Q U I D P R O Q U O
45
He said, “One, two, three, go.” I saw the big dove
tattoo on his biceps twitch, and then he slammed my
arms against the packing crate. My head hit the edge
of the couch, and I saw stars.
Really.
For about thirty seconds there were these little
white twinkly things dancing around in front of me.
I used to think they were only in cartoons.
Byron was smoothing down that armpitty
little beard of his so I wouldn’t see him laughing. I
pretended I didn’t notice and said, “Those are the
ugliest tattoos I’ve ever seen.” It was true, though
that’s not why I said it. His arms were covered with
peace signs and that hippie black-and-white circle
thing and hearts with initials in them and then
the worst—this big red rose with
Yours for all time
written over it.
“You’re a regular love machine,” I said and made
this face like I was going to barf.
“Yeah, well, some people know what’s impor-
tant in life and some people don’t,” he said. “Okay,
Mr. Schwarzenegger, try it with my bad arm now.”
He put his left elbow on the table, and I saw there
was this big red blistery thing above his wrist. He saw
me looking.
