“Statistically speaking, you’re annoying.”

I sighed, but I didn’t let it go. “At least promise me you’ll clean it twice a day with saline solution. No sleeping on your stomach for a while. No touching it with dirty hands. No tight clothes. And definitely no swimming for at least⁠—”

“Are you the piercer? No? Then stop acting like it.”

I looked over at the girl behind the counter, who was watching us with mild amusement. “Back me up here. Belly piercings are one of the most likely to reject, right?”

She shrugged. “Only if you don’t take care of it.”

Beverly grinned smugly and went back to filling out the form. I sighed, shaking my head. While she scribbled away, I looked around again. My eyes landed on a sign NO SCREAMING in big red letters.

I nudged Beverly with my elbow. “Bet you break that rule.”

She glared. “I will not.”

The sound of the music in the background seemed to grow louder, or maybe it was just my head pounding with the thoughts of infections and bacteria. How many piercings got infected every year? How many ended in horrifying medical disasters? Probably a lot. Probably a concerning percentage.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the risks, the fact that I had no idea how sterilized the equipment was—hell, I didn’t even know if they used the proper antiseptic.

I blurted out, “Can you make sure the needle is clean?”

The girl behind the counter narrowed her eyes. “Of course. We sterilize everything.”

I turned to Beverly. “Did you research this place? Like, at all?”

“Blake.” Beverly patted my chest. “You are thinking too much. As usual. I am a grown woman⁠—”

“You are sixteen.”

After a few minutes, the girl took the clipboard back and led us to a small waiting area lined with a long vinyl couch that looked like it had seen better days. Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It by Will Smith was playing now; not exactly the soundtrack I wanted playing in the background of Beverly’s potential demise.

A guy came out from the back, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He was tall, mid-thirties maybe, with full-sleeve tattoos.

“You’re my belly button?” he asked.

“That’s me.” Beverly beamed.

He smirked and waved us back. “Come on in.”

As we followed him, I whispered, “Are we not going to address the fact that he just called you his belly button?”

Beverly shrugged. “Maybe it’s a term of endearment.”

“You ever done a belly button piercing before?” I asked, eyeing the guy suspiciously.

He met my gaze with an amused expression. “Daily.”

“Successfully?” I pressed, not hiding my concern.

“Blake,” Beverly hissed, grabbing my arm and dragging me into the back room. It was small, with a metal tray holding the tools, a sterilizer machine humming in the corner, and a big mirror mounted on the wall.