Temporary Tattoo

      The buzzer sounds, cutting through the air with authority and resonance. A gaggle of thirteen-year-old boys clear the court, limbs bouncing and dripping with sweat. Boys from both sides collect their belongings, take long sips of water, and find their family members in the bleachers, waving to them weakly. Brennan finds his dad by the doors of the gymnasium. He pats Brennan on the back twice, and they head out into the December night with their coats hugging them.

           Brennan watches headlights move through the parking lot, fluid like a ballet. Snow floats down from the black sky as if originating from nothingness. “Ah, Dad, I shouldn’t have tried to pass the ball, I should have just gone for the shot.”

           “It’s alright, buddy. It’s not always clear what the right choice is.” Brennan keeps his head bent, a little ashamed despite his dad’s reassurances. White flakes the size of navy beans stick in his sandy hair, limp with sweat. “Hey. This weekend, me and you will go down to the park and go over some maneuvers. Maybe I can get John to come with us. You know, he used to play when he was your age.”

           “Sure, Dad, that sounds alright.”

           “How about this,” he begins as they near the ’95 Camry. “Let’s go get pizza. At your favorite place.”

           Brennan smirks. “Why? I did terrible.”

           “Don’t say that. It’s a reward. For all you did tonight.” His dad grins as he unlocks the car. With the remaining strength he has, Brennan throws his bag into the backseat. His eyes sweep the parking lot. Across the lot, a thin woman stands next to a Kia with her hand affixed to the door handle, strangely still. Though it’s hard to tell through the snow and dark, it seems like she is watching him. Somehow, she looks familiar, but he’s almost sure he’s never seen her before.

“Ready?”

           Brennan closes the back door, still staring out at the Kia in the darkness. “What is it? It’s cold, Brennan.” He slips into the passenger’s seat and fastens his seatbelt.

           “Sorry. I just thought I saw someone.”

***

           The air inside of the restaurant is warm and smells of garlic and marinara. Brennan can feel his skin flush in the heat. By the entrance is a row of dated gumball machines, temporary tattoo vending machines, and vending machines that dispense capsules with miniature toys inside. A little boy with emerald eyes and a snotty nose uses both hands to try to turn the valve of the bouncy ball machine. Despite his effort, the valve doesn’t budge. “No, stupid.” An older girl picks the dimes and pennies out of the slots and replaces them with quarters. “Now try.” The valve turns easily as the quarters are swallowed by the machine.

The waitress is a college-aged girl but not in college, she reveals voluntarily. Her movements are swift and coordinated; she snatches a pair of menus from the front counter and brings them along to their booth. “Can I get you started with something to drink?” She places a menu delicately in front of Brennan. He peeks at her shyly, chewing on a hangnail.

           Brennan’s dad looks at him, prompting him to order first. “Pepsi, please.”

           “Sure,” she says, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. “And for you, sir?”

           “I’ll also take a Pepsi.”

           “Okay, I’ll be right back with those.”

           After the waitress goes to fetch their drink orders, Brennan discretely smells his jersey.

           “You have a crush?”

           Ignoring the question, Brennan instead quickly begins looking over his menu, reciting the toppings in his head to relieve the rush of blood in his cheeks. After a minute of checking out the side orders, he realizes his dad is looking elsewhere. “What is it, Dad?” His eyes are glued to the entranceway as if he is expecting a natural disaster to tear in from the blackness outside. “Nachos at the game aren’t a meal, Dad, you know.”

           He smiles but it seems forced and taut, like a stretched rubber band. “Oh, nothing.” For the first time that night, Brennan notices the unbecoming stubble on his dad’s face. He watches him uneasily, trying to translate his demeanor.

           It has only been Brennan and his dad since he was about three years old. She was in a car accident, his dad had told him when he was nine. He’d asked how, how the accident happened, but his dad never answered, and he couldn’t remember anything about it. It must have been gruesome, he realized.

His earliest memory is of him and his dad at the pond, folding a paper boat and placing it on the water. The USS Brennan. He could distinctly remember letting the boat go, like a baby bird leaving the nest. He had been scared it would sink, but because he trusted the design and his dad, it floated along the surface of the water rather simply.

           The waitress reappears with the Pepsis and a pair of straws. “Actually, can we have another menu, please?”

           “Sure thing.” She pulls an extra straw out of her apron. “Waiting on someone?”

           “Um. Maybe.” He gives her the same tight smile.

           “Who are we waiting on, Dad?”

           “You’ll see.” This response is so final, Brennan feels himself nearly shrivel with dread.

There’s light chatter in the dining room. A waiter briskly walks by with two pizzas, the smell of green peppers trailing behind him. Brennan watches him pass as if the scent is visible, like a flowing river cutting past. He falls back into his seat, feeling too distressed to focus on his menu.

When the waitress returns, there is a woman with her. “I assume this is yours?” The waitress hands her the extra menu. Brennan’s dad and the woman gaze at each other. His expression is still stiff.

“Here, Lynn, sit next to me.” Brennan’s dad scoots aside. She slides into the booth across from Brennan and awkwardly contorts as she sheds her coat. She flattens her blond hair along her temples, dotted with snowflakes. Is it her?

“I don’t smoke by the way,” she bursts, still fighting her coat like she’s wrestling with a tiger, when Brennan crinkles his nose. “It was the Uber driver….”

“Brennan, this is—"

“Were you…at the game?”

“Yes, I was actually.” She leans forward, bearing true interest. She tames her coat and rests it next to her. “You guys are pretty good.” Brennan exchanges a glance with his dad. Why is she sitting at our table?

“We weren’t tonight. We lost.”

“Well, I enjoyed watching you all play. Especially you! I can tell how hard you work.”

“Thanks.” Her eyes dance with her intonation. It’s as if she’s talking to a third grader. “We’ve got some good players. Like Max, he’s probably our MVP.”

“Yes,” she agrees as if she knew this all along. “You’re pretty good friends with number sixteen. You’re over at his house a lot.” These are not questions. Brennan feels a terror, like an ominous tingling, beginning in his fingernails and slowly creeping throughout his body. Like a dropping blood oxygen level.

He looks hurriedly between the woman and his dad. “How would you know that? How do you know about Grant?”

“We’re closer than you realize, Brennan.” Her face is solemn. The smell of pepperoni and peppers is suddenly like poison in his nose. The air is unbreathable.

“How do you know my name? And what does that mean?” Brennan picks up his menu and holds it upright like a shield between him and the woman; a shield to block all the uncomfortable truths to come. “What does she mean, Dad?”

His dad flicks the corner of his menu, scratches his forehead, then rests his chin in his hand. He waits for Brennan to arrive at an answer on his own. A thought unfurls in his head. His heart beats faster, as if he were still dribbling down the court amidst a crowd of other boys swiping for the ball. He can hear the buzzer in his head, but it never seems to stop.

“You tricked me.” Brennan’s dad sighs, holds his Pepsi glass in both hands like a piece of pottery he is trying to form. Like he’s trying to conjure some peace, some way to make things go smoother than he knows they will.

“I didn’t trick you, Brennan.”

“You should have told me. You should have asked.” Panic paralyzes Brennan. His skin prickles as if there was an explosion of glass propelled at him at one hundred miles per hour.

“I didn’t wa—”

“You didn’t want me to say ‘no!’” Lynn watches the exchange, wordless. Her hands are clasped in front of her on top of her menu, and Brennan is vaguely reminded of a teacher sitting at a desk. “Well, I have a right to.” He tears apart his straw wrapper, letting the strips of paper rest in a pile in front of him. “Stop looking at me.”

“Brennan.”

Lynn remarks gently, looking at Brennan’s dad as she speaks, “It’s just, we thought you might be old enough to understand now…”

“Old enough to understand what? That I hate this, and I want to go home? That I was lied to? Old enough to know what a lie is?” Brennan squeezes the remaining wrapper in his fist, so hard it nearly vanishes completely. There is a protracted silence. Maybe his sharp tone has just put an end to this unbearable conversation or so he hopes.

“Where is the waitress? I need a refill.” Brennan’s dad swirls his cup so the ice cubes clink.

Lynn says, “I know this must be unexpected… I know you must be feeling—"

“You don’t know anything about me.” His ears and face feel hot and swollen as if they have been stung by bees. Rage builds in his chest: the hive.

“Has anyone seen the waitress?”

“Well, why don’t you tell me something, then?”

Brennan retorts with a look as icy as the air outside, “Why don’t you tell me something. Tell me about your ‘accident.’”

“I’m here to talk to you about you. Let’s not talk about me right now.”

Brennan’s dad awkwardly interjects, “You want pepperoni, right, buddy?”

“No.” He’s not predictable like that, you know.

The waitress comes by to give Brennan’s dad his long-awaited refill. He is overly polite, thank you thank you, as if his manners will cover up the drama at their table.

“Do you like deep dish?” Lynn asks; it’s an easy, nonintrusive question.

“Never tried it.”

“I really do.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about you.”

“Well, what do you like?”

“Not having you in my life. Things are fine how they are. We’re happy. Aren’t we, Dad?” His voice wavers at the end. He rubs the straw paper between his fingertips to comfort himself. He looks at his dad’s stubble. They’re happy, right?

Without saying anything, Brennan’s dad starts wildly looking for the waitress again like a horse swinging its massive head away from flies. “I’m ready to order now. I think I’m going to get chicken wings. What sauce sh—”

“Dad?”

Finally, he sighs. “Brennan, look. I arranged this because I was hoping you would spend some time with…her. I think it would be good for you to get to know each other now that you’re older.”

“Yes,” Lynn agrees. “I was thinking maybe you would come stay for a little while over Christmas break?”

Brennan feels strangled in his jersey, as if the neck has contracted around his throat. “What is this, Dad? You can’t make me do this.” Lynn watches him steadily, like a sniper through a scope balancing her aim.

“Come on, Brennan, you’re thirteen, you can g—”

“And maybe that isn’t old enough. Because I can’t understand the point of this.”

“That’s enough, Brennan. She’s your m—”

“No, she’s not! She died!” Brennan leaps from the booth and shimmies into his coat. Without a backwards glance, he pads toward the entrance. Outside, the blackness speckled with white has become white speckled with black. He watches the snow, momentarily mesmerized. How easy it is to get lost in a blizzard, even from the other side of the glass.

An elderly couple approaches the entrance, so Brennan moves aside next to the vending machines, pasting himself to the wall. His puffy coat deflates audibly. Disinclined to return to the booth, he examines the machines. He reaches into his pocket to count his change.

***

‘If this restroom needs attention, please notify an employee,’ reads a sign posted on the wall opposite the sinks. Brennan sees it behind him in the mirror. He breaks down the sentence: If, needs, please.

He presses a wad of wet paper towel to his cheek and holds it there for what he guesses is one minute. When he gingerly peels the waxy transfer paper underneath away, there’s a rocket ship stuck on his skin. He runs two fingers over it. Somehow, the touch is sobering.

***

After delivering a glass of water to a neighboring table, the waitress heads over to their booth. “Have we decided?” She strokes her ponytail as she talks.

“I think I’ll get honey barbeque.”

Lynn skims her menu. “I’ll have the alfredo.”

“What about him?” The waitress gestures toward the empty seat across from them.

Lynn turns to Brennan’s dad, somewhat startled by the mention of him. “Do you know about Brennan? Did he want pepperoni?”