The story of my first tattoo goes like this: One night in middle school, my friend Stephanie spent the night at my house. We were camped out in my bedroom and bored. We had watched “Clueless” so many times that we could recite all the best lines. Food had been ordered, delivered and devoured. We prank-­called all the cute boys in our class and even some of the not-so-cute ones. One of us suggested, half-­jokingly, that we give each other matching tattoos, something discreet enough to hide from our parents but accessible enough to show off at school come Monday.

I was scared, but as the youngest of five girls, I was familiar with the power of rituals — the way a shared secret between women can be its own kind of power. Abstinence was not an option. I watched as Stephanie used a Bic lighter to heat up and — theoretically — sterilize a safety pin before dipping it in ink. I stuck out my chubby ankle and closed my eyes as she began poking the tender meat of my leg in an uneven staccato pattern. When she was done, I leaned over to admire her handiwork: a patchy approximation of a heart, fashioned out of eight or nine dots, seared into my left ankle.