says, talking over me and leaning out of her chair to be closer to Jonathan. “You did your time. No one can touch you.”
Jonathan nods along, letting out, “You’re right, you’re right.”
Not right. But I don’t say anything this time. It could be that Jonathan’s placating her. We’ll laugh about this later— what was she saying about haters? I wonder if he’s amusing himself. Or if he’s desperate for the company. Maybe he needs someone newand different, who didn’t know Grace or what she was to him, and can’t see that far down into his sadness. Maybe it doesn’t matter that Wren’s fascinated with his tumultuous past and helps him violate his probation, because talking to Wren is a hundred times better than a circle of recovering addicts at AA or a probation officer with a clipboard and one-size-fits-all instructions.
Maybe this is exactly what he’s missing.
“Nice ink,” he says, letting his eyes trail down her arms.
“Yeah, you like it?”
“It’s interesting.”
Her smile could eat his, but at least he’s smiling.
“Do you have any?” she asks, tracing a bird outline on her forearm.
“Just one.”
“You got a tattoo in prison?” The words rush out of me. The two of them seem to find my reaction amusing.
“No.” Jonathan laughs. “Before.”
“Let’s see it,” Wren says.
My eyes pore over him, searching for a hint of ink peeking out of his collar or his sleeve.
Jonathan shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Where is it?” Wren says, her eyes poring over him too.
He turns to me. “You really thought I’d get a tattoo in prison?” He laughs again.
“My cousin got a tattoo in prison,” Wren says. She lets her hair out of its bun and shakes out the mess of kinky curls.Jonathan doesn’t hide that he’s watching her. “The outline of a car. It looks like shit.”
“What kind of car?” Jonathan asks.
“I think it’s supposed to be a Chevelle. But it looks more like a limousine to me.”
The mental image of this is pretty funny. Jonathan laughs, and so do I.
“It’s ironic, too,” she continues. “His charge was grand theft auto.”
“Don’t tell me he stole a Chevelle?” Jonathan says.
Wren nods, rolls her eyes, laughs.
“Good taste, at least,” Jonathan says. I’ve never known him to be into cars.
“It was red with white racing stripes and everything.”
“Classic.”
“Yeah, but you know the thing about those cars?”
Jonathan watches as she redoes her bun.
I know the answer to this, so I say, “They’re really loud.”
“Exactly,” Wren says. “And that’s how he got caught. One of the guys he stole it from heard him driving it and was like, ‘Hey, that’s not your car.’”
“No,” I say.
At the same Jonathan says, “You’re kidding.”
“No—that’s—that’s really what happened.” She covers her mouth as a loud cackle rolls out. “I mean, what kind of a genius takes the lifted car back for a joyride around the neighborhoodhe stole it from?”
The three of us are doubled over at this point. Laughter like this, relieved and free-flowing, seems unnatural on Wren, breaking up her usual batting eyes and twisted grins and bringing color to her cheeks. It reminds me of the way Sutton’s face used to open up when she was laughing with my brother or Grace. It was the only time she really looked approachable. The story goes that on the first day of Grace’s freshman year, Sutton and she were both waiting in the counselor’s office to have their schedules changed, when Grace said something that made Sutton crack up so hard Diet Coke came out of her nose.
“Everyone I know who’s gone to jail, it’s always been for something stupid,” Wren tells us when the laughter has died down.
Jonathan averts his stare, tracing his finger along the top of his cup. He’s no longer leaning in her direction. I hope Wren feels like crawling under a rock. “Everyone.” All these ex-cons she knows who didn’t have to
Jonathan nods along, letting out, “You’re right, you’re right.”
Not right. But I don’t say anything this time. It could be that Jonathan’s placating her. We’ll laugh about this later— what was she saying about haters? I wonder if he’s amusing himself. Or if he’s desperate for the company. Maybe he needs someone newand different, who didn’t know Grace or what she was to him, and can’t see that far down into his sadness. Maybe it doesn’t matter that Wren’s fascinated with his tumultuous past and helps him violate his probation, because talking to Wren is a hundred times better than a circle of recovering addicts at AA or a probation officer with a clipboard and one-size-fits-all instructions.
Maybe this is exactly what he’s missing.
“Nice ink,” he says, letting his eyes trail down her arms.
“Yeah, you like it?”
“It’s interesting.”
Her smile could eat his, but at least he’s smiling.
“Do you have any?” she asks, tracing a bird outline on her forearm.
“Just one.”
“You got a tattoo in prison?” The words rush out of me. The two of them seem to find my reaction amusing.
“No.” Jonathan laughs. “Before.”
“Let’s see it,” Wren says.
My eyes pore over him, searching for a hint of ink peeking out of his collar or his sleeve.
Jonathan shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Where is it?” Wren says, her eyes poring over him too.
He turns to me. “You really thought I’d get a tattoo in prison?” He laughs again.
“My cousin got a tattoo in prison,” Wren says. She lets her hair out of its bun and shakes out the mess of kinky curls.Jonathan doesn’t hide that he’s watching her. “The outline of a car. It looks like shit.”
“What kind of car?” Jonathan asks.
“I think it’s supposed to be a Chevelle. But it looks more like a limousine to me.”
The mental image of this is pretty funny. Jonathan laughs, and so do I.
“It’s ironic, too,” she continues. “His charge was grand theft auto.”
“Don’t tell me he stole a Chevelle?” Jonathan says.
Wren nods, rolls her eyes, laughs.
“Good taste, at least,” Jonathan says. I’ve never known him to be into cars.
“It was red with white racing stripes and everything.”
“Classic.”
“Yeah, but you know the thing about those cars?”
Jonathan watches as she redoes her bun.
I know the answer to this, so I say, “They’re really loud.”
“Exactly,” Wren says. “And that’s how he got caught. One of the guys he stole it from heard him driving it and was like, ‘Hey, that’s not your car.’”
“No,” I say.
At the same Jonathan says, “You’re kidding.”
“No—that’s—that’s really what happened.” She covers her mouth as a loud cackle rolls out. “I mean, what kind of a genius takes the lifted car back for a joyride around the neighborhoodhe stole it from?”
The three of us are doubled over at this point. Laughter like this, relieved and free-flowing, seems unnatural on Wren, breaking up her usual batting eyes and twisted grins and bringing color to her cheeks. It reminds me of the way Sutton’s face used to open up when she was laughing with my brother or Grace. It was the only time she really looked approachable. The story goes that on the first day of Grace’s freshman year, Sutton and she were both waiting in the counselor’s office to have their schedules changed, when Grace said something that made Sutton crack up so hard Diet Coke came out of her nose.
“Everyone I know who’s gone to jail, it’s always been for something stupid,” Wren tells us when the laughter has died down.
Jonathan averts his stare, tracing his finger along the top of his cup. He’s no longer leaning in her direction. I hope Wren feels like crawling under a rock. “Everyone.” All these ex-cons she knows who didn’t have to
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