Maddie's Tattoo (2 page)

I leaned back and
laughed. Icons quickly huddle toward my piece, like a moving caterpillar across the screen. I watched with amazement as my classmates critiqued it. They actually liked it. No one even understood the joke. One kid messaged,
Can we order this print?

My blinking icon
suddenly froze and I was instantly logged off from the site. A warning label appeared in red letters stating: Due to unauthorized tampering of site material, your profile is permanently blocked from this tour.

The page
closed down and my screens turned blank.

I was still laughing.

***

Before dinner, my father voice
messaged me on my wallscreen.

“
Madeline, can you come down to my office, please? We need to talk.” 

I
frowned and pushed my chair back from my desk. DS didn’t take long to send the report to my father. I walked downstairs and turned into his office, where he and my mom sat in matching leather armchairs, backs straight, flipscreens in their laps, as if they were groomed for a conference. A single empty seat stood in front of them. I looked at it and sighed. It might as well have a sign on it saying: Prosecution Bench.

I sat down
and held out my hands. “I was just goofing off today,” I said. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“Vandalizing historical property is a pretty big deal,” my dad said
, and I had to fight a laugh. I hadn’t actually
done
anything.

“I’m sorry.
I was just…bored,” I lied.

I met my mom’s eyes and she watched me carefully
. My dad looked down at a photo of the Monet painting on his screen (with my creative additions).

“If
this is about the advertisement fee, I’ll pay it back,” I said. “I’ll do chores, I’ll get some online work, whatever you want.”

His mouth turned up. This
wasn’t about the money. “Do you have something against boats?” he asked, a half smile teasing his face. I should have played along with his joke and made light of the situation, but a brash, outspoken side showed up too quickly.

“
I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been on one.”

His
eyebrows lifted. He read my action quickly. I wasn’t trying to vandalize because I was bored, or disrespectful. I was resentful.

“
Is that what this is all about? Being deprived?” He looked more intrigued than angry. “Do you really want to take a boat ride that badly?”

I hated that he
marginalized what I did to something so small, so petty. “That museum made me feel things, Dad. Feelings are pretty powerful.”

“
They are,” he agreed with a nod. “Which is why they should be monitored and handled carefully. Feelings lead to violence.”

I
thought about his one-sided reasoning. “At least I felt something.” I pointed to the walls around us. “This world just makes you numb.”

My dad studied me for too long, but I refused to be the first one to look away.

“You should really blame me for this,” my mom spoke up. “I was the one who encouraged Maddie in the first place.”

My father ignored her and kept his eyes on
me. “You want to feel fear?” he asked. “Pain? Sadness? All the things those portraits portray? Did you even look at the paintings in the Renaissance exhibit? All of war, and death?”

I thought about
Picasso’s
The Old Guitarist
. Even sadness can be beautiful. It’s human.

“
It’s better than feeling hollow all the time,” I said.

He looked at my mother for help.
“Does every teenager go through this self loathing phase?” he asked. “I don’t remember Joe acting like this.”

I
imagined my brother, jealous he was a thousand miles away. I never actually thought I would miss his annoying, badgering presence, but right now I did. He had accepted a semester internship in California, which made me the only child for my parents to obsess over. It was like being handed the lead in a play, only to learn you have stage fright.

“
It’s called self awareness, Kevin,” my mom answered. “Maddie’s just becoming aware. You might as well accept it.”

“
I’m smarter than you think,” I warned my father.

“
I know you’re smart, Maddie,” he said. “I’ve seen your grades.”

“
It’s more than that,” my mom added. “There are other kinds of smart.”

We were all quiet for a few seconds while my dad considered her words.

“I’m fourteen,” I reminded my father, since he seemed set on perceiving me as a five year old for the rest of my life. “You need to start letting me go. Even if it means letting me screw up once in a while.”

“
Letting go?” my dad smirked. “This is when you need more supervision than ever. Statistically, young adults are most vulnerable and experimental in mid-adolescence, between the ages of twelve and fifteen.”

I
buried my head in my hands and my mom laughed, trying to lighten the mood. She always tried to be the light pressure system in the house, to combat my dad’s stubborn jet stream.

“
I love that I married the smartest man I’ve ever met, but sometimes all your logic and research works against you,” my mom said.

His
forehead creased. “How do you see it that way?” I sat back in the leather seat and wondered the same thing.

My mom folded her hands in her lap. “
Sometimes you need good, old fashioned common sense. She’s becoming an adult, that’s all.”

“
I’m sorry, okay?” I interrupted them. I was sick of being the topic of debate. “I know what I did today was immature. It was wrong to vandalize that painting. I already wrote an apology to the tour site. Hopefully Monet can forgive me. Can we drop it?”

“
You’re banned from participating in any more field trips this year,” my father informed me.

I pretended to look crushed.
I was tired of arguing so I nodded, stood up solemnly and headed out the door, as if being banned from online tours was all the punishment I could emotionally handle. As I left my dad’s office and rounded the corner, I heard his voice echoing down the hall.

“
I’m worried these are signs of depression,” I heard him say. I stopped and felt a groan rumble through my throat. “I’m going to sign her up to meet with a behavioral counselor once a week.”

“
Kevin—” my mom started.

“
It can only help.”

“
What she’s feeling is normal and healthy,” my mom argued.

“
What? Mood swings? Hating her life?”

“
She’s questioning it,” she said. “Only questioning.”

H
e cleared his throat. “Seeing a counselor is the only way to erase this from her record,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. Th
at was his reason. He wasn’t worried about me, he was worried about his own reputation.

“
I can’t have a daughter running around with an anti-digital school track record. How would it make me look?”

I
leaned against the wall and felt a separation widen between me and my father, like a fissure splitting between us. Maybe I was starting to become independent. Maybe everyone breaks away from their parents. My mom was still trying to be a bridge between us, a shaking bridge attached by rusting cords. I wondered if it would hold.

***

I lay in bed but I couldn’t sleep. I turned on my ceiling screen and scrolled for movies to watch, until a message interrupted me. I accepted the call.

Hey, remember me?

The yellow chameleon. I blinked at the center of my ceiling, as if I was imagining the signal. This was the last person I expected to hear from: Mr. Picasso quote-collector. I sat up in bed and grabbed a flipscreen off my nightstand. I didn’t want my parents to hear me talking so late at night, so I typed a message back.

How did you find me?
I thought I was banned from the class list.

You
were,
he wrote.
That’s what made you easy to find. You made the Banned DS List, on one of the DS Dropout sites. Congratulations.

I tapped the edges of my
computer screen. So, this guy was connected to the Dropouts? Excellent. My dad was going to love this new contact.

I’m honored,
I joked.

They even have your painting posted. They call it
Monet’s Leaping Unicorns
.

I’m sure Monet would be proud
with my modern adaptation
, I wrote.
My parents weren’t quite as thrilled.

No surprise cake to celebrate your
academic accomplishments?
he asked.

I laughed
out loud and covered my mouth with my hand to muffle the noise. It felt good to laugh. The guarded gates around my mind began to lower.

More like a surprise appointment
with a behavioral counselor. To help redirect my
issues.

Ouch,
he wrote.
Parents never seem to appreciate our thoughtful acts of defiance. Why is that?

I
laughed again.
They must not be cool enough.

They should give
away more awards for fucking up
, he wrote.
Some of life’s greatest achievements come from fucking up.

I reread his strange
logic and smiled.

Did
Picasso say that too?
I joked.
I’m surprised you’re so supportive. I vandalized your precious museum.

I don’t see it that way,
he said.
Besides, that painting wasn’t one of my favorites in the tour.

You
only get to sign up once,
I pointed out.

I’ve been there a dozen times.

How?
I asked.

All you need to do is set up a new DS profil
e,
he told me.

You set up an entire new profile?
With a full DS background history? Just to see a museum?
I shook my head at the thought, since it would take days to go to all that work.

Sure.
What else do I have to do?

Okay, good point. But it still left one probing question.

Why?

At first
I wanted to see if they ever changed the tour, but they never do. First they disturb you with Picasso and Dali, then they bore the hell out of you with the Modern Digital Art room. They depress you with Renaissance paintings. Most people log out halfway through. It’s the least visited virtual tour in all of DS.

I nodded.
It seemed programmed that way.
If it’s so boring, why do you keep going back?

I don’t like living under so many restrictions. Do you?

My censor went up again. Don’t get too personal. Don’t reveal. Be safe. If people know you, they want things from you. Suspect everyone. It’s always better to stay distant.

I’l
l take your hesitation as a yes,
he answered for me.

My skin prickled.
I wondered if we met before, under different profiles. I was curious to see his real picture, but my parents had forbidden me to video chat until I turned sixteen. All my photos were encrypted so they couldn’t be sent or seen.

What’s your name?
he asked me. I started to chew my nails. I could count on one hand how many times I had divulged my real name online. I always preferred symbols, or if I did leave a name I’d use a sexy name like Gwyneth, or a smart name like Hillary, or something cute like Zooey. But this time I wanted to tell the truth.

Madeline Freeman.
I hit send and my words floated on the screen. I liked seeing my real name spelled out in bold, clear letters.

Madeline, do you ever feel like you’re living in a lie?

I stared at the word
lie.

Yes,
I typed.

I think about it
every day
, he said.

There’s nothing you can
do.

Watch me
, he said.

There
was something inviting about his words. Too inviting.

I gotta go,
I said, and deleted my icon from the screen.

I shut of
f my computer and stared at the blank, black screen. I wondered if my dad planted this contact in the museum, just to question me. I heard that parents were doing that—setting up online profiles and connecting with their own kids, only to spy on them and keep them in check. I read an online story about a DS student who found out her best friend, the person she confessed every plan, every fault, every dirty thought to, was her own father. She took him to court for a breach of privacy and lost, because DS always rules in favor of parents. Kids hardly have any power.