Summer of Supernovas Read Online Free Page A

possess one iota of Gram’s decorating panache. Nope, I leave that in her capable hands.
    I kiss her soft cheek, perfumed by cinnamon and toasted nuts. “You worry too much.”
    “You give me plenty to worry for, child,” she barks as I skip down the warping front steps of our old Victorian. “You keep away from that water tower!”
    “I will!”
    Which for today is the honest-to-God truth.

    Adjusting the bag at my shoulder, I wait as traffic clears the crosswalk. My eyes fix on the freestanding single-story brick building. Its neon sign flashes: INKPORIUM TATTOO & PIERCING. Wexler Street isn’t the slums, per se, but it also isn’t the side of town where you want to look lost. Yes, Gram knows I come here. But Gram also remembers Wexler as it was, not as it is. Now it’s a mix of pawnshops, bars, and check-cashing facilities that get seedier the farther west you go.
    The bell chimes as I push through the glass door. Heavy guitars assault the speakers, and the vocals sound like someone with a wicked case of stomach flu.
    “How’s the sheep, Bo Peep?” Crater calls without looking up from his artistry. His string-bean frame is hunched, vertebrae poking from beneath his T-shirt.
    The burly customer in Crater’s chair quickly wipes the pain from his expression. While he might be wearing a brave face, his complexion is paler than milk and he’s squeezing the life out of the armrest.
    “Crate, I wore that dress once and it was adorable,” I holler over the metal music. “Just because it was white and had crinoline, it does not make me a sheepherder!” But arguing’s a lost cause. Once Crater names you, it’s as permanent as his tattoos. Could be worse. I could have Irina’s nickname. “How’d you know it was me?”
    “Because.” Crater adjusts the volume before turning around to swap out vials of ink. Then he flicks the overgrown Mohawk from his eye and grins. “You smell like a bakery. Dead giveaway.”
    I grin wryly. “Hazard of living in one, I guess.”

    “Least you’re not the old lady who lived in her shoe. Imagine if you had to go around smelling like a foot.”
    I laugh, then peer down at the sample tattoos in the portfolio that lies open on the counter. The page shows off every ornate dragon tattoo Crater has ever done, along with every place he’s ever put them. Oh…eww. I can’t fathom a reason to tattoo that part of my body. I swiftly close the book.
    The guy in the chair squirms and grimaces. “How much longer, man?”
    “Hour,” Crater snaps. “Maybe more if you keep up your worm-wiggling.” Good thing what the twenty-something tattoo artist lacks in charm, he makes up for with talent.
    Crate glances back to where my hand rests on the portfolio. “Just promise when you finally decide to ink that virginal skin, you’ll come to me. Don’t trust anyone else. I’ll practically do it gratis.”
    “I promise.” And it’s a promise I have to reaffirm virtually every time I step foot in Inkporium. Crater, in his way, is very sweet. He’s also very Leo, so I forgive his fixed and headstrong ways. He can’t help that his ruling planet is the Sun.
    The electric needle whines as Crater resumes his work on Worm-Wiggler. “The harpy’s in back.” He means Irina. “Hey, you got anything in that basket for me?”
    I take out one of the muffins and set it on the counter. “You’re lucky I’m feeling charitable today.”
    He pauses, sniffing the air. “Banana-nut?”
    “Yep.”

    “Right on. Later, Bo Peep.” Crater winks—lion through and through. The incessant buzzing drowns out the sound of his chuckle at my annoyed expression. Stupid nickname.
    I head for the narrow hall toward Irina’s private studio. The exposed brick on my right is littered with leaflets for local bands, local support groups, and local…well, you name it. I slow at a flyer for Absinthe showcasing a band called Wanderlust. Nice name. A lot better than Charred Biscuits or Pocketful of Lint.
    Irina’s