Knee Pads

17 | insubordination

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | INSUBORDINATION

willfully failing to comply with a referee's orders.

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          "Wren, what the hell did you do?"

          I straightened my shoulders, trying my damn hardest to not start cackling like a mad woman and piss off my parents on Thanksgiving, and remained focused on the task at hand. Without Jordan to serve as a mediator whenever my mother and I were at odds, even during the holidays, I wasn't willing to push my luck, but I also didn't come here to be disrespected and have my break spoiled by petty arguments. It was a holiday no one in this house or family even cared about—we much preferred the Mid-Autumn Festival, something we'd cheerfully celebrated as a family of three all the way back in September, far from Jordan and every other member of the family—so it felt odd that I was even upset over potentially ruining it for everyone.

          In theoretical terms, I hadn't done anything. Nothing that should have triggered such an emotionally charged reaction out of my mother, anyway, and, at first, I assumed she was, once again, offended by the septum piercing I'd gotten done a year prior and wisely chose to not show off around her most of the time. I hadn't bothered to hide it today, since I was already breaking so many rules by inviting Corinne to join us, and there were more important things my parents had to worry about—Jordan's absence at the dinner table, for example.

          Then, it hit me.

          I had made the mistake of rolling up my flannel's sleeves, as one would before peeling sweet potatoes for the salad, and, even worse, I'd done it right as she entered the kitchen and gave her a free glimpse at the tattoo marking the outside of my left wrist. The tattoo—a small ice skate for obvious reasons—had been my idea, against Corinne's protests and reminders that my parents probably wouldn't be too pleased with it, and was barely twenty-four hours old, still healing, but I liked it. It was a memory of Jordan I could carry around with me anywhere I went, even with him being so far out of my reach.

          "It's nothing," I replied. Corinne, sitting by the kitchen islands, dramatically rolled her eyes. She'd been fully against me getting the tattoo right before coming home to my parents and, no matter how many times I begged her to be supportive in case they complained, she'd refused to be used as ammo—much like I'd been acting when it came to her and Marley. "I'm handling the potato salad—"

          "A tattoo. That's a tattoo."

          I exhaled through my nose, exasperated. "It's not a big deal."

          "The piercing wasn't a big deal, but the tattoo—"

          "The tattoo stays hidden most of the time, so you won't even have to look at it. It's just ink."

          "What happens when you can't get a job?" She rushed to pull down my sleeve, covering the skate, and I jumped away from her grip. It was awfully convenient that I'd been studying to work in an office all day, just me and my little numbers and my little algorithms, and my physical appearance wouldn't be an issue as far as body modifications were concerned. "You're going to get that removed."

          "Dad has a tattoo. He also has a job. Why would it be any different for me?"

          Huffing, she yanked the knife right out of my hands, tossed it aside, and put on the serious Mom look. When she spoke again, she did so in Mandarin, fully shutting Corinne out of the conversation without ever giving her an opportunity to intervene—be it in my defense or not.