My very first customer. Shit, this was more nerve-wracking than I thought it would be. And of course, it had to be none other than a preppy cheerleader who had just blossomed into adulthood with all the grace of a caffeinated squirrel. She practically radiated the scent of pumpkin spice lattes and glitter. Her blonde hair's tied up in a high ponytail, practically a pom-pom in itself.

"Um, hi," she chirped, her smile as bright as a thousand suns. "I'm, like, totally ready for my tattoo."

She's got these sparkly blue eyes that practically scream enthusiasm, and her smile? Well, it's like a permanent fixture on her face. If she grinned any wider, I think her cheeks might stage a revolt. Tattoos aren't exactly what you'd expect on someone like her, but there she is, all giddy and ready to take the plunge. There's this tiny telltale quiver in her fingers as she clutches her phone, trying to act all cool and collected. But who am I to judge? Tattoos can be nerve-wracking, especially if it's your first time. And I speak for both of us when I say that.

I nodded, pretending like I hadn't spent the past hour worrying that my hands would turn into jelly mid-tattoo. With what I hoped was a reassuring smile, I gestured for her to take a seat. I mean, what could go wrong, right? Oh, just the fact that I could turn her arm into a Picasso painting gone terribly wrong.

"Anything you want in particular?" I asked.

She seemed to be giving it a bit of thought. By all means, take all the time you need. I said it in my head and I was hoping that she couldn't see the panic in my eyes. A little silver hoop winks from her nose, and I gotta say, it's a cool contrast to her preppy cheer vibe. She's definitely got more than just a cheerleader's spirit going on.

She's doing that thing where she's all smiles, but her eyes give her away – there's a hint of nerves swimming in there. I get it, though. Tattoos, they're like a cocktail of excitement and jitters, all shaken up together.

But honestly, I can't help but admire her guts. She's putting on this brave face, ready to embrace the needle and ink like a champ. We've all been there, that mix of thrill and "oh-my-gosh-what-the-fuck-am-I-doing." And hey, if she can channel her cheerleader spirit, maybe she'll breeze through it like nailing a perfect routine. 

"It's my first tat so I want something simple. But something that still reflects me." she said. "Let's do a butterfly."

As she settled into the chair, I could practically see the waves of nerves rolling off her, despite the front she put up. It was like looking into a mirror of anxiety. But despite my own shaky hands, I needed to step up and be the beacon of excellence I'd envisioned. I really gotta stop talking like Ellie and my parents.

"Okay, deep breaths," I said, trying to channel my inner yoga instructor. "We're gonna rock this butterfly."

The design was simple enough—a delicate butterfly on her upper left arm. I gently outlined the wings with the machine, my heart pounding in rhythm with the needle's hum. With each stroke, I focused on my breathing, on the machine and her skin.

Surprisingly, as I dipped into my zone, the nervous cheerleader beside me seemed to relax. Maybe it was my intense concentration or the fact that she realized I was just as scared as she was. But then something strange happened—inspiration struck me like lightning did Ben Franklin.

As the butterfly took shape, it was like I was breathing life into a miniature work of art. The wings flowed effortlessly, each line a brushstroke on a canvas of skin. In that moment, I was the master of my craft, creating something beautiful and permanent. Freshly done, the tattoo was a work of art in progress. Her light complexion added a touch of rosy warmth around the edges, a subtle reminder of the canvas transforming beneath my touch. The pinking and swelling around the edges gave it a certain rawness, a reminder that this was a living, breathing creation.

Finally, I pulled back, my masterpiece complete. As I stepped back to admire my handiwork, I noticed the way her eyes lit up when she caught her first glimpse in the mirror. The awe and excitement mingled with a touch of pain, a reminder that getting a tattoo was more than just the end result – it was a journey, a story woven into the skin. She stood up, her eyes glued to her new butterfly companion. I held my breath as she inspected it, silently praying that she wouldn't shriek and demand a refund.

And then it happened—she smiled, her cheeks flushing with delight. "Oh my gosh, it's, perfect!"

I couldn't help but grin like a maniac. It felt like I'd just aced a final exam I'd been dreading for weeks. But the best part? She hugged me. Yes, I got an actual, genuine hug, which was slightly awkward considering the fact that  the tattoo was still fresh. She winced from the still-sore tattoo.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she gushed, pulling away to snap a photo of her freshly adorned arm. Within seconds, the image was uploaded to Instagram, complete with a caption that screamed, "New ink, who dis? #ButterflyMagic."

And there I stood, basking in the glow of my tattoo triumph. I did it—I tattooed my first customer, and she didn't run away screaming or start a petition to ban me from ever touching a tattoo machine again. As the cheerleader skipped out of the studio, her heart full of ink and happiness, I couldn't help but let out a triumphant laugh.

"You did good kid." Finn gave me a pat on the shoulder.

"Oh great cause for a second there, I thought I was gonna shit my pants." My hand flew to my chest.

"Happens to the best of us." Nina laughed. 

Who knew that a girl who had once flipped the bird to art school would end up here, creating art that was etched into people's skin forever? And as I cleaned up my station, I couldn't wait to see what came next.

***

We were all riding the high of a job well done as we closed up shop and headed out for drinks. We walked down the dimly lit streets of town, and got to a dive bar that screamed...criminal. Its walls were plastered with neon signs and graffiti. And I think those were...blood stains? The air was thick with the mingling scents of booze, sweat, and something vaguely resembling fried food. I'd bet anyone a thousand bucks Ellie wouldn't make it five seconds in here.

A couple of hobos throwing down like they're auditioning for the role of Trash Can Kings, two fearless chicas locked in a serious make-out session under the lamplight. And I'm not talking about a peck on the cheek – we're talking full-on lip Olympics. Banksy-wannabe tagging up a storm. Armed with spray cans, the masked artist was turning bricks into a masterpiece before our very eyes. Someone get this rebel a medal for urban guerrilla art.  And to top it all off, police sirens, rabid dogs barking, car alarm blaring to tie it all together. I liked this place already.

I couldn't help but gawk at everything when we stepped in. I was like a kid who'd walked into a candy store after they'd brought back Harshey's Tasteations back. Faded concert posters, mismatched barstools, now this? This was a place I could get behind. The ceiling fan lazily whirred above, seemingly holding onto its last moments of life. I sidled up to the bar, my eyes widening as I took it all in.

"Whoa, this place looks like a thrift store exploded in here," I mused, half to myself.

Liam chuckled beside me. "Welcome to our little slice of heaven. You get used to it."

I flashed him a grin before turning my attention to the barkeep—a vibrant redhead with tattoos that seemed to come alive with every movement of her arm.

"Hey there, cutie," she purred, giving me a wink. "What can I get you?"

I cleared my throat, feeling a bit self-conscious under her gaze. "Um, just a soda for me, please."

She arched an eyebrow, her inked arms dancing as she worked. "Designated driver, huh?"

I nodded sheepishly, and she flashed me a warm smile. "No worries, we've got a good selection of non-alcoholic stuff too."

Just then, Carlos leaned over and introduced me to the barkeep. "Don't flirt with the kid, B. Emma, meet my sister, Isabella. Bella, this is the rookie I was telling you about."

Isabella grinned at me, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, well, you're the newbie, huh? Don't worry, sweetheart, I don't bite."

As the night wore on, we clinked glasses, swapped stories, I was learning something new with every round. Nina nursed a colorful cocktail that looked like a science experiment gone wrong, Carlos had his dark beer with a perpetual scowl, and Liam downed shots like a seasoned pro. Meanwhile, I sipped my soda, observing the chaos around me and feeling a strange sense of belonging.

Amidst the laughter and banter, I couldn't help but marvel at the dive bar's charm. It wasn't anything like the polished halls of Alcott Arts, more of a testament to the town's grit and character. As the night stretched on, I realized that this was where I truly fit in – among the misfits, the rebels, and there was nothing wrong with that.

"Welcome to Beast Ink kid." Nina placed a hand on my shoulder.