“I have an idea,” he says, giving me an appraising look. “But I’m not one hundred percent sure you’ll be into it.”
“No strip clubs,” I say automatically.
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ’cause that was what I was going to suggest.”
“What then?”
“What would you think about getting your tattoo today?”
My mouth drops open. That was the last thing I was expecting.
“Come on, Daisy. We always said we would go right after graduation, right? That it would be a rite of passage. But we never did it. I think now would be a great time.”
It was true. We had plans to get tattoos together for ages. Daltrey already had several, along with his eyebrow piercing and several holes in his ears. My dad, however, was always strict about it, telling me in no uncertain times that I wouldn’t have one while living under his roof. Daltrey promised me that we’d get it done before I went to college. Once the supporting tour had been lined up and we agreed that I’d come along to work for them, we changed the plan to right after graduation. The tattoo was supposed to represent my independence, my taking control of my own life from my overly strict dad.
“What do you think?” he eventually asks.
Am I at a point now that should be celebrated? Do I want to mark the journey of the last several months? A rite of passage, I think to myself. A celebration. “Hell yeah!”
Daltrey grins his old child-like, free smile that lights up my insides. “I was hoping you’d say that. I booked us both an appointment at a shop I know.”
I laugh. “That’s awesome. Oh, my God! I’m so excited. I have no idea what I should get. What are you going to get?”
I know I’m babbling, but I can’t help it, and Daltrey doesn’t seem to mind. We’re like kids again, wild and getting into trouble. It feels great.
“They have idea books, and the guy we’re going to see is phenomenal. He can help you choose.”
“When’s the appointment? Can we go now?”
“Of course we can.” He stands and holds out his arm. “After you.”
I jump from the booth and head to the car with Daltrey, my brain spinning with the possibilities.
“You always said you wanted your first one on your shoulder, right? Is that still what you’re thinking?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I thought that was what I wanted, but I won’t be able to see it there, you know? Not without looking in the mirror. Maybe my hip? But then no one else would be able to see it either.”
“My first one was one was on my shoulder. But on the front side, where I could see it.”
He has the lyrics to “Baba O’Riley”—his favorite song by The Who, sung by his namesake—on his shoulder. Three lines of print, a simple, clean font. It’s my favorite of his half-dozen tattoos.
I realize, immediately, what I want and where. “I got it.”
He raises his eyebrows. “That was fast. You know, this is going to be on your body for the rest of your life.”
“When you know, you know.”
“Yes, you do.” His eyes stay on mine just a beat longer than necessary.
The tattoo parlor is in Brooklyn, and we have to fight heavy traffic to get there. But it gives us time to search for tattoo designs on our phones. The more I see, the more I feel confident in my decision. Daltrey is going back and forth between song lyrics and adding some tribal designs to his sleeve. He asks me several times what I’m going to do, but I only smile and tap the side of my nose.
I feel comfortable in the tattoo parlor the moment we step through the door. We’re greeted by a short, bald guy who appears to be in his late twenties. He and Daltrey do that half-hug, bro-back-slap that guys do. When Daltrey introduces me, Carlos’s eyes widen a bit.
“So this is Daisy, huh? I’ve heard so much about you.” He leans forward to kiss my cheek, and I give Daltrey a questioning look over Carlos’s shoulder. Daltrey only smiles.
“Hello,” I say, trying not to feel awkward over a stranger touching me. I’m still not great with the human-contact thing. I hope it doesn’t make this more difficult. I really want the tattoo now.
As it turns out, I have nothing to worry about. Carlos is easy to be comfortable around. He seems to know Daltrey pretty well for someone who lives so far away, a mystery that is cleared up within minutes of us sitting down at his station to look through his books.
“You’ll see one I did for Dalt right there, Daisy,” Carlos says, pointing at a cluster of music notes and swirling clouds in the lower corner of the book.
I look up, surprised. “Really? I’ve never seen it!”