Catching Tatum (4 page)

“MOM! Come here! I need you! Hurry!” I bellowed.

“Oh ... I'm sorry, sweetie! Traffic was so bad,” she apologized, coming into the bathroom. She stopped and looked me up and down, and then at the mascara in my hand.

“Oh, Tatum! You're so beautiful!”

“Mom, I want to put makeup on—I ... look too plain. What do I do?”

“Look at you!” I was afraid she was going to get all weepy on me.

“Mom! Stop, pull yourself together—my night, remember? Help me!”

“My baby's going to her first ball ...”

“Mom! Stop,” I said. She hugged me and pushed me back to arm's length away, and breathed in deep. She was making a memory. I was her memory. I calmed down and let her have the moment. I stepped back and twirled, then leaned back in to hug her again; it was our memory for all time and eternity. And then it was time to resume play and we jumped back in where we left off.

“OK, you don't want too much—that looks tacky,” she said, “I'm not sure if my foundation will match. You're a little darker, like your dad.”

“What the heck is foundation?”

“It's um, kind of a cover all. You put it on first and it smooths out any blemishes or differences in your skin ... here ... let's see.” She took a drop of hers and rubbed it into the left side of my cheek, then stepped back. I think it's OK. Give it a try.” She smiled, squeezing a small dot of it onto my middle finger.

Then she proceeded to tell me how to cover my face, and then explained the eye liner and eye shadow, and the lip stain, reminding me to moisturize well if I was going to use it or my lips would get way too chapped. Then the final touch: mascara—the blinking, the looking up—and it was done. She turned me to the mirror and for a second I couldn't see my scar. I looked ... we looked at my reflection in the mirror, finishing the memory before corking it and putting it on the shelf. I was Cinderella again. Amazing what a little makeup and mom- magic can do.

When we were done we came out and Dad was waiting. He looked handsome all dressed up and, for the first time, I think he saw the woman I would become; not his little girl, not a young lady, but the woman I was growing up to be.

“Boy, oh boy! You sure do clean up good! Whew! ... She's growing, babe!” he said to my mom, pulling her into his embrace so they could make their own memory together.

“I know,” she said back, hands clasped under her chin. She was as tough as me. She wasn't about to cry but she was emotional.

She snapped out of it fast, though. “Let me get a picture!” One picture turned into a photo shoot of dozens—me and dad, just me, us in poses, me with what was left of my brothers, dad and the boys, me and her. Then we were off, my dad to his millionth military ball, me to my very first.

They rented out the ballroom of the biggest hotel in Maryland and people came from all around. This ball was an all-branch affair with a receiving line and Grand March. A few of the girls were younger than me but for the most part they were all my age or older. On the drive my dad explained how it would be: we would give our names to the announcer; we would not shake his hand, but other hands that would be extended once we were announced, we would shake. Good, firm, respectful … I represented him and would make him proud.

It felt like a fairy tale coming into the massive room. We weren't the first to arrive so when we were announced plenty of heads turned in our direction. It wasn't just fathers and daughters—there were mothers and sons too; not as many, but enough. The talks and speeches dragged on forever, but we had food to occupy us, so it wasn't horrible. It was a five-course meal with a ceremonial cake-cutting at the end. The oldest and youngest service members did the honors. My dad knew one of the Colonels sitting at our table and they spent a good bit of the dinner quietly talking back and forth, but Dad would lean over and tell me this or that about the speech or speaker, from time to time. Then it was time to dance the night away. Some of the kids spent just as much time dancing with each other as they did with their parents, but for me, part two of “the talk” commenced when the dancing did.

“Remember what we were talking about earlier?” Dad asked about halfway through “True Colors.”

“When?” Some played possum, I played dumb—what can I say?

“When we were on the run. Talking about boys?”

“Um ... yeah,” I said as he twisted me by my hand out onto the floor.

“Who makes the rules?”

“I do.”

“That's right, but … I can suggest a thing or two. I am your dad after all.”

“Oh, brother!” I sighed as he flung me out to his side and sashayed over to the other side.

“Thing number one,” he said, pulling me to the beat of the music, making me move where he wanted me to, “find a good, strong leader. See how I do this?” he asked, directing me with his hands on my hands. He pushed me out into spins and pulled me around to the beat of the music, like he had done at home a thousand times before. “I'm leading you ... but I'm not forcing you to do anything you don't want to do, right? You have to want to come with me.” And with that he spun me out; I followed out and back in at the beckoning of his hand. “If you don't follow, we look ridiculous—well, I still look good, but you look off, out of step,” he said with a wink. “But ...” he said, suddenly going limp, leaving us mostly motionless on the floor. We still swayed to the music but I couldn't make him move and he wasn't making me do anything. “ ... If I don't lead you, or give you a direction to go in, we both look like we're trying to fake it to the music. You want a good leader, Tatum,” he said. We started dancing again until the song was over. When it ended we clapped and started up with the next song.

“How do I know what a good leader is?” I asked him.

“How do you know I'm a good dancer?” he asked, pushing me to one side then the other, putting us back in a full step again.

“Because you're confident. You know the moves.”

“That's my girl ... a good leader knows what’s right and does it. Remember that stealing bases thing?”

“Yeah?”

“A good leader wouldn't do that.”

“Dad, no offense, but I think that's a bad example ... steals are good for your team in the game.”

“If you're lucky, but if you're not and you've got two outs already, it finishes the whole inning.”

“OK, I still think it's kind of lame, but I get it ... I'm not supposed to let a boy get too far. Right?”

“You got it.”

“Is too far like ... making a home run?”

“You're talking to the wrong guy on that. I'm your dad. I'd be happy for you to never make it to any base, ever, until you're married ...”

“Well, that's not going to happen.” I laughed. “No offense.” I wasn't going to tell him I was already well-practiced at kissing, if not much else.

“I know and that's why you need to come up with your rules. I can tell you what I think ... but the truth is you have to decide for yourself what you think is too far. Your rules, remember? I think mine are good, I think they’ll save a lot of problems, but you have to buy into it. Make your rules now, before it's too late, then stick with them no matter how much you think you're in love, or how much he says he loves you. Got it?”

“What
is
third base?” I asked. I was halfway listening to what he had been saying and halfway thinking about the bases everyone talked about. Everyone knew first base was kissing, and I always figured second base was getting felt up, hand-under-shirt-but-over-bra kind of stuff. Everyone knew what a home run was; but third base was never really clear.

“That's what I'm telling you, Tatum—you get to decide.” As if on cue, one of the boys who had accompanied his mother came over and asked me to dance. I looked at my dad. He nodded his approval and relinquished my hand to the red-cheeked boy in a tux. While we danced, I watched the boy's mom dancing with my dad. I had never seen my dad with any woman but my mom in his arms. They were smiling at each other but his eyes didn't twinkle the way they did when he danced with my mom; still it was weird seeing him with another woman.

“Hey ...” the boy said.

“Hey ...” I said back.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Andrews,” I answered. Military kids didn't ask for home towns or states, they meant what base, so I gave him mine. Andrews was pretty respectable as far as AFBs went. That was where the President's plane was normally housed. I thought it was funny that the President's plane had a home base but his soldiers often didn't. The boy, probably a couple years older than me, was an Army brat but I can't remember what base he said he was from because I was still trying to figure out what my bases would be. If only I could have figured it out then ...

On the way home Dad and I talked more; the talks got worse every time. He told me he and Mom didn't want me having sex or “giving my heart away” until I was married.

“But then what happens if I get married and I hate the guy?”

“That's what dating is for; you get to figure all of that out then. Work out the bugs. If he's marriage material he'll play your game your way.”

“But I'm not supposed to fall in love? Isn't that the whole point ... to fall in love with someone?”

“Yes, but sweetie, how many boys do you really want to be in love with in your life? It's all about those feelings. Do you want to finally get married and tell your husband he's the twentieth guy you've been in love with, or that he's the only guy?”

Well, I knew he wouldn't be the only guy because I already had Sergio and David, and by then a few others on the shelf already. “But how do you date and not fall in love?”

“Easy ... guard your heart like you're a soldier and it's your mission to protect it at all costs. I'm not saying you don't have to like the guy—I wouldn't want you dating a guy you didn't like in the first place. What I'm saying is your heart is yours to give, not theirs to take with smooth talk, or moves, or promises. Don't let a boy take your heart before you're ready to give it. Don't fall in love unless you're sure.”

“OK ...” I said. I was so done with talking about it with my dad by then.

“And there are rules as long as you live with us that you have to abide by.”

“Like what?”

“You don't date until you're sixteen and when you do, the boy has to ask me first.”

“What?! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life! I'm not going to have some guy ask you if he can take me out.”

“Then you're not going to have some guy take you out. He's going to have to have my approval or Mom's if I'm not here.” I saw his grip tightening on the steering wheel. I knew this was hard for him but also that his mind was made up, and he was where I got my stubborn from, so there was no changing it.

“And if you say no?”

“You don't date.” I knew about the sixteen rule for as long as I was even thinking about boys, but asking permission seemed harsh. It wasn't fair and I said so.

“I know you might think that but that's how it's going to be whether you like it or not.”

“Well, I don't like it!” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Who does that anymore? That's so old fashioned. I can totally decide if a guy is worth going out with or not. I don't need your help.”

“I believe you. That's why you should have no problem telling him he has to ask your dad or mom because you should know what kind of a guy he is already before he even asks us.”

“I still think it's stupid. I'm never going to get anyone to date me that way, ever.”

“I'm pretty sure you will. Good guys will ask, and it's an easy way to weed out the weenies that are too cowardly to.”

“It's a good way to keep me single for the rest of my life.”

“Maybe that's our plan ... mwahahaha!” He laughed, then turned off at the exit and took me through a McDonald's drive-thru for a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone.

Then I forgot all about our talk until Cole Jackson came into my life and changed everything.

OH, HOW DIFFERENT
my life would be if I did things the way my parents wanted, but that's not the road I walked down, and I can't go back to the way it was before. Not only did Cole take a chunk of my heart and soul, he took my virginity, too. I fell in love with him fast and I loved him hard from the beginning. I gave him everything I was but my love was wasted my heart, soul and body given with nothing in return. That's regret. I hate regret. I still regret it.

Because of him I finally understood exactly what my dad meant by guarding my heart. I never took the time to decide on my rules so when Cole came along, I played his game by his rules. I don't know what came over me, all my common sense, all the pep talks with my parents about what a good guy would look like and act like, all the caution from friends at school, and my brothers, that he was a player ... none of it mattered; something about him made me feel alive in a way I had never felt before. I was addicted to the feelings he gave me. I convinced myself it was love at first sight, I really did. It was definitely lust. He was a creature of beauty and I was a connoisseur of beautiful people by then.

I was always attracted to and awed by beautiful people, male or female, from the time I was very young. In fact, I hold memories of some of the most beautiful faces and forms I've ever seen. I enjoy beauty and I can't help but stare at beautiful people, drink them in like sweet tea on the hottest day of a North Carolina summer. I actually feel good looking at a beautiful human form. In my opinion, there aren't too many truly beautiful people on the planet, but they're all the same and they get me every time; whether tall or short, they're perfectly proportionate with fit, cut bodies. It's all about the proportions in my mind, not too skinny—that’s disgusting—but not too big either—that’s poor health. Eyes, nose, ears, mouth, Fibonacci perfect and smooth. A beautiful form is a proportionate one from head to toe. Color; eye color, hair color, skin color doesn't matter, proportions do.

For the record—I wouldn't say that I was beautiful, although my body, proportionate as it was from growing up in a family where fitness was a priority, fit the bill a little better than my face ever did. There was no more stuffing bras after my boobs decided to go from a B cup to a D cup the summer between my ninth grade and sophomore years, but my face was too unique to be beautiful. I had a strong, dimpled chin, and my eyes were set in a little bit too much to be one of the truly beautiful people on the planet. And, of course, there's my scar, but I got enough attention the way I looked as it was.