Someday. David Levithan

ink and the blood and the tree taking shape. It’s so clear he cares about how it goes, because he cares so much about Marco. I imagine Rhiannon here with me. Holding my hand. Trying to divert some of the pain.

      Then I try to stop myself from thinking that. It doesn’t help.

      The needle persists. Heller hums snatches of the song falling from the speakers. Even though the pain is the same no matter what the color, no matter where the shading, I imagine I can feel the picture taking shape. It’s hard not to think of the tree sinking in, taking root. It’s also hard not to think that no matter how deep the roots go, they’ll never reach me. Only Marco.

      It takes hours, and even then, Heller isn’t done. He needs the colors to set before he can bless the tattoo with some of its finer details. He asks me if I want to look, but when I do, all I see is a bloody, carved mess.

      “Don’t worry,” Heller assures me. “Blood passes. Ink stays.”

      Megan bandages me up, and then it’s Manny’s turn in the chair.

      “Dragon, come to me!” he incants.

      “You are such a dork,” I say, since I think that’s what Marco would say.

      Manny laughs. “Takes one to know one, dumbass.”

      It feels so comfortable, right then. I almost forget it’s not really me he’s talking to. I almost think he sees me inside, and knows I’m the one along for this ride.

      But of course it’s Marco who stays by his side. It’s Marco who doesn’t give him a hard time when he ends up being the one who flinches and screams despite his attempts at self-control. It’s Marco who stands like a tree while he writhes like a dragon.

      When we’re through, it takes the whole wad of cash to pay Heller. He tells us when we can come back for the finishing touches—and reminds us to let the healing happen before we start showing off to the world.

      The pain has already passed. For Marco, it may never have been there. I have absorbed it. And because I’ve absorbed it, I know what it’s like, in a way he never will.

      But he will be left with a tree. As Manny and I get pizza, drive around, and see a movie, I keep touching the bandage on my arm, as if I can feel the lines underneath. It occurs to me that unlike most people I inhabit for a day, Marco will have a lasting mark of my presence, even if he never knows it. I am grateful that the mark is his, not mine—the tree, not the phoenix. The tree hides me better. The only person who’d ever see me in its branches would be me, if I were ever to see Marco again. But that almost never happens. Marco will see it every day. I will have to remember it—which I know I will not. Just as the pain dissipates, so, too, will the lines of the memory unravel. I may recall the fact of the tree, but not its shape.

      I hide my melancholy as Manny drops me off, just as I hide the bandage from my parents when I get inside. As far as Manny is concerned, he’s just had one of the very best days ever, with his very best friend.

      That night, alone in Marco’s room, I unfold Heller’s drawing of the tree and try to memorize it. I try to turn my thoughts into a tattoo, but the thoughts resist the ink. I don’t want this to make me feel less real, but it does. I cannot help but feel impermanent. I cannot help but feel I am destined to fade.

X

      It helps if the person is weak.

      If I want less of a challenge, I stay with someone who is already on his way to giving up. Living is a fight, and I can pick out the ones who’ve stopped fighting, who are stuck in their own loneliness and/or confusion and/or pain. The fewer connections, the better. The more despair, the better. Some people guard their selves like a fortress. But others leave the doors unlocked and the windows open. They welcome the burglary.

      I have not done well this time. My vanity thought it would be good to be young, to be the object of attention. But after a day, I can feel his self wanting, can feel it trying to reject me in the same way a body will reject an organ that brings the wrong blood to its system. His family attachments are strong. There is a home he misses. There are things he wants to do. I can feel him pushing against me. Resisting. I could separate him from this body, tamp him down, but it would take time and energy. Better to roll the dice and see what I get next.

      In the meantime, there’s fun to be had in our remaining hours together.

      The young, handsome white guys are always fun. They’re the ones who are naturally given things, who find that gates swing open before they touch them. These guys take advantage. Sometimes they don’t know they’re doing it. Most of the time they do. They are harder to erase because they like their lives. But I stay in there anyway, because I like their lives, too.

      This guy’s six feet tall, maybe six one. Swimmer’s build. Eighteen years old. College freshman. Already knows which frat he’s going to pledge. Attractive enough that I could get sex if I wanted to get sex, and strong enough that I could cause other people harm if I wanted to cause other people harm.

      But I’d much rather mess with his life and leave him to clean it up. Take away as much of that advantage as I can. If I can’t use it, there’s no reason for him to have it when I’m gone.

      It’s easy enough to do. His girlfriend has been texting nonstop. Apparently, while I was getting a late breakfast, this guy was supposed to be walking her to class. At first she’s mad that he stood her up. She thinks he’s asleep. Then the day goes on and she’s starting to get concerned. The interesting part is that she’s more concerned about him being truthful with her than she is about whether he’s alright. She thinks her position is precarious.

      I need a vehicle for their undoing, and with this guy’s body, it’s not hard to find one. Leigh is working behind the counter at one of those coffee shops that exist just so Starbucks can kick it in the teeth. The Better Maryland Bean. Whatever. Leigh’s there, and she’s bored. Until I walk in—then she’s not so bored anymore.

      I’ve got this.

      Start with a smile. Tell her I just moved here for school. Ask about her tattoo. Make sure she sees my eyes linger as she pulls up her sleeve to show me the whole thing. There aren’t any other customers in line; we have all the time in the world. I ask a question to make it clear I’m really asking if she has a boyfriend. Get the answer I want.

      Next I lean closer. Ask if I can get her number. Then, when she says yes, take the marker from the counter, the one she uses to write names on the cups, and ask her to write her number on my arm. Big.

      “That way,” I say, “I won’t forget it.”

      She’s game. She’s charmed. Writes her name and her phone number from my wrist to my elbow. Even adds a winking smiley face at the end.

      Now it’s time to find this guy’s girlfriend.

      Leigh says the cold brew is on the house, but I tell her no way, and make sure I’m generous with the tip jar. It’s not my money, so I can afford to be generous. This particular teenager drives a BMW; Mommy and Daddy give him a pretty good allowance.

      The Girlfriend texts again. Every time she texts, I want to punish her more.

      I don’t let her know I’m on my way.

      I make a mockery of the speed limit and run red lights when there aren’t any cars coming. I’m a young, privileged white boy—if I get pulled over, the worst thing that will happen is I’ll be a few minutes late to somewhere I don’t need to be. If I were a young, privileged white girl, I wouldn’t even get a ticket, if my smile was effective enough. But I’m not worried about this guy paying for a ticket. Plus, he listens to Maroon 5. He deserves a ticket.

      Lucky for him, there aren’t any police around to oblige. I find his campus parking spot, then head over to Girlfriend’s dorm. A swipe of my ID gets me in. Her room is on the ground floor. I don’t text ahead—I just pound on the door. When she opens it, she doesn’t look happy to see me.