The Night Has Teeth (4 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I say while bending to pick up
some of the items.

“Do you always greet people in such a rough
manner?”

It’s Amara. I have no idea what to say, so I hand
her what I’ve grabbed from the floor, probably more embarrassed
than is called for. I hope that was an amused tone in her voice.
There’s a damp sketchbook in my outstretched hand with a page open
to a woodblock-style drawing of a fierce Chinese soldier. It looks
like a member of the Terra Cotta Army I once saw in one of my
dad’s
National Geographic
magazines, except the spilled tea makes the ink drip across
the page into a Rorschach blot.

“This is ― was ― incredible,” I say, throwing the
casual tone out the window and opting unwittingly for gushing
sycophant. “Are you an artist?”

“It is nothing,” she insists and grabs it hastily
from my hands. I suspect she’s shy about the drawing or maybe mad
at me for ruining it, so I don’t pursue it.

“Do you come here often?” I ask, still overtly
frazzled. With a sigh, I internally chastise myself for uttering a
lame pick-up line. She looks quizzically at my expression. “This is
usually the part where you tell me to take a hike.”

“And this is usually the part when
you
introduce your friends,”
Madison pipes up in her wry tone, doing the job of introducing
herself and Josh while she’s at it.

By her stance alone, Amara gives off the vibe that
she’s uncomfortable with the situation, and I can’t pinpoint
whether it has to do with the fact that I just ruined something
that must have taken her hours of work to complete or simply
Madison’s aggressive manners. In either case, I can tell that she
wants to leave. Thing is, it’s so rare an opportunity for us to
talk that I cling to what I can in the hopes that we can extend the
conversation, even if it is for a fleeting moment.

“Look, I feel really bad about spilling your tea
and ruining your artwork. Can I at least offer to buy you
another?”

Amara’s quiet, and by her thoughtful expression, I
wonder if she’s trying to think of an excuse to say no. But then
she slowly nods. “Very well.”

The table we were making a run for is now occupied,
so we sit around the sushi-go-round conveyor belt in the middle of
the restaurant while she stands waiting for her tea. As we set our
school bags down at our feet, Amara replaces the spilled contents
of her messenger bag, laying the sketchbook open on the countertop
to dry a little. Plates of food rotate by us as I try to think of
what to say next. I wait patiently for something non-threatening to
pass, like a California roll. Then I wonder if they even have
California rolls in France. An awkward silence descends among us,
and I attempt to fill it with innocuous and completely boring small
talk.

“Are you a student at the university?”

“No,” she replies flatly.

“So ... what do you do?” I follow up, gratefully
picking up a plate of tempura.

“I am...” she hesitates as she gauges the
situation, “a tattoo artist.”

“Cool. That explains the sketchbook then, doesn’t
it?”

She eyes me as though I’m somehow dense. “Yes.”

Beside me, I distinctly hear Madison cough under her
breath. “Nancydrew.”

All joking aside, I make a mental note to stop
asking closed-ended questions that Amara can only answer with yes
or no. I’m trying to think of another conversation starter when she
asks, “Have you made friends at school already?”

“Yeah,” I reply, inexplicably embarrassed by the
question. And then have to add more to keep the dialogue alive.
“They’re also international students.”

“From America?”

Josh jumps in with, “We’re Canadian. This one’s a
Yank.”

“You are from the Americas, are you
not?”

“Well, technically―”

“Precisely,” she says, “American.”

Madison opens her mouth to say something.

“Look, nothing against them,” Josh cuts in
quickly, “we just don’t like being painted with the same
brush.”

A waitress dressed in a modern-looking kimono
delivers Amara’s tea.

Before she can leave, I ask, “Where’s your
bodyguard?”

Her brow furrows in confusion.

“Your dog,” I clarify, noting that wordplay isn’t
her strong suit. Or maybe it’s just not mine.

Her head turns to the front of the restaurant. I
follow her gaze and see the beast sitting patiently outside the
glass-fronted building. Upon meeting my eyes, the canine lopes
forward to stand on its hind legs. With its forepaws pressed
against the window, it’s easily the height of a human male. Then it
lets out a short howl. A few passersby nervously sidestep the
animal.

“What kind of dog is that?” Madison asks with
something akin to disgust or possibly loathing.

“It is a Saarlooswolfhond.” She says the word with
practiced efficiency as my eyes focus intently on the dog, whose
breed sounds suspect.

“The only part of that word I heard was
wolf.”

Amara confirms my fear. “Part wolf, yes.” And then
she’s leaving again, although this time she says,
“
Au
revoir
.”

“Later,” Madison says casually as Amara walks
away. Before Amara is even out the door, she’s giving me the third
degree. “Wow, so how do you know Ms. Congeniality?”

“Um, I live with her,” I answer
truthfully.

“You sly dog!” Josh remarks.

She looks over at him like a Giger alien just
exploded from his mouth.

“No, I ― no,” I reply awkwardly.

“You’ll have to excuse Josh. You’d swear he was
raised by a pack of dogs.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I see that
he wants to say something in response but thinks better of it.
Instead he tosses back a piece of sushi and chews it like it’s the
embodiment of his unspoken anger.

“It’s not like that,” I assure them. “She’s, like,
my host mom or something.”

“Whatev, player,” Madison says, swatting at the
air beside me.

I dodge her feigned attack and wind up knocking
something onto the floor behind me.

“You really are a klutz,” she remarks, shaking her
head.

This time I’m certain my face reddens as I bend down
to pick up the dislodged item. It turns out to be the sketchbook
from Amara’s things. I quickly glance at the doorway but know it’s
far too late to catch up with her.

“What’s that?” Josh asks.

“It’s Amara’s,” I answer quietly.

“You gonna get inked?” Madison chimes
in.

I shake my head at the thought. “Not in this
lifetime.”

“How many lives do you have?” she asks
sardonically.

I figure her question is rhetorical and leave it at
that. Unanswered. One life is enough to navigate through. For now,
I’m left with a sketchbook in my hand and the guilty dilemma of
whether or not to peek before I return it to its rightful
owner.

4. Know
Your Enemy

O
f course I look. After all, they’re just drawings, and
nobody ever died from art. Even though I sort of know what to
expect, I’m still taken by surprise. There’s not a single red rose
or pink butterfly that I assume is in the sample books of all
modern tattoo artists. Instead, as I flip through the pages, I’m
pretty sure her style is influenced heavily by irezumi tattoo ―
based on my movie knowledge of Japanese Yakuza gangsters, anyway.
The majority of the drawings are from the same period as the one I
saw at the restaurant, but others span different eras and different
empires. The soldiers, both men and women, are often paired with a
wolf of similar coloring. They’re like snapshots from when
civilizations were played out at the edge of a sword: Roman
legionnaires, Nordic Vikings, Mongolian warriors and an almost
endless list of others. The wolf is no doubt a symbol of power.
She’s talented, I’ll give her that, even if she is my stiff
competition in the social skills department.

After school we hang out at Madison’s place and
carefully flip through the pages of the sketchbook. She lives at an
all-girl boarding house in what can only be described as a mansion.
It’s a three-storey home with twelve dorm rooms. The main floor
foyer branches off to a large eat-in kitchen, a formal dining room,
great room and a library. There’s a swimming pool, gym and rec room
downstairs. Although the building itself is a couple hundred years
old, the interior was renovated with modern sensibilities.

“I still can’t believe you made fun of
me
for being posh.”

We’re sitting in white wicker chairs out back on a
balcony that runs the full length of the façade facing the woods of
Vincennes Park.

“Shut up! I got a scholarship,
alright?”

“Well, aren’t you Ms. Smartypants, then?” I tease,
withholding the fact that I managed to do the same.

Josh planted himself between us, but now settles
back in his chair as we examine what is clearly Amara’s sample
book. Getting a tattoo is nothing I’ve ever considered. Like I said
to Madison, not in this lifetime. And I meant it. But my confidence
wavers when I take in these images. This artwork isn’t just
breathtaking. It draws a sense of daring out of me from a place I
never knew existed. Not that I would ever say that out loud.

Rising to his feet, Josh asks, “Where’s the boys’
room?”

“There isn’t one,” Madison tells him with a smirk.
“It’s a girls’ boarding house, remember? Powder room’s in the
foyer.”

With a shake of his head, he walks inside. Not even
a fraction of a second passes before she jumps into his seat to get
a better view of the sketches. When she reaches to turn the page,
she pauses for a moment, hand mid-air. It takes me a stupid amount
of time to clue in that my fingers are resting on the edge of the
paper, then I move them out of the way. Without Josh around to take
the edge off her, I can’t seem to find my words, so I just admire
the artwork in silence, all the while wondering when he’ll be back
and trying to figure out how to stop my palms from sweating.

“It
was
pretty epic,” she admits.

Believe me, I’m trying to figure it out.

“Lone Wolf and Cub
?” she says in that questioning, testy
voice she turns to whenever someone hasn’t filled in the blanks
fast enough for her.

“Right. Um, cool.”

The tight edges of her lips tell me that she’s
trying not to laugh at me. For some reason it’s funny to me, the
way she restrains herself. Like she might hurt my feelings or
something when she hasn’t shown any indication of caring one way or
another about what other people think before now. When I chuckle,
she lets her laughter loose, too.

“Geek.”

“Takes one to know one,” I lob back.

A shadow looms over us. Josh stands by her side,
expectantly waiting for his seat back, casting her a look that she
tries to ignore by averting her eyes to the drawings. When I glance
over at him, his focus remains on her for a long and hopeless
moment. Then his eyes flick over to me. He smiles, but it doesn’t
reach his eyes. Instead of taking the chair by her side, he walks
across from us and leans against the balcony railing to stare out
at the woods. After about five minutes of listening to us talk
about tattoos and Japanese films, he sort of drifts away. I feel a
little guilty for unintentionally shutting him out.

Eventually, Josh lets out an annoyed sigh. “Why
don’t you two get a room already?”

“Shh!” she says dramatically. “Don’t let the
schoolmarm hear you talking like that.”

The woman who runs the boarding house is one who, in
Madison’s estimation, could be Miss Manners herself. Personally, I
don’t think she’s really all that bad. After all, she clearly
hasn’t set any ground rules about Madison’s appearance. Not that
there’s anything wrong with how she looks. It all adds to her
charm. But the changing eyebrow rings, mini skirts and brightly
dyed hair seem to fly in the face of everything this place stands
for: tradition and decorum. Maybe she’s Miss Manners for the 21st
century.

“I love this one,” Madison coos, pointing to a
black and red image of a wolf done in a Native American
style.

I take it as a good segue to ask her about her
background, but Josh interrupts again.

“Can we please change the topic?” he begs. “It’s
not like you can afford another tattoo right now,
anyway.”

“Another one?” I’m unable to hide my
surprise.

We all look up at the sound of someone clearing her
throat. A middle-aged woman stands at the open French doors. She
wears a billowy white blouse and high-waisted gray slacks. Her
hands are crossed neatly in front of her. In fact, everything about
her is tidy, from the dark hair pulled back into a chignon to her
polished patent leather pumps. The very sight of her makes me
straighten my posture.

“Will Monsieurs Emerson and Lewis be staying for
dinner?” she asks in French. “If so, you ought to inform
chef.”

Mister Lewis is my dad. It sounds weird hearing her
address me that way.

“No, Madame Lefèvre,” she replies staidly. “They
were just leaving.”

The lady nods her approval. “Good evening,
gentlemen.”