Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT) 📕

god,” I say, turning to Becka. “I just got the best idea ever.”

“What’s that?” Her brow crinkles with that skeptical look I’ve learned to recognize by now.

“We should get bug tattoos. In honor of Grandpa.”

“Tattoos?” She spits the word out like she’s never heard it before.

“Yeah, what do you think?” I run my fingers through my hair, wondering if maybe it wasn’t such a great idea after all. “I could design them… if you want,” I suggest, like this might actually convince her.

Becka sips from her water bottle and appears to mull this over. “Like on our hip or something? My mom would never see that.”

“Who cares if she sees it. We’re eighteen. And plus, it’s for Grandpa. I’m sure she’d be okay with that.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Becka grows quiet again, considering things.

“Let’s go swim and you can think about it. How about that?”

This seems to appease her, so we strip back down to our swimsuits and head for the water.

Sometime later, after having our fill of swimming, we’re back in the shade, this time with ice cream cones. Becka still hasn’t given me an answer on the tattoos, and I haven’t brought it up again, but I can’t get the idea out of my brain. So while she’s busy scrolling through her phone, I dig out the pen and stationery pad I’d swiped from our hotel room from the bottom of my bag and start sketching a dragonfly, similar to the one I’d seen earlier.

“Whatcha drawing?” she asks after a while.

“My tattoo design.” I tilt the pad of paper her way.

Becka studies it for a second, taking another lick of her ice cream. “So… if we were both going to get a bug tattoo, what would mine be? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

I lower my sunglasses to peer at her. “You want my opinion?”

“Sure. Why not?”

I click my pen shut and tap it against the armrest of my chair absentmindedly. “I’d say something sophisticated. Maybe a butterfly?”

“I love butterflies, but isn’t that kind of basic?”

“Okay, how about a ladybug, then?”

She licks her ice cream again and nods. “A ladybug. I could maybe live with that.”

“Hold on,” I say, clicking the pen back open and flipping to a fresh page in the notepad. I complete a new sketch and show it to Becka. “You’ll have to imagine it with colors, but maybe something like this?”

She actually looks a little impressed. “Nice.”

“So… do you wanna do it?”

“You’re being completely serious?”

“Completely.”

“And you think we could just walk into a tattoo parlor, show them those pictures, and get it done?”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

Becka shakes her head and smiles. “You know, I never do things like this. Spontaneous, crazy things.”

“If you want my opinion again, then I’d say you’re in the perfect place to try something crazy and spontaneous.”

Becka’s lips pinch together and I prepare myself for a letdown. She’s way too straitlaced for this kind of thing after all.

“You know what?” she finally says, straightening in her seat a little. “I’m down for it. Let’s go get ourselves a bug tattoo.”

“Really?” I can’t contain my grin now. Or my surprise.

“Really,” she says, eyes twinkling.

We find a tattoo place back on Duval Street, and, lucky for us, the guy is able to get us right in. He studies my sketches while Becka and I fill out the paperwork, and when he says he can make a copy of my designs and use them as stencils, I smile and give Becka a playful told-you-so look. How cool is it that my drawings are going to be a part of us both?

“You can go first,” I tell Becka, mainly because I’m afraid she’ll back out if she doesn’t.

“I changed my mind,” she says, and I inwardly groan. “I think I want it on my wrist instead.”

Relief floods through me, though I’m not really sure why I’m making such a big deal about this. “Great idea,” I tell her. “I’ll do that, too,” Honestly, I don’t care where mine goes because I’ll probably get more tattoos at some point anyway.

Becka only winces at the beginning and then stares out the front window while the guy works. The nice thing about tiny tattoos? They don’t take all that long. The ladybug comes out just like my drawing, only in red and black, and it’s pretty adorable.

My dragonfly takes a little longer, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. But I keep my mouth clamped shut, wondering how Becka made it through so calmly. Once it’s finished, we hold our wrists side by side to compare.

“Mine’s better,” Becka taunts.

“No way. This dragonfly is sick.”

“Okay, they’re both pretty great,” she admits. “My mom’s gonna freak, but I think she’ll love it. Once she gets used to it, at least.”

After getting aftercare instructions and some ointment, we set off, still staring at our wrists. Mine’s starting to sting a little more, but no way am I going to complain.

“I can’t believe I have an honest-to-god tattoo,” Becka says, pulling out her phone to snap another picture of it.

“Believe it,” I say. “’Cause it ain’t coming off!”

For dinner, we choose a French restaurant and sit outside at a table for two. Even though they have American food as well, I only order stuff I associate with France, like escargot, soufflé, and a strawberry creme-filled crepe, since this might be my only chance to eat at a place like this. No more fancy restaurants courtesy of Grandpa after this trip, especially since we used our cards to pay for the tattoos.

“You’re brave, getting escargot,” Becka says after the waiter brings out our meals. She’d ordered coq au vin—chicken cooked in wine.

“Want one?” I grab a shell and offer it to her.

She scrunches up her nose and I notice the slightest hint of freckles sprinkled across her face. The sun must have brought them out.

“No thanks,” she says with a laugh.

I use the tiny fork to pry meat from the shell, examining the rubbery-looking substance before dipping it into the butter sauce and