Ink Is Thicker Than Water Read Online Free Page B

it?”
    She nods. “Does it hurt a lot? I keep hearing that people faint.”
    “I don’t have any,” I say. “But my mom says the only people who ever faint are dudes. Women are built for childbirth and cramps, so you’ll be fine. Who’s doing yours?”
    The girl digs through her purse for her appointment card. “Russell.”
    “Russell’s awesome,” I say, as the Bettie Page–inked guy walks out, his arm wrapped in plastic, just in front of Mom. “Good luck.”
    Mom and I walk outside, and she hugs me tightly and kisses my forehead. “You’re always so good with our clients.”
    I shrug, because being friendly to other humans seems like a no-brainer. Ooh, but— “Maybe I could work the front counter, then. Jimmy probably needs some nights and weekends off to focus on his Mötley Crüe covers.”
    “I’m sure you’d be great, Kell-belle, but you don’t need to worry about a job.”
    “I’m not worried about one, I just want one.” I’ve been brainstorming to come up with the perfect job, one where I wouldn’t have to work too hard and I’d still not only make a lot of money but meet interesting people. This will totally do. “And I’m hanging out there so much, couldn’t I at least be useful to you?”
    “You can’t be useful without getting paid?” Mom laughs, and I know the subject—and my hopes—have been shot down.
    We take off down the cracked sidewalk back the way I’d just come. I rush to keep up with Mom, who always moves like she’s in a hurry. We walk all the way to the coffee shop across from the park, which we would have done regardless, but it’s nice on an October afternoon still warm enough we don’t need jackets. I’m not one of those people who hates winter. What’s not to love? There’s crisp air and snowflakes and random days off school and Christmas. Complaining about any of that is like complaining about, I don’t know, love or free money or cuddly puppies. Still, it’s impossible not to love the fall.
    “Are you hungry?” Mom asks as we walk inside. When I was younger, Mokabe’s was totally a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, but now it’s two levels to easily fit all the people sitting around doing whatever people do in coffee shops: working on their laptops, playing games, and talking. Things have only changed so much though, because the décor is still kind of rag-tag/whatever must have been on hand, and the space behind the register remains practically wallpapered with bumper stickers that call for peace and equality and a bunch of other concepts I think are no-brainers but I guess are radical ideas to some. “We could split the quesadillas.”
    “Hey, Melanie,” the cashier greets Mom. “Your usual?”
    Mom has a usual everywhere we go.
    “Thanks, Bonnie. That, an order of quesadillas, and whatever Kellie wants.”
    I just want water, which I nearly drop because as Bonnie hands it to me, everything comes together: Dad at the house yesterday, Sara allowed to skip a meal, meeting Mom right after school. Something is going on.
    “Mom?” I ask, feeling small and afraid. And I hate feeling either one of those things. “Is everything—”
    “Let’s sit down.” She takes her dirty soy chai—which she claims is delicious but sounds too gross for me to even sample—and leads me through the noisy first floor to a table upstairs, alone, away from every other customer. Way to scare the crap out of me, Mom.
    “You know Sara turned eighteen last month,” she says, which blows me away with its obviousness.
    “I know how old my own sister is, Mom.”
    “Eighteen is pretty significant for Sara.”
    “Because she can smoke and vote? Won’t that be significant for me, too?”
    “ Because her adoption records are no longer sealed.”
    A guy brings out our quesadillas right as Mom says it, and must have been listening in because he scurries off with this guilty-he’d-heard-too-much look on his face.
    “Is that bad?” I ask, because I really don’t