The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

needles and all that.
Even though I can literally see him doing it now, a month ago I would have been running for the
door after Googling tattoo-related infections, the worst-case scenarios guiding my decision.
Like this past February when I came with Kiera.
ere’s no denying the fact that the thoughts still come this time. But, when they do, I think about
just how great this tattoo will be. How another list item will be checked o. How my mom must have
felt in this exact moment.
e weight of these thoughts far outweighs the worst-case-scenario ones, pushing me forward as I
sign on the dotted line, my fear no longer debilitating.
Big Eddie heads back up to take the clipboard, motioning to the faux-leather tattoo chair sitting
empty in the middle of the room.
I walk over and slide into it, my legs squeaking noisily against the leather as I perch on the edge. Big
Eddie has me put my arm up on the armrest, cleaning it with rubbing alcohol. I’m surprised when he
pulls out a razor to shave down the faint brown hair on my right arm, the skin underneath prickling.
He puts down a stencil of the sunflower, transferring it onto my arm with water, his thick fingers
working carefully as he slowly pulls the paper away.
And suddenly there it is. My soon-to-be tattoo. I exhale slowly, taking it in.
“Look all right?” he asks. “There’s a mirror over there if you want to double-check.”
I push myself up and walk over to the mirror attached to the back of a worn closet door, turning
my arm right and le in the reflection. e flower stands out against my pale skin. A lot. My eyes find
Blake’s in the reflection, and I hesitate, but she nods with absolute certainty, her arms crossed.
“It’s the perfect thing to get. Your mom would love it.”
I swallow hard on the tears that begin to bubble up at her words and head back to the tattoo chair,
putting my arm back up on the armrest.
Big Eddie gets all the ink ready while Blake wheels a stool over, sitting down across from him, and
suddenly he’s asking me, “You ready?”
And that’s when my eyes find the glimmering silver needle.
“Uh,” I manage to get out. Big Eddie stops in his tracks and gives me a once-over.
Am I ready to do this? I think of all the other items on the list. How I don’t regret doing a single one.
Everything my mom had on it has led me to feeling closer to not only her…
But also to the person I actually want to be. And this is a reminder of that.
Blake scoots the stool closer and holds out her hand to me. e same hand I held last night,
underneath a blanket of stars. “You can squeeze it when it hurts, okay?” she says. “It’ll be over in no
time.”
I pry my fingers o the armrest, placing my sweaty palm in her very dry and very so hand, her
fingers folding safely over mine, the feeling familiar and dizzying and distracting.
“All good?” Big Eddie asks again, the tattoo gun buzzing.
This time I nod.
He presses down, and the pressure goes from naing to unpleasant to painful. I grimace, squeezing
Blake’s hand tighter as the pain swells from an uncomfortable prickle to blindingly overpowering.
Even when my grip tightens hard enough for her fingers to lose color, or the bones to pop straight