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“There’ll be articles about this in the morning,” Piper warns, flashing her eyes over the top of her sunglasses. “Indie-rock sensation Shel steals away dashing young girls and corrupts them.”
Shel turns and laughs, poking her tongue through the gap where her missing tooth is. Piper debates reaching over and sticking her own tongue through it, but that’s probably the closest thing to action the guy behind the counters had in years, and she wouldn’t put it past him to take pictures.
“Stop putting it on me,” she protests softly. “We both know you’re using me as an excuse.”
“That’s how the media works, baby!” Piper says cheerfully, reaching for an ugly shirt that would swallow her whole. “You’ve got knuckle tattoos.”
Shel shoves her hangers under her armpit to peer at her knuckles, then looks back up to Piper. “Is that what you’re choosing?”
Piper nods, holding it up against her. It smells musty, but so does the whole thrift store. She’s used to it.
“You’re predictable,” Shel teases. “That’s what the media’s going to write about – Piper Mclean lookalike popping up in skateparks, dressed like a stoner.”
Piper flips her hair. “Whatever, you love it. I’m buying this.”
Wearing the sunglasses and the new shirt, she’s able to hold Shel’s hand on the street. There’s always a chance Shel will get recognised, but it’s by the kind of people that Piper wouldn’t mind noticing her. It’s a long walk to the studio, but Shel swings their hands animatedly as they walk, and Piper’s happy to be strung along. She has nice hands, guitar calluses at the fingertips and tattoos licking at her palms. She’s painted about three of her nails a bright red, but the rest are bare since she got bored.
Piper lifts their hands up and kisses where their fingers intertwine.
Shel side eyes her. “Sap.”
But she’s smiling, close mouthed and soft, the way she does when Piper does something unexpected.
The tattoo studio is small, tucked away beside a Claires that Shel tries to walk her into. It smells like chemicals; Piper’s half convinced it’s a front, but they greet Shel warmly and wave her in.
“This is the girlfriend,” Shel quips, leaning against the counter in a way that makes her blouse fall off her shoulder. She fits right in, with her nose ring and wolf cut.
Piper doesn’t bother tearing her eyes off the bare skin of her collarbones. “Yeah. I’m here for a septum.”
She gets a discount, for being Shel’s girlfriend, and gets her hand held the whole way through – just in case – and spends maybe too long flipping through tattoo designs after.
Shel waits for her, never pushing, happy to catch up with her friends. She still hasn’t pulled up her blouse, and Piper is beginning to think it’s on purpose; her dad’s boyfriend has been hanging around the house recently, so they haven’t had time to themselves in forever.
She idly traces her finger over a snake design. It’s easy to picture under her ribcage, trailing down over her stomach.
“Babe,” she calls, lifting up her shirt to expose her abdomen. “Should I get my bellybutton pierced?”
Shel wanders over and ghosts a kiss over her nose. Piper blinks rapidly, not expecting the flash of pain.
“Okay,” she laughs, pushing her away. “I get it, one at a time.”
Shel grins, innocent, and tugs at her. “I didn’t say anything.”
She doesn’t have to. Piper knows she’s too far gone to care. She takes Shel by the hand and pulls her out, flipping her sunglasses down from her forehead – it’s sunny out, so she doesn't look too pretentious, but her all oversized look compensates. They nearly get distracted in an alleyway, twice, but eventually make it to a gelato place.
Shel picks mint, and keeps narrow eye contact as she licks along the sides. Piper snaps her teeth, biting straight into her mango and taking a detour. It turns out a mixture of the two tastes really bad, but Shel loops an arm around her waist and tucks her thumb inside of band of Piper’s jeans for the whole walk back to the house.
Apollo’s in the kitchen, hellbent on learning to cook to save the McCleans from takeout and frozen dinners. He snaps to attention when they step through, a ray of sun turning his dark skin golden. Piper has no idea how he always manages to find a sunny patch to stand in.
His eyes fixate on her nose. “I’ll sweeten up your dad if you help me with these tarts.”
Piper says, “Gross.”
Shel leans over the counter to see his recipe. “Lemon tartlets?”
Which is how they end up with flour up to the elbows, grating lemon zest and frantically searching for a rolling pin. Apollo does little to nothing, fixing his hair and singing to himself, unabashedly not hitting the notes. Piper's not much better; eating the mixture as fast as they make it. The whole kitchen fills with the smell of butter and sharp lemon.
Shel leans over to blow some flour off her nose piercing. “It looks good. I like it.”
She’s not looking at the septum.