Part Four - or - Tattoos

I stood on the edge of the lower bunk and, leaning over the top bunk's rail, I picked up a photo-copied piece of paper from the pillow. The two little rectangular chocolates slid off onto a poofy duvet.

"Welcome to Chalet Bellevue!"

My second male guide, who titled himself "Helper," (as if this place named everyone after the designated roles of a beehive), and whose name was Michael, had led me to my wooden room- one of many on this hallway. From outside, I could have sworn there were at least 6 floors. But Michael and I had alighted only two short, dark flights of stairs, with a small landing (where piles of snowy, muddy boots had indeed landed). At the top, the hall had been dimly lit; the dark of the all-wood walls and ceiling broken up only by original works of art, hung pell-mell. Nothing framed, just canvases thick with acrylics and oils. I had heard that L'Abri served as a haven for artists, and the decor confirmed and delighted.

My room was on the left with two bunk beds, two dressers, two closets and a door that led out on to a balcony (that I could not wait to see). All three of the other beds seemed to be occupied - with sheets crumpled and messy piles of books and bits already at home there. 

Leaning up and over had exposed the smallest crack of my lower back, freshly stamped with Hebrew characters at a parlour in Georgia. My instinct to quickly pull my shirt back to its rightful place faded. No one would guffaw at a tattoo here, surely. At that very moment, a long-haired, make-up-less, bra-less girl appeared. All of her clothes hung loosely, as did her words. 

"Nice ink."

No hello. No introduction. 

"Now I don't feel alone." She lifted her shirt to the side to reveal the simple lines of a lovely picture painted under her skin: A lonely girl under the branches of a tree, stretching from her rib cage around to her shoulder blade. Scattered leaves from the tree showed up on other parts of her body-canvas: one behind her ear, one even blew all the way down her arm and landed on the inside of her wrist.

Her manner was unaffected and...almost kind. 

But after our shared rebel status was appreciated by both, she left me.

Part of the dresser closest to my bunk was empty and so I began to unzip all the way around the edges of my suitcase. My guitar leaned nicely against the skinny radiator nearby. Before much time had passed, I heard the creaking of people walking down the hall. Hiding in my unpacking task was silly, so I emerged and started shaking hands.

...

This was taken a few weeks later than this story, but here I am, in that very bunk!