should watch.’ My pulse quickened. ‘Is there anything you want to see beforehand?’
    I said nothing. Reading the dial