Very Bad Things by Ilsa Madden-Mills

friend. Whatever you get, you’ll have it when you’re old and wrinkly
and rolling around the nursing home in your wheel chair. I’d rather have a cute
cat than one of those skull and cross bones you’ve been looking at.” She put
her hands on her hips. “Plus, it’s going to hurt . It’s a sharp needle
poking your skin like a thousand times.”
    I chuckled, imagining her nose twitching in the universal
sign for danger in bunny language.
    “And, I saw this show on True TV about this guy that got a
tattoo on his back and then died three days later from ink poisoning,” she
added, tapping her fingers against the glass case we leaned against.
    I snorted. “Stop watching that crap channel. It’s turning
your brain to mush.”
    Her mouth opened. “Stop? Are you insane? Cheaters is
on True TV! I’m addicted to seeing people screw around on their significant
others.”
    “And you call me crazy.”
    “Yeah, ’cause you’ve taken up drinking and breaking the law.
And now you want a tattoo? You’re like this whole other person.” she said,
waving her hands at me. “I’m afraid of what’s next.”
    Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet .
    “Decided yet?” the tattoo girl asked us with a bright smile,
setting her elbows on the counter to talk to us. With her bleached out spiked
hair and the tatted roses and vines she had on her arms, she looked like an
exotic bird. I decided tattoo girl was beautiful.
    Then I saw the tiny bump underneath her shirt.
    “Are you licensed to do nipple piercings?” I asked as Mila
let out a loud gasp.
    “Yep, do ’em every day. And we just got some new jewelry in.
Take a look,” she said, pulling a case of shiny silver jewelry from underneath
the counter. She picked up one that had two balls on the sides. “This here is
the barbell and the most common for guys. And this here,” she said picking up a
tiny ring, “is the silver ring, which the ladies seem to like.”
    My eyes went to her tight blue T-shirt. “Which one do you
have?”
    She picked up a tiny pair of angel wings. “This,” she said
pointing to the etched feathers on the wings. “They’re new and totally sweet,”
she said mischievously, “and my boyfriend loves to play with it.”
    “I want it.”
    Mila grumbled and put her head in her hands.
    The shop girl smiled. “Great. I’m Shayla, and I’m the
resident female piercer around here.” She cocked her head and looked down at
the image books. “But I thought you were looking for a tat today.”
    “I want the piercing first and the tat later,” I said,
thrilled at my decision to be in control of my own body. For too long, I’ve let
others dictate everything: how to eat, how to dress, how to smile, how to walk,
how to pretend.
    “Okay, then, come on back here, and we’ll get set up.” She
glanced over and smiled at Mila as she led me down the hall. “Does your friend
want to come and watch?”
    Mila’s face whitened, and I arched an eyebrow at her. I
loved her, but she was a weenie.
    She exhaled heavily but followed me, her hair bouncing.
“Just because I’m curious, doesn’t mean I approve.”
    Shayla had me take my shirt and bra off so she could study
my breasts. I reclined on a chair while she touched my nipples with gloves on.
“Your nipples are a good size. You’re not planning to breastfeed anytime soon,
right?” she asked.
    Mila laughed out loud. “God, can you imagine either of us
with a baby?”
    I shook my head dazedly, picturing me with a baby,
breastfeeding. Then I imagined Mother’s face if I came up pregnant. It would be
her proof that I really was a whore. I imagined all the nasty names she’d call
me. I pictured myself in a televised beauty pageant, wearing an evening dress
that stretched tight across my swollen belly. Knowing her, she’d turn it around
and use it to her advantage by creating a news story out of it: “A Parkie
Girl’s Story of Being a Whore.”
    Shayla briefly explained about the healing process and