My head hurts. I’m hung over, and I can’t believe I got that drunk last night. We only shared a bottle of champagne. Though, in retrospect, I had most of it.

But even more, I can’t believe I let Pierce kiss me, and touch me… humiliate me.

The woman before me clears her throat. Tina Azume. She’s way more intimidating than she looks on her website. Her face is all sharp angles, and her black eyes tunnel hard into my own. She’s studying me. I haven’t seen her smile yet. From the way she looks, I wonder if she’s ever smiled before.

It’s definitely not what I expected. Then again, I don’t know what I was expecting from one of the best tattoo artists in the world.

“You got your visiting artist visa?” she asks me. Her thin lips barely move as she speaks. Her voice is monotone, uninterested, unenthused.

Already, my stomach is crunching up tight. Already, I’m worrying that I’m not going to get this apprenticeship placement, that I will have come all the way out here for nothing!

My confidence falls out from under me. Why should I get it? Who is to say I’m better than the dozens of other people who have surely already interviewed for this position?

Oh God! I’m starting to panic.

I take a deep breath, calm my nerves. I’ve got to get through the interview. I can’t let my nerves show.

I clear my throat, and tell Ms. Azume, “I can’t yet, as I need a current tattoo artist to vouch for me.”

She purses her lips. They are a dull pink, but even so manage to stand out against her chalky-white complexion. “I’m unfamiliar with the visa requirements for visitors. How long does it last?”

“Thirty-one days, to allow me to apprentice, and then you can vouch for me to get a different visa that lasts for longer if you want to keep me on.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she says. She’s flicking through my black, leather-bound portfolio. Tina Azume is my favorite artist. She’s got such an idiosyncratic style, and I fell in love with it the moment I saw it.

Like her face, the lines she draws are full of sharp angles, and yet have this wistful, flowing quality to them. It’s almost like if water was geometric.

I can hardly believe I’m sitting in her office, talking with her! I’m star-struck. I burp, and taste stomach acid mixed with champagne.

“You did the tattoo on your foot yourself?”

I look down at my right foot instinctively. I’m wearing my favorite blue-and-white pinstripe flats, so I can’t see the whole web of intricate and interwoven beanstalks that I designed myself. But I do see a bit of it.

“Yes,” I say.

“How?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“How were you able to? I mean, with what instruments? Where?”

“I was friends with a local artist back home in Chicago. She said that if I wanted to practice on myself, she’d let me and watch me.”

“And you weren’t her apprentice?”

“No.”

“So she just let a unlicensed friend use her tattoo equipment?”

I swallow. My heart stops dead. Should I have lied?

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Quite a risk for her to take.” Tina Azume is eyeballing me now, and her face has gone from mere indifference to something approaching hostility. “I don’t do that in my shop.”

“I understand.”

“Take off your shoe.”

I blink, and then immediately slip it off. She extends a hand, and I’m not sure what she wants me to do.

“Your foot, please.”

A little embarrassed, I lift my foot into her hand, and she holds it and pulls my toes down flat, and then peers at my tattoo.

“Your hand must be steady, especially since it hurts on the foot, and since you did this upside-down.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t reply.

“You are skilled with curved lines – they are smooth. These are vines?”

“Well, in my mind they were kind of like beanstalks.”

“But they are not straight?”

I shrug. “I started off with them straight, but after drawing and redrawing the design, realized I liked them more vine-like, tangled.”

She sets my foot down, and I slip it back into my shoe.

“It’s impressive for someone so young. Most people don’t start getting into practicing body art until their mid-twenties, sometimes older. You’ve got a good hand, and a good eye. I can see that from your drawings.” She gestures gently at my portfolio that’s in her hands.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I feel my heart quicken with excitement, anticipation.

“But being a tattoo artist is not the same as being, simply, good at drawing. Tell me, what other skills are vital?”

“An excellent knowledge of the health-related ramifications of getting and giving tattoos,” I say. “And also effective communication. Nothing is worse than a tattoo artist who cannot communicate with her client.”

She just stares at me, as though she’s expecting more.

“Um,” I stall, buying time. “Mental discipline. Tattoo sessions can often go on for hours, and an artist must not only know how to concentrate and not get distracted, but must also know her own limits.”

“And that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Tina says, slapping my portfolio shut. “I like your style, but I must say I see a little of my own in it.”

“I’ve been following your work since I was fifteen,” I say. “On your website, on tattoo message boards, and social network groups.”

“I see. And where are you living now?”

“Near St. Kilda.”

“Ah, so just down the road?”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “I walked here today.”

“Don’t walk home at night if you can avoid it,” she says. “Especially on weekends.”

I hold my breath. “Does this mean that, I, uh—”

“Yes, Penelope. Bring the license form tomorrow morning so I can sign it. I’m normally in the shop at eight, but you’ll now be opening up for me, so I expect you to be here at seven-thirty.”

I nod enthusiastically, but she sees the confusion on my face. Tattoo shops don’t usually open so early.

“I run an online business,” she says. “I sell temporary tattoos, and various paraphernalia. Some accessories, too, like rings, earrings, broaches, pins, badges, that kind of thing.” She waves her hand carelessly, but I’m just even more impressed.

“That’s amazing,” I say. “So you’re like a total one-woman show.”

For the first time, she smiles. “Not anymore, I guess. I’ll be handing off some of those duties to you. Pay will be minimum wage, and I expect to only give you two days off a week. Also, you must work weekends and all holidays.”

“That’s fine with me.” I’m squeeing on the inside, but trying to keep my composure on the outside.

“Good. See you tomorrow then.”

“Thank you so much, Ms. Azume.”

“It’s just Tina.”

“Thanks, Tina.”

“I have a client coming tomorrow,” she says as I’m about to leave. “It’s a work in progress. I’ll be doing some filling in, going over some outlining. It’s quite expansive on the lower half of his body. He will be nude from the waist-down. I expect you to study me as I administer the tattoo. Will that be a problem?”

“I can handle that,” I say.

“He can be a bit… rude. I’ll try and control him, but really, I don’t think I’ll be very successful.”

“What do you mean ‘rude’?”

“I mean,” she says. “That sometimes women find him difficult. I expect, since you’ll be at my side and watching me, he’ll make a crude joke or two.”

I swallow. “I can handle it.”

She considers me for a moment, but then smiles. “Okay, then,” she says. “Seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Here’s a key, open up the shutters, and let yourself in. There’s no alarm.” She waves her hand. “Nothing to steal, and I’d rather not pay the fee. Once you’re in here, I want you to walk around, get a feel for the table, the chair, everything. Otherwise, simply amuse yourself without touching anything, and wait for me to arrive. Understood, Penelope?”

“Yes!” I say, taking the set of keys. Despite Tina’s somewhat harsh tone, I’m over the moon. If I wasn’t so hung-over, I’d be bouncing on my toes right now.