Catching Tatum (3 page)

With David, half of the fun of our love story was knowing the other boys and girls would watch us kiss and tell their friends later about the two who made out in the middle of the bus. It was as much for them as for us. I liked the build-up almost as much as the actual kissing. It was a thrill knowing we were so interesting that we could keep the other kids occupied. But all things must end, and David and I ended, too. Same as Sergio, relocation was our doom. This time it was David who had to move. We were old enough to write and probably could have, like Thomas and Belle. I think maybe I did write him a time or two but we were too young to stay in touch. But I did love him, and his memories sit on the shelf along with the other bottles.

My mom insists those weren’t love—they were infatuations and childhood crushes—but I know it was love. What is love? To me, love is sharing bits and pieces of myself, my heart, mind, body and soul, selflessly with another person for their benefit. Right? Love is all about giving to another. I gave myself to them—I don't mean like that—we were too young and not scripted for the Maury Povich show. I simply mean those boys shared themselves with me in a way they didn't share with others, and I did the same. How else can I still remember so much about boys from that long ago if we didn't love, if they didn't own a piece of my heart, and leave an impression on my soul?

It didn't occur to me at the time that if I loved that easily, that frequently, that I would be giving away bits and pieces of my heart all the time. My heart wasn't like the candy my great-grandpa Joe used to give out to the kids at his church. He could go to the store and buy more anytime; there was an endless supply. My heart was big, to be sure, but not endless, and there was no store where I could go and get the pieces I gave away back. When I gave it away it was gone. I could hold onto the memory, but I could never get my heart back to the way it was before. I don't think there's anything wrong with great love, but with great love, I learned, sometimes, oftentimes, comes great pain. It would take me a while to learn that lesson, but once I did, like a soldier on duty, I decided to guard my heart from pain, from love, from guys with big beautiful eyes and dimples and stories of the deepest, truest kind of love that promised the world and threatened to consume the rest of what was left of my fragile, beating, bleeding heart.

IN EVERY KID’S LIFE
comes “the talk.” If they're lucky, they may only hear it once. The boys and I would not be so lucky. My parents believed in keeping the talks coming, like tomatoes; they pelted us with mini-“talks” all through the years. Sometimes they gathered us as a group; sometimes they singled us out and tag-teamed us. Sometimes it was one-on-one, but they tried their best to teach us right. Even with all the talks, there's that one talk, “the talk,” where
all
the stuff comes up. I knew my time was coming. I watched Thomas get taken out by my mom when he was fifteen only to come home hours later and spill the beans to us. David and I were a couple then, so, naturally, Brett and I shared the sloppy details with him as soon as we could. Same thing happened to Theo at fifteen.

My talk didn't wait until fifteen. I knew my time had come when I grew boobs. I didn't expect my dad to be the one to have the talk with me but he was. He sandwiched it into one of the biggest nights of my life and completely blindsided me. I was such a sucker, I totally fell for it, and didn't even see it coming until it was too late.

The military is famous for formal balls and, as a lover of dance and his brotherhood, my dad never missed one as long as he wasn't deployed. Most of the balls were for couples, and I remember my parents getting dressed to the nines for them throughout my childhood. My mom would spend months choosing the right gown to complement my dad's dress blues. No matter how many times we moved she always made girlfriends easily. Occasionally it was another baseball mom that she got really close to, but most of her friends were military wives, and they could shop for hours for the perfect dresses. When I was in middle school, she started letting me come along and I was dazzled by all the sparkles and fabrics, styles and accessories. I knew I had to marry a military man, if only so I could have an excuse to dress up in fabulous gowns for such extravagant affairs.

Andrews AFB and some sister bases planned the Parent-Child Military Ball once every five years. These were on par with the real, grown-up balls, only without the alcohol. I heard of some that were more low-key and cute, mostly for the younger brat girls. I always wanted to go to them but my mom wanted to wait for the big one. At the beginning of my eighth grade year (the year my mom bought me my first three bras because I was getting “perky”) the next Parent-Child Military Ball was announced. My dad showed me the invitation and insisted we go. I was so happy to oblige that I didn't think of any underlying motivations.

My mom took me shopping for the perfect dress. There were so many to choose from, the decision felt impossible at first. They were sleek and shiny, light and airy, and almost all of them ridiculously out of our price range—at least it seemed like all the dresses I fell in love with were. The third store we stopped at had my dress. It was golden satin with a gauzy bottom that fit me like a glove and made me feel like a fairy. It was sleeveless with a V-neck that was almost too low for my mom's liking. She looked at me like she had lost her baby. It was the first time I remember seeing my cleavage, and the fact that I had “girls” thrilled me. It zipped in the back and I had to get a special bra so the straps weren't showing. The waist was tight and long and ribbed in thick, slightly darker golden strips that ended with a subtle bow at the waist. The best part was the uneven bottom: it was earthy and flowy and cut in alternating layers of satin, muslin and gauze; higher in the front than in the back and free flowing. We found a black shrug and golden sandals with the slightest heel to match. All the tomboy in me was gone in that dress; I was one hundred percent a princess. I felt like Cinderella going to her ball. I knew as soon as I saw my reflection in the mirror when I twirled that it was perfect for me, and I wanted it more than I wanted anything in my life up to that moment. It said, “I am Tatum. I am strong. I am beautiful. I am free to be me. I am a woman now.”

I cringed when I pulled at the price tag, afraid that it would be one of the dresses mom said was “way too much.” I was prepared to fight her to the death on this one ... or at least argue my case until I was blue in the face. It was my first ball gown; this was a memory I would have forever. This was the dress I needed to be wearing in the memories. And if that didn't work, I was prepared to bring up all the dresses she had purchased over the years. They were way more expensive and I knew it! I was so ready to demand the dress be mine, but I didn't have to. The tag pronounced a price of one hundred ninety-nine dollars, exactly one dollar less than my budget. It was mine! We bought it and I must have tried it on and pretended to be a fashion model or movie star in front of my vanity mirror a dozen times before the night of the ball, and, yes, even though my mom said I had “girls” and they were noticeable, I stuffed the heck out of my new strapless bra with socks to pretend they were even bigger.

The ball happened to coincide with the day Thomas flew out and away to his basic training. He and dad shared their goodbyes the night before so Mom and the boys took him to the airport while Dad and I had our special day. First thing Dad and I did, after saying goodbye to Thomas, was run around the base. I was used to running and exercising with my parents; it was as much a part of our life as anything else. It's what we did, so I didn't think anything of it when he invited me to go on a run with him. He had more in mind than cardio. When we started out he said he didn't want to run it hard; he said he wanted to jog and talk. That's when it first occurred to me that this could be “the talk.” I don't know why I didn't get it earlier when I realized my mom and all the boys were leaving for the day, but as soon as he said he wanted to jog slow so we could talk, I knew I was in for it. I think it was easier for him to say what he had to say without looking right at me and that's why he did it that way.

Not looking at each other didn't make it any easier. He told me how I was growing and becoming a young lady and how boys would start to like me and try to pressure me to do things like kiss and ...

He couldn't say it. It was the only time I looked over at him during the run. We were two miles in and he had wet rings under his white t-shirt pits and streams of sweat coming down from his deep, dark brown hair. After panting twenty or more feet I decided to give him a run for his money. “Kiss and what?” I asked with a grin, “Make out with me? Want to do the horizontal tango ... slip me the sausage ...”

“Tatum,” he said and laughed. “This is hard enough on your old dad; don't make it worse for me.”

“Then just say it. I'm a big girl.”

“Fine. Boys are going to want to be with you ...”

“Be with me how?”

“Enough. You know what I mean,” he said, wiping the sweat on his forehead with his forearm, and then wiping that on the back of his shirt. He went on in his pained way to say what boys wanted and why they wanted it, how I shouldn't give into them, and how I had to be strong. Talk about awkward! I wondered if it was as difficult for Thomas and Theo with Mom. I didn't do much more than say “OK” every now and then and try to get through the run, which turned out to be five slow miles. To his credit, even though he started out rough, he got a second wind for the talk, like I did for the run, at mile three. That's when he put things in a way I could understand.

He told me love was like baseball and eventually I would be my own umpire, but for now he and my mom were in charge and they didn't want me dating everyone that came along. He told me to start watching boys and I would see that he was right. Love was as much a game as baseball was. There were rules, like in baseball.

“What happens when there's batter interference?” he asked after stuttering something about boys always trying to break the rules.

“Automatic out.”

“That's right: automatic out. Same with you ...” He huffed. “If a boy tries to interfere with your rules, you call him on it; you put him out of the game. What happens to people who argue with the ump?”

“I don't know,” I answered. I knew it wasn't baseball we were talking about so I didn't know how I was supposed to answer.

“Of course you do—they’re out of the game, or suspended, or fined. They don't stay. They don't play anymore, at least not that game. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Yeah,” I answered, tugging my pony tail tighter. My stupid hair was whipping itself into tangles that would be a nightmare to brush out later.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Then tell me.”

“If a boy breaks the rules he's out of the game.”

“Yes! And who makes the rules?”

“You do?”

“No, Tatum. You do.” He slowed to a walk; I did too. He stopped and turned me to face him and held me by the shoulders. I wasn't used to seeing my dad all emotional; it was hard to look him in the eye.

“Look ... it'll get confusing. You'll think you're in love and they are too, but later you'll realize it was just feelings mixing you up and confusing you. I don't want you to do anything because you feel like you're in love, because feelings will fool you.”

“Daddy, I know. I won't do anything like that.”

“You can say that now, but the feelings will come and you need to have a plan. Get your rules set in your mind then play by them ... who makes the rules?” he asked, eyebrows arched.

“I do.”

“That's right. You make the rules, not the boys ... you are in charge. Remember that. And if they don't play by the rules?”

“They're out!”

“Good girl,” he said, smiling down at me and patting me on the head like he used to do when I was five. We started to run again but I wasn't done.

“Daddy?

“Yeah?”

“What happens if they steal a base?”

“They don't,” he answered flatly.

I smiled. “But sometimes they do, and it's legal if they're
safe.”
I was totally messing with him, but I knew he knew the implication in my stressing the word safe.

“No, Tatum, they don't steal in your game.”

“They don't?”

“Well, they might try, but you're gonna out 'em every time.”

“Every time?”

“Every ... single ... time. Nothing is safe if they try to steal. You get me?”

“That's not the rule.” I laughed.

“In your game it is.”

“You're sure about that?” I asked.

“No doubt about it. Now you need to kick it into high gear and give your one hundred. Right now! Let's go!” With that he sped us up until it was impossible to keep up a conversation. I couldn't do anything but run hard after him; my legs ached, my lungs burned, expanding and contracting, and my body thanked me for the effort with a release of sweet endorphins that rushed through me well after we finished our cool down stretches.

When it was time to get ready, I did everything like I did in the store and in front of my mirror all those times before, but it wasn't perfect anymore. I take that back—it was, but I looked … plain. Without the glitzy lights of the store, or my imagination to fuel me, I was plain old tangled-brown-haired, brown-eyed me in a dress. Cinderella was gone. I decided my face was the problem. I never thought to wear makeup before then, even though some of the girls in my classes were starting to, but now I wanted it; no, I needed it that night.

“Well?” I asked my dad coming into my parents’ bathroom where he was shaving, shirtless.

“Lookin' good!” He whistled, taking my hand and spinning me around. “I think you look just like your mother.”

“Is she back yet?” I asked.

“No.”

That meant I would have to put on my makeup myself, which was a problem because I had no idea what I was doing. I moved my dad out of the way to find my mom's makeup. I didn't know what to use or how to do it, but I grabbed one of everything and took it into the other bathroom I shared with the boys. When I got there, containers of makeup in hand, I froze. It wasn't that I had never seen my mom put it on before; it was just that I never had an interest in it for me. I never tried to put makeup on. I didn't have the slightest clue what I was supposed to do. I stared at it like looking at it would magically make it appear on my face. And then magically ... the door opened and there she was!