New Kid with Two Teardrop Tattoos
We heard about him before we saw him, and before we saw him we saw the two teardrop tattoos on his left cheek, one for each murder it was said he had committed in whatever town he was moving from. But when we were able to look past the tattooed teardrops, he looked just like one of us. Chris Ellis, the first and last names whispering together like the swish pants he wore. He limped a little, a little falsely, like all kids do who are in true pain. On the bus I tried not to stare at the teardrop tattoos, though they fascinated me. I thought they looked like those blackened divots in the rug by the fireplace, singed by sparks that had leapt over the screen. I thought if I touched them they would feel like charred scars. I never believed that he’d killed anyone. If there’ve been two unsolved murders in a town, how do you get away with getting two teardrops tattooed on your face without being stopped and questioned? I thought he must draw them himself, every morning, in a mirror splattered with his mom’s bluish toothpaste, in erasable marker that he washed off with a little spit when he got off the bus, all so that we would think he was hard and not mess with him. And it must have worked because no one messed with him. He sat by himself, looking out the window, like someone who has given up bothering to hide the fact that they’re crying. It doesn’t even really matter whether they were really tattoos or were just drawn on in marker. Those two teardrops are why I remember him, his name, his face.