“Just wanted to be sure you’re okay,” she says. She looks at Lark and then at me. And I see that Lark’s face is wet because a tear has rolled down her cheek. “What the fuck did you do to her?” Friday asks, gesturing wildly.
I hold up my hands in surrender mode.
“Stop,” Lark says. “He didn’t do anything. He was very nice. It’s just not easy to talk about.” She sniffles. “The burns on my legs and stomach are much worse, but I can cover those easily with clothes.”
“You have more?” I ask her. I point to her stomach.
She stands up and lifts the edge of her shirt. Friday covers her mouth and I suppose she’s hiding a gasp. But Lark must hear it because she drops her shirt really quickly.
“I’m so sorry,” Friday says.
“The fire spread to the curtains over the kitchen window, and then to the rest of the house. I ran upstairs to wake my parents, but by the time I got there, the fire was too far out of control. My clothes had caught on fire, and my dad put the flames out. Then he lowered me from a second-story window and went back for my mother. I never saw them again.”
Now it’s Friday who is blinking back tears.
Lark doesn’t look like she wants sympathy. She wants a tattoo. I motion for Friday to leave us, and she does. I didn’t think she’d go away that easily.
“The ones on your arms, I can cover those easily. Your stomach would be harder. It would take more applications and heavier ink.”
She nods. I think she likes that I didn’t make a big deal over her parents dying or her burns. She seems relieved.
She points to the two largest burns on her left arm. “I was thinking we could cover these two big ones with some seagulls, and maybe a beach scene.” She quirks her brow at me.
I nod. “We could. I could do those today, and then go back and draw the rest of it for you for next time. What do you think?”
She smiles at me, and damn if my heart doesn’t skip a beat. I point to her folded glove, which is now resting just over her wrist. “Can you take that off?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Why not?” I already saw her burns. How much worse can it get?
“No,” she says again, slapping her first two fingers together against the pad of her thumb in the sign for “no.”
“Okay. Let me doodle up some birds for you.” I get her a bottle of water and go to the light table on the other side of the curtain.
Friday bumps my hip with hers so I’ll look at her.
“Is she okay?” she asks me.
I nod. “She’s fine.”
“Can you help her?”
“Yes.”
I bend over so I can draw, but Friday walks around the table so she can get in my face. “Be nice to her, Ryan,” she says.
I throw up my hands. “I’m always nice.”
She snorts. I can tell because her nose flexes and her throat twitches. She stares at me for a minute. “She’s not your type, is she?”
“She’s not deaf, if that’s what you mean.”
Friday nods. “She’s not your type, her hearing status notwithstanding.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You have a tendency to pick crazy chicks.”