Catching Tatum Read online

  Then there's me, Tatum, the only girl of the group (except for my mom), the hopeless romantic, the headstrong dreamer, the maker of rules and memories. I wasn't desperate, I just wanted to give and receive love the way my parents did and thought if I loved a boy enough he would love me back the same. With my parents it was mutual—they were both all in; I never checked with the boys to see if they were before I decided to fall in love. I just fell and usually landed on my face.

  As a little girl, of course, my first love was my daddy. What girl isn't in love with her dad? Mine was the best kind. He never broke my heart. Most of the time I was Daddy's “Tomboy Princess;” with four brothers it was hard to be his “Little Princess” all the time. But with a mom who was the definition of femininity, I was never quite “one of the boys” either. My dad and I danced all the time. Some of my best bottled up memories are of dancing with him. He still dances with me and my mom whenever a good song comes on. He taught all the boys to dance when they were younger, too.

  Let me pull down a bottle and uncork it and stop and take it in.

  Yep ... there it is. I was seven and the radio started in on Van Morrison singing “Brown-eyed Girl.” My mom was doing dishes and batted him away when he shimmied over, so he swooshed on the balls of his feet, big old smile on his face, and spun toward me, with arms open wide. He grabbed me and we spun around the kitchen to the beat of the song. There was another time when I was learning how to drive. My mom was in the back with Brett and Trav and I remember Dad got all excited and made me stop the car on the side of the road. I thought he must have wanted me to practice pulling to a shoulder and re-entering traffic but instead he told me to turn the music up. He pulled my mom out of the car and busted out a dance with her right there on the shoulder of the road. The love they had for each other twinkled in their eyes as they danced.

  My dad was the one who made the first rule in my game of love; way back before I even knew I had a game. His rule: I wasn't allowed to date until I was sixteen. I didn't love that rule so it didn't really count in my world. By the time I was sixteen I think I probably had already lost my heart a dozen times. I don't mean crushing, I mean love ... like I said, I fall in love easily.

  The first love of my life, after my dad and brothers, was a boy named Sergio Chavez. We were in second grade together and I was sure I would marry him. His skin was darker than mine and he was taller than me, but our hair was the exact same color—pale brown, a smidge darker than dirty blonde. (That was long before I started wearing my hair in dreads, but it was already an annoying tangled mess by then.) We would sit next to each other during reading time and hold hands. At recess we ran as fast as we could out of the school, hand in hand, to climb on the “Big Toy,” as we called the round metal dome. If we were first to the top we sat like king and queen the whole time, holding hands, and kicking the other kids down when they tried to displace us. It might not sound like love but it was. When it was cold he would take my hand and tuck it, with his, into the pocket of his little red quilted coat, and keep me warm. He was the best kind of boy. I probably would have married him and my life would have been a whole lot simpler, like Thomas', if that had happened, but it didn't. Our love was short lived. Dad got orders and we moved and I had to say goodbye to the love of my seven-year-old life. Don't tell me it wasn't love; I have the memories to prove it, on the good shelf. They are real. I can still feel the satiny smoothness of his coat on my fingers. Our souls collided and he will ever be a part of me.

  Same with David, my next little lover boy. The thing is: I can't remember his last name. That doesn't mean it wasn't love; it means I was only ten and had better things to do than remember last names. He was my age and as soon as we moved to Seymour Johnson AFB in North Carolina, he was the first kid we met on the base. Brett, just eighteen months younger than me, hit it off with David immediately and the three of us were nearly inseparable. We spent hours riding around on dirt bikes and making forts and having wars. The three of us walked together to the school on the base every day, the older boys caught a bus to a school off base, and Trav wasn't in school yet. One day Brett was sick so when David came to the door to meet up, we walked the sidewalks to the school alone. It started out like any other walk, then he said I was pretty. Up until that moment we were “just friends.” That was it; I was in love, just like that. I ripped my heart out of my chest, packaged it up, and handed it to him to love and to cherish until death do us part. As it turned out it only lasted until half-way through the next year when his dad was reassigned and his family moved away. But until then we were “us.” Brett helped keep our relationship a secret from the parents; he was good that way. No longer did the three of us climb trees together. David and I climbed together and Brett followed. We got ice cream cones but David and I shared the same one. We played war games but I was always on David's team

  David and I kissed too—actual real French kissing. I started young, what can I say?

  The first time was more of an experiment than a kiss. All we had was what we'd seen our parents and movie stars do, which isn't close to what it's actually like to kiss someone. The school on the base only went to fifth grade so when David and I moved on to middle school in sixth, we left Brett completely behind for the first time. Kissing seemed like the next logical step in our relationship. It was a mature and grown-up decision the two of us came to one morning on the bus near the beginning of the year. He loved me, I loved him, we weren't getting any younger, but we were certainly old enough to kiss. There was no friend or younger brother tagging along anymore, so what were we waiting for? We kissed on the green vinyl seat of the cheese wagon.

  Oh, boy, was it a sloppy messy affair! We closed our eyes and the next thing I knew, my nose was in his mouth! The bus went over a bump and he missed the mark. Me, being me, I laughed at him, then told him that must be why the guy grabs the girl's face in his hands. I told him to touch my face; it was the first time he touched me there and it felt almost as intimate as anything else about the kiss. It was a valiant first attempt at Eros' game. We gave it a good effort—eyes closed, tongues touched, lips smacked, spit swapped—deed done. Success! When I opened my eyes I saw them ... the others on the bus, watching. I was not embarrassed that they found us out like David seemed to be. I smiled with pride. I was the kisser of David. Our first kiss was their entertainment and I liked that. I didn't know the word then, but I was on my way to becoming an exhibitionist.

  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.

  CHAPTER 2

  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.”