1977, eighteen years old
I graduated from high school third in my class out of five hundred kids. That meant I would be the third person to walk across the stage. It was a mortifying thought, but secretly, I felt a bit honored and excited.
Graduation was held outside on the soccer field. The school had set up a stage and rows upon rows of white chairs on the green grass for parents, families, friends, and the graduating seniors. Most of my friends didn’t show up for graduation. They laughed at the blue gowns and square hats with gold tassels and skipped out.
Jackson didn’t want to go, arguing that he’d rather get drunk or smoke pot in celebration. Bethie joined me in walking the stage because she knew her mom wanted a picture of her daughter with her diploma, something she had never received and always regretted.
Dodge had seen my graduation gown and knew about the cookout that Bethie’s family was hosting for the Lawless kids who had graduated that afternoon. I hadn’t asked him to come to my graduation because I couldn’t picture Dodge, in his gray holey jeans and black leather vest sitting among moms and dads who lived in manicured houses with picket fences and drove Sedans instead of motorcycles. Besides, he wouldn’t want to go. I knew him well enough to know that.
During the ceremony, the principal talked on and on about “where we go from here” and “remembering where we came from.” It wasn’t the most interesting of ceremonies, and I sweated profusely in my black jeans and gray T-shirt under the blue gown. The gold tassel kept sticking to my lip gloss when the wind blew.
As our principal spoke, I wondered why I cared about walking the stage. Lately, I had been thinking about my mom and dad. Graduation was one of those big life events, and it sucked that my parents weren’t there for it. If they could be, I imagined my dad might cry, perhaps shyly by blinking his eyes quickly so the tears wouldn’t fall. My mom would gush over how adorable I looked, wanting to take pictures of me with my diploma from five hundred different angles. Maybe they’d have given me a graduation present like the ones the kids in my class talked about—a car, money for college, a trip to Europe. The fantasy made me happy and sad, and I squirmed in my seat as the emotions rolled through me.
When my name was called, I took two steps onto the stage just as a symphony of motorcycle engines revved in unison. The crescendo rolled across the field and reverberated through my organs like soft caresses and warm hugs. I turned toward the parking lot. Two lines of Lawless revved their bikes in a symphonic tune led by their conductor, Billy, and his first chair, Dodge. I laughed as I grabbed my diploma from the principal, whose mouth hung open at the Lawless performance. My jaw hurt so hard from smiling as I sat back down in my seat.
Bethie got an engine rev, too, as did Tony, the only other Lawless kid who walked in graduation. Afterward, Bethie and I took a bunch of silly photos with our diplomas for Bethie’s mom. We stuck our tongues out, threw our hats in the air, and held up peace signs and our pinkies and forefingers in true “rock on” fashion. Finally, when Bethie’s mom had taken enough pictures, we headed to the parking lot.
The Lawless had left, but there was Dodge, sitting on his bike next to mine, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, graduate,” he said. I looked closer at him. Something was different. His hair was combed and pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He had shaved, and it made him look younger. There were a few beads of sweat on his forehead, but the same could be said for mine. And then it hit me—he wasn’t high.
“See you later, Raqi!” Bethie yelled. She and her mom got into their white car to head home.
I waved and turned back to Dodge.
“So, you came?” I posed it as a question, not quite believing he was there.
He nodded, took a drag of the cigarette, and blew out the smoke. “It’s a big deal, I hear.”
This was weird. I went to my bike and stuffed my gown, cap, and diploma into the swing arm bag.
Dodge got on his bike and started the engine. “Follow me.” I quickly kick-started mine to life before he left me.
I couldn’t stop smiling as we rode. I had graduated, and Dodge wasn’t high. Dodge took the Pacific Coast Highway, and we rode north along the coast. I had taken the ride a thousand times, but our tires had never floated so far off the ground and over the sea so blue. Dodge and I raced like kids in the sky, and a few times, when I got too close to the blistering sun, he flew in front of me and guided me down. Was this how real freedom would feel when I went to UCLA in a few months?
After about thirty minutes, I realized Dodge was going somewhere in particular. He exited the highway, and we made our way toward Malibu. Eventually, we pulled into a shopping center with a pizza shop, Chinese restaurant, jeweler, tattoo artist, and an antique store. Dodge parked, and I followed suit.
“Chinese?” I asked, feeling a little hungry suddenly.
Dodge smiled and nodded his head toward the tattoo shop.
“Ain’t it tradition to get the graduate a gift?”
Dodge showed up for my graduation and was getting me a present? What the hell was going on? I followed Dodge into the shop, waiting for him to turn back into an asshole at any minute.
Inside, a short stocky guy with a long, peppered beard and ponytail prepped a chair and inks on a tray. He nodded at Dodge as we walked over.
“Ron, this is my niece, Raqi,” Dodge said.
Ron grunted and nodded.
I gave a short, “Hey.”
Ron pulled out a needle from its plastic wrapping. “Sit down.”
I sat down in the chair, suddenly feeling hot and shaky. Some of the guys in my grade had tattoos and Dodge’s arms were filled with them, as were most Lawless’. Jackson got his first tattoo when he was fourteen. Most of the girls I knew didn’t have one, and if they did, it was a flower, a heart, or their boyfriend’s initials which they tatted on their own skin with an ink pen.
Dodge grabbed a barstool from somewhere and sat down in the corner.
“I don’t even know what I want,” I said to Dodge.
He smirked. “Trust me?”
I wanted to say, “no” because a tattoo was permanent, but instead I said, “I don’t know?”
Ron gave a half-grunt, half-laugh. “Smart kid.”
“Look,” Dodge said, ignoring Ron’s laugh. “I already gave Ron the design. Trust me. You’ll like it.”
I sat back in the chair, not confident I could trust Dodge, but also knowing that I couldn’t say no. It would piss Dodge off, and that wasn’t good either.
I ended up nodding, unable to say the words aloud. Ron took that as the go-ahead sign.
“Where do you want it?” Ron asked me as I sat back in the chair.
Before I could answer, Dodge said, “Upper right arm.”
I guess Dodge was making all the decisions today. Ron nodded and moved his chair and equipment to my right side.
“Don’t forget to breathe.” Ron grabbed the needle.
I nodded. “Okay.” My knees danced in place. I was actually getting a tattoo.
The buzz of the tattoo pen filled my ears, and I felt the needle pierce my skin and . . . Black spots appeared in the corners of my vision and multiplied like cells. The buzzing stopped.
“Damn it, girl. Breathe,” Ron said.
I inhaled deeply, and the black spots disappeared after a few seconds. I took a few more gulps of air until my breathing returned to normal.
“Sorry,” I said between breaths.
Ron moved the gun back to my arm. “You good?”
I nodded; I was good. Ron began again, and I made myself breathe. This was not how I imagined a tattoo would feel. Each flick of the tattoo gun was a long, drawn-out burn that went far beyond the layers of skin on my arm. It was a branding on my inner self, one that Dodge watched intently. I tried to see what the tattoo was going to be, but the angle wasn’t right, and I couldn’t move my arm. I looked up at the indents in the ceiling, counting them to keep a queasy feeling at bay. I hoped I’d been right to trust Dodge because this tattoo would be with me forever, a scar on my soul.
Thirty minutes later, Ron turned off the gun. “Outline’s done.”
I moved my arm to get my first look.
Half Outlaw.
When I first started riding minibikes, I had wiped out hard in the field behind the house. My knees and elbows were a bloody mess, and I had a gash on my forehead.
I pushed the bike off me about the time that Dodge ran up. He’d been timing my speed. Tears began to fall down my cheeks, even though I pursed my lips hard enough to keep the sobs in.
“Don’t you cry, Raqi,” Dodge said roughly as he grabbed my bike, pulling it to a standing position.
I swallowed a salty mass. Dodge didn’t like crying, but for once, I think he saw the pain I was in as I tried to stand up. My knees throbbed, and my legs trembled. Dodge put the kickstand on the bike and stooped down in front of my face.
“Look here.” He paused as if thinking. Finally, he said, “You know, I’m an outlaw, right?”
I nodded.
“And outlaws don’t cry. Hm?”
I shook my head. They didn’t.
“You—” Dodge paused. He looked me up and down and bit the inside of his lip. I squirmed. Dodge was taking note of how different I looked from him, from everyone he knew.
“You—” Dodge began. “You got outlaw in you, too.”
“Like—” My voice was raw with clenched tears as I searched for the right word. “Like I’m—I’m half outlaw?”
Dodge nodded hard and sharp. “Yep, half outlaw.”
That was the first time we’d said it. From there, it became a little joke between us, and eventually spread to some of Dodge’s closer friends. We’d stopped saying it years later, and I wasn’t sure why, but looking at my arm now, I was glad I had trusted Dodge.
“You good?” Ron asked, ready to fill in the outline of my new tattoo.
I nodded and looked at Dodge perched on the stool.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Hours later, my tattoo was finished. Small dots of blood erupted from unseen pores around the black ink. The tattoo reabsorbed the blood sacrifice growing darker on my arm with each metallic taste. I couldn’t wait to show it to Bethie and Jackson, though I wondered what Jackson would think.
Earlier that year, I’d suspected Jackson had started helping his dad on runs. He’d been talking about becoming a Prospect, which made my stomach churn. He’d have to do bad things if he ever wanted to join the club. I wasn’t sure what, but it wasn’t hard to guess.
Regardless of what Jackson thought about my tattoo, Dodge was happy. I’d never seen him this aware, this awake, this alive. After the tattoo, we made our way to Bethie’s house. By the time we arrived, the party had already started. The adults were clustered closer to the house or inside, while the kids my age sat under some trees near the edge of the backyard. When I found Bethie, I pulled back the bandages for her and she squealed. Suddenly exposed, the Gothic letters moved closer together, making the tattoo look more ominous than it was.
“You’re such a badass now!”
My mood dampened a little when Jackson saw it. His nose and forehead scrunched in distaste. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Ain’t nothing like real ink, is it boys?” he said to a few guys. They laughed and high-fived. My tattoo burned my upper arm, pressuring me to knock out Jackson for insulting it, insulting us. I put the bandage back on and punched Jackson in his side, rolled my eyes and found a seat next to Bethie.
She handed me a beer, and I quietly fumed. Five minutes later, Jackson came over and sat on the arm of my chair and tried to give me a kiss.
“No thanks, man.” I pushed him away with one arm.
“Come on, Raqi,” he whispered in my ear. “You know I didn’t mean anything against you.”
He sat up straight. “I was just saying it wasn’t a club tat—couldn’t ever be.” He meant because I was a woman, and a brown one at that.
Jackson finished his beer and called to Max for another one.
I looked toward the house and found Dodge watching me. I thought about my tattoo and wondered if it was or wasn’t “the real thing,” and more importantly, if I wanted it to be or not.