Chapter 5
South Street was mobbed. Not much of a shocker—it was June and a warm seventy-five degrees. But who would expect this many people to have nothing better to do on a workday. Don’t these people have jobs?
After we had finished our Mexican meal and Madison had deemed not a single pair of shoes in Old City worthy of her party, we decided to walk over to South Street’s funkier shops—which sell everything from crotchless underwear to cashmere sweaters.
“Hey, guys. I think I want to get a henna tattoo. What do you think?” Emily asked, as we strolled past a Goth clothing store.
“As long as you get it somewhere that won’t show during my party,” Madison said, as her cell phone buzzed for the millionth time.
“It’s a temporary tattoo.Your party’s not for weeks,” Emily pointed out.
“Uh, sure. I saw a news special on how some of those tattoos never really go away. You can totally screw yourself up.”
“That’s not true!”
“Believe what you want.”
“Well, I still want one. What about this place? Tony’s?” Emily pointed to a sketchy parlor ahead with a tacky neon sign.
“Yeah, I think those are real tattoos,” I noted, as I stopped in front and pulled my plastic tortoise-shell sunglasses down my nose to peer inside the window.
The shop’s white walls were decorated with brightly colored cartoon images. I assumed a customer just picked a design for their skin straight off the wall, like I do when selecting iron-on T shirt patterns from the cheap souvenir shops at the Jersey shore.
“You know what? Forget it,” Emily said, looking at Madison. “I don’t want to risk ruining your party.”
“You won’t. But this freakin’ event planner might if she doesn’t find the cake I want,” Madison huffed as her fingers flew over the keys on her phone. “I mean, it’s her job. Just find the cake!”
“Maybe you could just stick a real Louis Vuitton bag on top of the cake as decoration?” I suggested.
“No, I want the entire thing to look like ‘LV’ purses, and I’m paying this idiot to do what I want!”
Emily shook her head at me as if to imply I shouldn’t press this any further.
“Fine,” I muttered.
We crossed the pothole-filled street in our flip-flops, our ankles twisting on the uneven surface. The air smelled of cooked beef from the cheesesteak stand on the corner. For a sandwich that tasted so addictively good, it suddenly struck me that it smelled a lot like my giant poodle Tootsie’s gourmet dog food. Cheesesteaks were definitely one of those foods that smelled better when you were eating them than when you were just catching a whiff—probably because the saliva-inducing taste outweighed the funky smell.
“Hey, Mad, if I can’t get a henna tattoo, how about a belly ring?” Emily smirked. “I’m sure no one will see that under my dress.”
“Are you kidding? The stud will protrude through the fabric !” Madison shrieked.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. . . .”
We stopped and stared through the dirty front window of a piercing shop, which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. At first all I could see was the reflection of my stringy hair and baggy-jeaned silhouette, but as soon as my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, the air sucked from my lungs.
“You’ve gotta freakin’ be kidding me,” I grunted, charging toward the entrance.
I swung open the glass door, triggering the sound of tinkling bells above. My brother immediately flung his head around. I swear he knew it was me before he even caught a glimpse of my figure.
“Vincent Ruíz, what the hell are you doing here?” I whispered in my sternest voice, pushing my sunglasses onto the crown of my head.
“Dude, you sound like Dad,” he responded, lifting his bushy eyebrows.
“No, I’m fairly certain that if you stick a hole anywhere in your body, Dad’s reaction will be a lot louder than mine.”
“Relax, I’m just getting a tongue ring,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in his store-bought rock-and-roll T shirt like his plans were no big deal.
“A tongue ring! Are you crazy? What the heck is wrong with you?”
I could see his friends glaring at me like I was the field trip supervisor who had just busted them smoking in the boys’ bathroom.
“Mariana, loosen up.You gotta stop acting like you’re 80.” His muddy brown eyes glared at me with fake sympathy.
“If being eighty means knowing better than to let some stranger dig a piece of cheap metal through my tongue, then yes, call me Grandma.”
“Well, if it’s just the tongue ring you have a problem with, he could get a Prince Albert,” his friend chimed in with a chuckle.
All his buddies instantly laughed and threw up high-fives in every direction. I had no idea what he was talking about, but from the way he was grabbing the crotch of his filthy jeans I didn’t even want to begin to imagine where he was suggesting that the spike go.
“Luke, shut up. You’re not helping,” Vince huffed, shooting his friend a look before turning his gaze back in my direction.
“Look, Vince, I know you’re pissed at Dad . . . but piercing your tongue is stupid. You don’t want to go off to Cornell being ‘that guy with the stud in his tongue.’ The guys in your dorm will think you’re gay and girls won’t hook up with you.” I tilted my head to the side and swished my red hair over my shoulder.
Vince slowly stared toward the halogen lights on the ceiling. I could tell he was contemplating my last statement by the way he was chewing his lip.
“Fine, whatever. I won’t do it,” he conceded.
His friends instantly booed at him like angry football fans.
“God, you’re so annoying. You always gotta ruin the fun.”
“It’s a gift,” I joked.
“Little Miss Responsible,” he snipped.
“Whatever.”
My brother could grow up to be a corporate raider with a beautiful wife and five kids and he’d still be immature. It was a permanent character flaw and despite my best efforts to lessen the damage it caused, he still often found a way to drive our family crazy—like when he got arrested.
He had told our parents he was sleeping at a friend’s house and they were getting up early the next day to go fishing somewhere in Delaware. It was two years ago and I hadn’t yet learned to distrust my brother. Unfortunately, neither had our parents.
Around one-thirty in the morning the phone rang. My eyes instantly flicked open. I heard my father run to the phone, briefly speak, then hang up. He thumped down the steps and peeled out of the driveway before I could even get my slippers on. By the time I opened my bedroom door, my mom was standing in the hallway in her nightgown; she always wore a robe on top of it in front of us, so the sight of her barely dressed and without it freaked me out more than the phone call. She told me that Vince was at the police station.
They didn’t get home for another two hours, and my father was still yelling when he opened the front door. I hid at the top of the stairs and watched him scorn my barely conscious brother—his eyes were lifeless, his hair was matted, his shirt was wet and his head was flopped on the back of the couch like he hadn’t the energy to hold it up. Dad paced back and forth hollering about how disappointed he was, and I remember thinking that there wasn’t a worse thing in the world he could have said. But Vince didn’t react.
He told me later that if I ever got myself into trouble that bad I should just shut my mouth and let Dad yell. It was easier than fighting back because eventually Dad would tire and think he’d won—problem solved. Only I never wanted to see my father look at me the way he looked at my brother that night. And he never has.
“When I come home tonight, I’m inspecting your tongue,” I warned, before turning back toward my girlfriends to leave the piercing shop.
“Don’t worry, Mariana, we’ll look after him,” one of his buddies called after me.
“Yeah, ’cause you guys are such great influences.”
“I sure hope not,” he responded.
I pulled my sunglasses back down onto my nose and gave my brother one last look. He peered into my brown eyes and shook his head knowingly. I knew he wouldn’t go through with it.