Beautiful Graves(2)

“Don’t forget to buy condoms.” I nibble on my black nail polish, desperate to get out of here. I want to throw myself into her aunt’s shower and wash away the twelve-hour flight, then decompress. “You know, just in case you change your mind about bringing back chlamydia as a souvenir.”

“Chlamydia is a lame souvenir.” Pippa swings her gaze my way, grinning. “We need a real souvenir. We’re getting tatted here.”

“You’re getting tatted here,” I correct. “I’m not.”

“Why? It’s not like you have a fear of needles.” She eyeballs my septum ring, popping an eyebrow.

I tuck it inside my nose. “Piercings are fine. Tattoos mean commitment, and I don’t do that. Might I remind you, I can’t even commit to a cereal?”

“You so are committed to a cereal,” she huffs. “Reese’s Puffs.”

“As enamored as I am with Reese’s Puffs, I’m always happy to destroy a bowl of Frosted Flakes and Apple Jacks.”

“Apple Jacks.” She shudders. “Sometimes I think you’re beyond help. Anyway, you have to get a tat. Your mom’s going to be hella proud if you take the plunge.”

“I’ll bear the burden of disappointing her.”

Pippa is not wrong, though. Barbara “Barbie” Lawson would be totally down if I told her I was getting a full-fledged arm sleeve. She herself inked the majority of her back, calves, and wrists. Quotes that are dear to her heart. Tattoos are like putting wallpaper on a generically painted house, she always says.

Born in Liverpool, England, Mom ran away to San Francisco when she was sixteen. She is not your typical mother. It’s why I love her not only as a parent but also as a human.

“Ever.” Pippa stomps. Everlynne is my name. But let’s be real: life’s too short. “C’mon.”

I use both my index fingers to do the sign of a cross, like she’s a vampire.

“Ugh, fine!” Pippa throws her arms in the air before plucking a pack of condoms. “No tats, but I’m going to corrupt you. I’m staging an intervention. Everlynne Bellatrix Lawson, you’ve been a bad, bad girl. And by bad, I mean good. Super good. Nauseatingly good. We’re Gen Z! Screwing up is in our DNA, okay? We grew up on social media and the Kardashians.”

“I’m screwing up plenty without screwing anyone,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. As far as rebellious acts go, I’m aggressively boring.

“I’ll drop the tattoo business if you promise you use one of these puppies during our two-week trip.” She is waving the condoms. I’m about to combust into miniscule pieces of embarrassment. The only thing stopping me from doing so is I’d hate to make a mess here on top of causing a scene.

A chuckle comes from the aisle next to us. We have an audience. Yippee ki-yay.

“I’m not a virgin.” I snatch the condoms, then shove them into the bowels of the basket under the tampons and toothpaste.

“Well, it was with Sean Dunham, so does it even count?” Pippa quips.

A snort comes drifting toward us, but I can’t see who the person is because there’s a wall of condom packs blocking the way. Talking in English really sucks. No matter where you are in the world, everyone knows what you’re saying.

“Hey! We went all the way.”

“More like crawled there. It was so underwhelming. And you broke up half a second after,” Pippa counters.

Accurate. Disturbingly accurate. I can’t argue with that.

“What if I don’t like anybody?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“You never do,” she sighs. “I’m not counting on you falling in love here. Just do it for the pleasure.”

The person on the other side of the aisle is full-blown laughing now. The voice definitely belongs to a male. Low and gruff.

Would you like some butter on your popcorn, my dude?

“You need to learn how to be a team player, Ever. That’s your exercise for this trip. Finding pleasure with a total stranger. No consequences. No relationship. Just a hookup in a foreign country.”

Positive the person on the other side of the aisle has heard enough about my sex life (or lack of), I turn to Pippa with a death glare.

“I’m not having sex with a stranger.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then I’ll just have to bug you to get a tattoo with me.”

Tired with her antics, I groan. “Whatever. I’ll use one. Go find us some snacks. I need to make a call.”

“If it’s Barbie you’re calling for emotional support, don’t bother. She’ll side with me, and you know it.” Pippa flutters away like a fairy, leaving stardust of giggles in her wake.

I produce my phone from my backpack and wait for the reception bars to appear.

I call Mom. She picks up on the first ring, even though it’s gazillion o’clock or whatever in California.

“Ever!” she coos. “How’s Barcelona?”

“Been here for a little less than an hour, and Pippa has already tried to pick a fight with a local, bought condoms, and tried to convince me to get a tattoo.”

“And I’m guessing you’re horrified by the entire thing?” There’s a smile in Mom’s voice.