I look down at my phone, blinking at the silly question still in the search bar.
How do I know if I like someone—romantically?
Clearly Saylor is more than an accomplice who barged into my summer plans, but I didn’t expect it all to be thisconfusing. My parents have done a good job getting me this far in life, but other than one “lesbians need to practice safe sex” chat I had with my mom, they haven’t told me anything about relationships. I know they really love each other, but what good does that do me in this situation? I’ve had those types of feelings where I just sort of look at a cute girl from afar. I know those feelings don’t mean anything. This is different. I cannot stop thinking about her.
I swipe back over to Instagram to finish what I started when I came up to my room in the first place. I look at what I’ve put together so far. New account. New name. I went with the HandItiiHeaven idea Saylor had, and I’ve added the best of the sad-clown self-portraits as my profile picture. Some of my best work, truly. The bio is short and simple.Heaven GC—Artist/Future Tattoo Artist. She/Her.I’ve put up three posts and decided to limit the captions. I know me. Less is more, and I will freak out if I have to come up with something deep every time I post.
There’s a self-portrait I did in charcoal from freshman year that my teacher actually tried to keep. It’s now in my dad’s office. The sketches of theCall the Midwifecast in sad-clown makeup, and then another still life.
I take a deep breath and commit to the hard part. I have to let people know that this account exists, that I exist. My stomach churns, but my thumb does what I need it to do. I follow Miss Kelly and Mr.Rick. I follow the rest of the crew at Ink & Pearl, including the shop manager, who’s always been nice to me. I follow my parents on their private accounts and think twice about following the Bright SmilesDentistry’s account. People don’t need to question why we’re connected.
I follow a bunch of other artists and tattoo artists that I followed from my private account and then I send follow requests to Axel, Jake, and Bethany and Valentina too ’cause why not. They’ve always been really nice about my work.
I don’t go to Saylor’s account on purpose, but I send her a follow request too, and my heart feels like it’s on a trampoline in my chest. I know she’s helping me, but does she care about this part, what happens after?
I go back to my profile and try not to think about it as I stare at that zero under the Followers tab. I have no clue what I expected to happen. I’m a seventeen-year-old kid who just posted three pictures and then followed Ashley Myers, who has hosted three seasons ofMasters of Inkand has two million followers. Did I think she was going to run to her phone to follow me back? Not bloody likely. Miss Kelly said she wanted me to start putting myself out there. She didn’t say I would be magically famous overnight.
I grab my tablet and decide to start working on some more flash pieces to show Miss Kelly and to share on my account. I only work for an hour or so before I start yawning and I know it’s time for someLower Decksand bed. After I finally dig up my bonnet and before I go say goodnight to my parents, I brave a look at my new IG account. My heart dusts off its bouncing shoes when I see I have three followers—my mom, Miss Kelly, and Saylor. I click on the comment notification and see it’s from Saylor too, under the sad-clown self-portrait flash sheet.
I love these so much.
My cheeks instantly go hot as I like the comment. Suddenly my phone vibrates in my hand and I almost drop it. It’s a text from Miss Kelly.
Just looked through the IG profile.
It looks great! Keep going!
Thanks. I’ll def post more tomorrow.
I flop back on my bed and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t think I’m cut out for this much stimulation. I wanna barf every time I think about posting another piece. I wanna run over to the Yeuns’ house and confess to Miss Kelly that I couldn’t even get the profile up on my own, that Saylor did everything but the physical typing. And I wanna crawl in a hole and hide because I might like Saylor or maybe I’m just confused because she’s the only girl I’ve ever really hung out with like this before. And she’s gay. And she’s super hot. And confident. And considerate. And nice. And sometimes I think about kissing her, but I’m not sure if that’s because I’ve never kissed anyone before and Saylor’s lips look really soft, or if I really want to kiss Saylor because I like her.
I grab my pineapple Squishmallow and bury my face in it. Death by plushie seems like the only logical next step. When that doesn’t work because I like breathing and I really want to see Saylor again, I decide to go to bed.
17
Heaven
Two days later, I’m in my car outside Saylor’s house trying to figure out how to manage my newfound fame. As of this morning, I have twelve followers—most of them are family, friends, my friends’ girlfriends, and Ink & Pearl employees. I’m feeling the love and support. But I almost fainted when I saw that a local, but really popular artist, @Mad__Maddy, followed me back. She even liked my charcoal self-portrait and left a heart in the comments. It shouldn’t be such a big deal, but it is. I still feel conflicted like I’m putting on a front to Miss Kelly and not actually doing the thing she wants me to do. And at the same time, I’m so glad Saylor offered to help me, even if it came with some pressure. I’d still be frozen thinking about a new username if it wasn’t for her.
I’ve only posted one more time. An American traditional piece, one of the oldest styles of tattoos in the US at least. It’s a rose with a dagger through it. I don’t know how I feel about it yet, but I sucked up my anxiety and posted it. I also don’t know how I feel about the fact that Saylor was the first person to like it either.
We texted a little yesterday, even though we didn’t seeeach other. It was nice. That’s a good way to describe it—it was nice to hear from her. I don’t like playing the game of how much texting is too much texting, but she sent me this behind-the-scenes clip of her mom putting ointment on her face for some paid post that’s going up at the end of the summer.
I sent her a picture of Fergie and Di in what my mom calls their puppy cuddle puddle. She tells me how cute they are and then asks what time I’m going to pick her up for our trip to the museum. I try not to think about the fact that technically this could be a date, if we liked each other. Which we don’t. I tell her I’ll be there at eleven and she says okay, night night. I think the “night night” is cute and absolutely do not tell her that. I think about starting a journal just so I can cope, but I don’t think I need to document how confused and hopeless I am.
It’s 11:05 and Saylor knows I’m here, but maybe she’s reapplying more ointment, so I wait. I’m thinking how embarrassing I plan to be once we get to the museum. Do I play it cool or do I let her know how much of an art nerd I am? I mean she knows about my tattoo dreams, but she doesn’t know how much I love an art museum. I keep thinking about how letting her know me more would make us better friends, and if wanting friendship is a thing I’m just lying to myself about right now, when Saylor texts me.
My mom wants you to come inside.
She wants to show you the tshirt design.
On my way.
Before I have my seat belt off, I see the Fords’ front door pop open. Saylor’s standing there in a white tank top and another pair of short jean shorts. Her mass of blond-brown curls are up in a high bun. It makes sense since it’s so hot out, but still, even with her bright blue cast and her scratched up face, she looks so cute. My brain shouts,Hubba-hubba!and I think it might be a good idea for me to get back in my car and go home. Somehow, I make it up to the front door.
“Hey,” Saylor says. “It’ll be quick. She’s just really proud of this T-shirt.”
“It must be weird to want to show someone your art.”