Page 44 of What Did I Miss?

This morning, Makayla’s hardest decision was what to have for breakfast. This afternoon, it’s what tattoo she should get.

Everybody has them. Cece has a cute drawing of Minnie Mouse on her hip, Rongo’s shoulder reflects his Māori heritage and Quinn has Gertie stencilled on her forearm.

Even Agnes has a tramp stamp. Once when she bent over, her cardigan rode up and there it was at the tail of her spine, a single eye.

Watching. Judging. Evil, like its owner.

Now it’s Makayla’s turn to select a design, and no matter how many albums she flips through, none are right.

She slams another one shut and wanders around the tattoo parlour, alone. Quinn’s running late.

Photos of intricate artwork cover the walls.

Their lines are soft and fluid, giving the illusion they’re dancing on the customers’ skin.

The artist hides in the back room, needle buzzing as they create their next masterpiece.

No one’s screaming, which is reassuring.

Quinn promised it doesn’t hurt. Then again, she said the same thing when passing kidney stones. Her tolerance to pain is astonishing.

Makayla finds an example of someone’s back completely covered in inky spiders and sends it to Cece to rile her up. I’m loving this. Thoughts? Then another one of a thick serpent wrapped around someone’s neck. More my style?

A swift reply arrives. Whatever makes you happy xx.

Makayla sighs. Cece’s ruining the joke by tiptoeing around her.

A man stumbles into the waiting area like a bucking bronco, bringing a tang of antiseptic along with him. Plastic wrap hugs his freshly tattooed bicep.

‘Thanks again, Priscilla,’ he calls before leaving the shop.

The Mustang Owners Club President appears before Makayla, looking nothing like the tattoo artist she’d envisioned.

Where’s the mohawk, multiple piercings and studded leather?

More importantly, where are her tattoos?

Her arms are bare and so are the ends of her legs sticking out of the cosy blanket draped across them.

Following Makayla’s roving gaze, Priscilla states, ‘My tatts are for my husband’s eyes only.’

Makayla laughs, and tries not to imagine where they might be.

‘This is your first time,’ Priscilla states.

‘How do you know?’

‘All you virgins look the same, like you’re shitting yourself. There’s nothing to fear. You’re in good hands.’ Priscilla flags a framed licence sitting on top of a dust-free counter. She keeps her shop in the same mint condition as her car.

‘It’s not that,’ Makayla explains. ‘I can see you’re great at what you do. I’m just having trouble picking something I won’t want to get lasered off in ten or twenty years. This is harder than I thought.’

‘In my experience, there are two types of clients: there are those addicted to the process, who don’t care what’s on their body as long as it’s something new, and then there are people who want their design to have meaning.

You sound like the latter, which makes it tough.

I’ve got something that might help.’ Priscilla passes her a book with gold embossing on the cover.

‘This explains the symbolism of objects. Have a look while I tidy up.’

‘Thanks.’ The book’s spine cracks when Makayla opens it.

Priscilla performs a one-eighty in her wheelchair. ‘I forgot to ask, why are you getting a tattoo?’

Makayla wobbles her head about. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘We’ve got time.’ Priscilla throws her arms out wide, highlighting the empty space.

‘Many people I know got them when they were younger, but I missed that phase. My ex-husband and I went from being high-school sweethearts to an old married couple overnight. We also lived with my mother-in-law for a while, who made it clear tattoos were unladylike. ’ Makayla adopts a posh accent.

‘I’m making up for lost time. I’ll be thirty soon and I don’t want to have any regrets. ’

‘Thirty?’ Priscilla chokes. ‘Life isn’t over when the clock strikes midnight, believe me. My sixties were rockin’.’

Words fail Makayla. She hasn’t really thought beyond her birthday or the list. A year ago, her future looked a lot different. Now it’s full of possibilities – new experiences and new people. She takes a breath.

‘Quinn told me to hold off on processing your club membership,’ Priscilla says. ‘What’s going on there? Changed your mind?’

‘No, still keen. I’d say that’s got to do with my aunty throwing a challenge or two my way to prove my worthiness.’

‘You mean she’s bribing you with Gertie?’ This woman doesn’t miss a thing.

‘Exactly. If I don’t jump through all her hoops by my birthday, I won’t get the car and therefore can’t join the club.’ There’s an unexpected tug at her chest. Who’d have thought she’d reach a point where that outcome would sadden her?

‘There’s nothing in the rules explicitly stating members must own a Mustang. Even if there was, I’m pretty sure you know people in high places.’ Priscilla swishes her silvery locks over her left shoulder. ‘I’ve got your back. We all do.’

Makayla nibbles carelessly on the side of her bottom lip. Good to know. There’s something comforting about the way Priscilla and the rest of the committee members are so willing to take her under their wing when Quinn abandons her.

Priscilla returns to the back room and leaves her to pore over the illustrations. Makayla yawns and embraces a Russian Roulette approach. On the count of three, whatever she lands on, she’s getting.

The book falls open and presents a set of outstretched angel wings. She traces the outline with her finger, soaking in the feathered details. The description reads: Freedom, protection and in memory of a loved one.

‘Eddie,’ she whispers.

A sense of knowing settles inside her heart – this tattoo is meant for her, meant for him . Her little angel, who she doesn’t want to forget, and will always be a part of her.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Quinn bursts through the door.

‘The real estate agent kept going on and on, trying to convince me not to slash the sale price of my house. I had to remind him if he was better at his job, it would’ve sold months ago like he promised.

’ Peeking over Makayla’s shoulder, she asks, ‘Is that what you’re getting? ’

‘Yes. I like it; it’s simple, yet beautiful. Perhaps on my wrist.’ Somewhere she can see it daily.

Quinn reads the description out loud. ‘Who died?’ she asks without offence.

Heat winds itself around Makayla’s neck, like the serpent she saw earlier. Should she tell Quinn? It’s the perfect segue. Beau and Cece both know. Why not the person she’s most alike with in the world?

‘No one. I just like the look of it,’ she replies.

Get a tattoo ?

On the last day of the longest term ever, Makayla and Cece race out the school gate on foot to make their way to the pub around the corner.

‘Thank Christ that’s over. I need a drink,’ Makayla declares.

‘I know the feeling. I need five.’

Makayla snorts. Cece can’t stomach that much. After a few sips of a pretty pink cocktail, she’ll be dancing on top of the bar one minute and sticking her head in the toilet the next.

‘Gosh, slow down. They won’t run out of cider.’ Cece struggles to match Makayla’s long-legged strides.

Students mosey along the middle of the footpath, oblivious to other pedestrians.

Makayla double claps to break through their snug beanies and the tunes blaring out of their headphones.

The teens sidestep onto frost-tipped lawns, and she charges ahead when the Goldbrooke Hotel (‘The Goldie’, as the locals call it) comes into sight.

‘How are you doing?’ Cece pants, breaking into a jog.

‘Fine.’

‘ Makayla .’ Cece grabs her arm and puts a stop to their fast-paced adventure. ‘Do you remember what we promised the other day? We won’t say we’re okay when we’re not. Let’s try this again. How are you?’

Weak afternoon sunlight beams down, providing a delicate forehead kiss. Since opening up about her miscarriages, there’s a lightness to their friendship that makes a moment like this easier to face.

‘You’re right. Sorry. Good question. How am I doing ?

’ Makayla places her hands on her hips, opening her chest up to the sky, and exhales.

‘Not great. I’m anxious about getting on a plane in two days and even more so about preparing a wedding speech.

I’m tempted to get AI to write it. And then there’s Beau.

’ She shrugs, hoping that will suffice, but Cece’s intense stare won’t let her renege on their recent pact.

‘Okay, okay. I see him every day. He’s polite.

I’m polite. It’s all very civil. We haven’t really spoken though, and I wish things could go back to how they were before, when we were having casual fun. ’

‘Is that what you truly want?’ Cece cocks her head.

‘Can’t get anything past you, can I? Enough about me. How are you ?’

They walk and talk the short distance to the pub. Cece can fit an awful lot in when under the pump.

The beer garden is overflowing with teachers yearning for adult interaction.

Their chatter drowns out an acoustic playlist humming in the background.

Staff from all faculties mingle on long picnic tables, swapping war stories over shared bowls of steaming chips and gravy.

It’s a tradition to meet here before they go their separate ways for two weeks of holidays that will be over in the blink of an eye.

It’s also custom to keep this after-hours gathering a secret from Jeffrey.

No one wants to risk getting tipsy and loose-lipped around him.

Much better to think he’s a useless sod than say it to his face.

It’d be great if Agnes’s name slipped off the guest list too. Then she wouldn’t be shoving meek graduates out of the way as she approached Makayla. Not a single drop of wine spills from her glass, which is generously filled above the standard drink line.

‘Agnes.’

‘Makayla.’