She grabs my arm and lifts it toward her face, studying my…

““She grabs my arm and lifts it toward her face, studying my tattoo, running her fingers over it. “It’s not scratch and sniff, sweetheart.” “What is it?” I lean close to her and whisper, “It’s a tattoo.” She scoffs. “I know that. But what does it mean?” “I got that one when my grandmother died. I was sixteen.” She points at another one. “And this one.” “When I was emancipated by the state. It turned out no foster families wanted a sixteen-year-old with a bad attitude.” “You didn’t have any other family?” “No.” “What’s this one?” She points to the side of my neck, and her finger tickles the sensitive skin. I suddenly wish she would press her lips there. “When I got out of jail and got into college.” I rub my nose, suddenly feeling really uncomfortable. “How did you turn it all around?” A smile tugs at my lips. “I had this really great parole officer who took me under his wing. He made it all work out. I owe him a lot.” I’ll never pay him back everything I owe. “He’s the one who put me on the path I’m on.” “What path is that?” She watches me closely and I have all of her attention. And I love that feeling. This girl is intoxicating in the best sort of way. “Law. I want to help boys like me. I want to give boys who have nothing and no one on their sides a second chance. Or a third chance. Or any chance.””

— Tammy Falkner