Catching Tatum

by Lucy H. Delaney

  “Oh, sweetie, I can't fix this!” She could stitch up my face without batting an eye but she couldn't fix my hair? Maybe her saved memories taught her some jobs called for outside help. By then she was laughing hysterically. She had more tears than me. That's when the boys clued in that it was OK to come look. Trav was first.

  “Whoa! Tatum, you look like Theo on that side.”

  “Shut up! Jerk!” I said, throwing the brush straight for his face.

  “Knock it off,” Mom said. “Trav, go find a hat for your sister.” She laughed some more.

  “I'm not going to school like this! You can't make me!”

  “No, but I can't fix it either. You're going to put it in a hat and we'll go get it fixed. I’ve got to get a picture for Daddy first. He's going to die!”

  “Mom! No!”

  “These are the moments parents live for! Yes!”

  “No! You can't show that to anyone, ever!”

  “Just Daddy ...”

  “NO!” I kept blocking the camera shot with my hands.

  “Tatum, knock it off. Let me get a picture. Trust me, you'll laugh about this later.”

  “No, I won't. Don't take a picture!”

  Eventually she got one, but I deleted it from the camera when she wasn't looking. I kind of wish I hadn't now ... it's a moment of time lost forever, even though it's seared into one of those top-shelf bottles in my memory cave. It probably was hilarious but at the time it was pure tragedy. I wore the hat all morning and the boys laughed at me until they left for school. We had to wait until noon to finally get in to the Do or Dye Salon. The lady did her best but there was one chunk I cut so short the best she could do was a bob that started level with my scar. My scar screamed at me when she turned me around to look in the mirror. It had never looked so big or ugly in my life. I was Scar Face again.

  “It's not that bad, Tate … you think it looks way worse than it does,” Mom said to me on the way home. I kept flipping the visor down to try to find a way to pull my hair over enough to cover it up.

  “But they'll call me Scar Face!”

  “You're in high school now. It's not going to happen like that. Those were mean little girls.”

  “High school girls are mean big girls.”

  I swore I would never cut it again. The problem was I hated my hair! It pissed me off, got tangled and greasy and ratty, and I had to take care of it, and get the stupid brush through it. I couldn't do it for the rest of my life … but boys liked long hair and despite my broken heart and appreciation for a beautiful feminine form, I definitely liked boys more, so I compromised ... I grew dreads!

  When I told my mom she was excited. She had a friend with dreads once and she helped to roll them. I didn't know what that meant at the time. She said when I picked the style I wanted she would help me get them started. It wouldn't be a fast process; my hair grew fast but it was still more than a year before they were shoulder length and something I was proud of, and the maintenance was cake compared to having to get a brush through the tangles. I picked a medium thick style and kept them with lavender oil. They never defined me, but I loved how they described me—I was no longer the “girl with the scar,”—I became the “girl with the dreads” and I liked it. I was done being defined by my past … but then my past came back to haunt me.

  Right after I cut my hair—I mean within weeks—I found out about Cole's parting gift to me. I wasn't officially diagnosed until the softball season of my senior year, but by then I already knew even though I avoided the truth of it.

  Cole left me with an STD.

  I didn't want to think it was what it was and did a good job for a long time of avoiding the truth. I didn't want to be one of those girls with that kind of a problem. But I was. It had happened once before—a small sore, not bad or painful, just an annoying thing down there. Then it was gone, like it never happened, and I forgot all about it. Cole and I were dating and I knew it was from him like I knew he was cheating on me, but I didn't say anything. If I had it he had it so there was no point in saying anything. Then we broke up, I moved and cut my hair, and pretty much forgot about it. It wasn't a memory I wanted to save.

  Then it happened again—a little sore, something strange. That time I freaked out. I thought it was cancer and looked online for everything I could find about genital cancer. Google kept popping up herpes. The pictures made me want to throw up. I looked at myself in my mirror; the little thing I had was nothing like the nasty vagina pictures on Google. It wasn't cancer but I didn't want it to be an STD either so I told myself it wasn't herpes. I cleared the history on my computer and tried not to cry. I wasn't with Cole anymore. I wasn't with anyone; there was no one to be with. If it was anything, which it was not, it would affect no one but me, so I ignored the fact that I probably had an STD from a boy who never even cared about me. But I couldn't get it out of my head. What did that make me that I slept with a guy who was only into me for sex? That I slept with him the first night we were together? That I got a disease from him? That I wasn't even seventeen yet and I was ruined for life?

  I did the only thing I knew how to do. I got my running clothes on, complete with a hoody that I pulled over my head. I didn't want to think or feel anything. I was going to run until it was all gone. No pain, no hurt, no douche bag ex-boyfriend, or creepy looking diseases. I didn't care how long it took, I would run forever if I had to.

  Despite my parents’ rules to keep the music in my ears down so I could hear approaching cars or people, I blasted it during my run around the perimeter of the base. I played only sad songs and ran as hard as I could ... and I cried ... and cried ... and cried. I wanted him out of me, my mind, my heart, my body. But I couldn't run him away. He was stuck in there, on that shelf; the blackest, darkest, most painful memory I ever had. I had been played by a player who didn't care about me. I was a fool. I hated him; I hated my life. I was weakness, I was sorrow, and I wasn't alone on my run.

  CHAPTER 6

  “HEY!” SOMEONE BEHIND ME shouted loud enough for me to hear through the blaring music. I hadn't heard him come up on me. I startled and put my hands up defensively when he touched my shoulder. Then his hands went up in surrender. He didn't want to hurt me; he was worried for me. I could see it all over his face.

  I was embarrassed. I had been bawling out loud ... not a good thing to do on a base run. I didn't think anyone would listen or care. The only person I wanted to care was thousands of miles away and couldn't care less. Then this guy came out of nowhere to be concerned.

  He was a Sergeant named Josh Warbiany and he kind of became a little bit like my own personal Jiminy Cricket that day. I'd seen him around the base before and talking to my dad here and there. He didn't seem mean but he always had an intense look on his face, like life was meant to be taken seriously, never funny. Of course everyone looked like that since the attacks. He was older than me and commanded my respect simply by his rank and the fact that he knew my dad. I pulled my ear buds out, tried to sniff up and wipe away my tears as quickly as I could with my gloved fingers, and told him I was fine.

  “Don’t look like fine to me. You're dad's Colonel Rodriguez, right?”

  “Yeah.” I felt like everyone on base already knew my dad but probably they didn't.

  “I thought so ... your hair.” He smiled, pointing to a couple half-formed dreads that were folded at the side of my hood. “You need to talk about it? I have a daughter, too. She's younger than you so maybe it can be practice for me for later.”

  I shook my head but started walking instead of running. Something about him begged me to tell him. I liked his voice. It calmed me instantly. But what would I tell him—that I was an idiot? That he should teach his daughter not to fall for stupid boys?

  “No ... just bad news and a breakup ... that's all. I'm trying to run it off.”

  “Breaking up sucks.” He was deep.

  “Yes, it does,” I answered, sniffling.

  “Running is probably the best thing for that ... and
moving on fast. Don't wallow. It's not a good look for you,” he joked.

  “Thanks for that.”

  “Seriously, forget about him.”

  “That's what I'm trying to do ... hence the run ...” I smiled.

  “Ahhh, hence the run.”

  “Thanks. I actually feel a little better, but if your daughter ever talks to you about a breakup … she probably won't, but if she does … are you really going to tell her not to wallow?”

  “Hmmm, I guess I'll have to work on that,” he said with a grin.

  “Yeah, do, but thanks for the pep talk.”

  “Any time.” And with that he nodded his head, assured I was OK, and ran off, much faster than me. He was right; I needed to get over Cole and fast. Even before I was done running I decided I was done crying over a stupid boy and I would never give another guy like him a chance to ruin me.

  I also decided my parents probably weren't as clueless as I thought they were. If I had followed their rule to not date until I was sixteen, and got permission first, maybe things with Cole would have been different. If I had made myself a challenge and a mystery to him, maybe he would have been more into me. I wanted someone who was going to be totally into me and, more than that, I never wanted to get my heart broken again. It hurt and it was unnecessary.

  That's when the game was born.

  I went home and grabbed a yellow legal pad from the shelf where Mom kept the school supplies. I pulled my hoodie off, shoved my earbuds back in my ears, blasted the sad songs, and drew out a baseball field. My game. My rules.

  My dad had been right all along, it was the girl’s game. A normal, rational thinking boy would start drooling and turn to mush over a girl he thought he was in love with. Cole was never that into me. I was convenient and I made myself so; there was no mystery for him to solve, no question to answer. I was easy. I wished I could take it all back, grow a backbone. I couldn't go back but I wasn't going to be stupid like that again.

  “First base,” I said, tapping it with my pen. “No, not first base; they need to get to bat first.”

  I knew my dad wanted to approve of my dates, so rule number one would be getting my dad's permission. Then first base was, of course, kissing; everyone knew that. I thought about what Cole didn't do: he didn't take me anywhere fun, ever. It was always the same things every time. So the kiss would come after a good date. A fun date. A date I could bottle up and put on the shelf to remember forever and always.

  Second base was just as easy, hands up the shirt, making-out, but pants stayed on. If my pants stayed on I didn't have to say anything about what was down there. I almost cried again but instead made the rule that was the hardest out of all of them to keep. Second base didn't come without full exclusivity. I was not about to get cheated on ever again. A kiss was a kiss, but it was nothing special. I didn't care about dating a guy who was messing around with other girls if all we were doing was kissing. And since I made the rule, I could kiss whomever I wanted. But if someone was going to be feeling me up, they better not be with anyone else. Plain and simple. It was a good rule. It seemed fair at the time. How could I have known it would be that one rule that would be the reason my heart would break again?

  Third base challenged me then like it had when my dad first told me love was like baseball. What was third base anyway? All I could come up with was down the pants. I didn't think we could get naked at third base because naked, horny people had sex. Pants would have to stay on ... at least stay on one person at all times. But then what? There were so many things that could happen between hands under the shirt and all the way. I started to write down everything I could think of. The question wasn't what I would allow us to do but what kind of guy I would do it with. Not a guy like Cole, in it just for sex ... he had to want me. He had to love me! I could make them wait to say they loved me, but I decided that was stupid. Guys would say anything. I already knew that. I would wait to tell them I loved them until third. Maybe waiting to say it would protect my heart, I hoped it would. But that wasn't a mountain for them to climb—that would be my Mt. Everest. The girl who falls in love too easily would never fall in love again, unless ... unless he was the one. The one she was sure would never break her heart. I wrote “NO MORE I LOVE YOUS” in 3-D block letters on the top part of my rule page. It wasn't bold enough so I ran back out to the supplies to get colored pencils.

  “What are you doing in there?” my mom asked while she stirred something in a skillet for dinner.

  “Nothing,” I said, grabbing the pencils.

  “All right then. You have fun with that ...”

  The whole time I colored in the letters with red, made the bases white, the pitcher’s mound brown, and shaded the outfield light green, I was trying to figure out what a guy could do to get to third base. Mom said to make them work for it and to be a challenge, a mystery, a question they needed the answer for.

  That was it! The ultimate question to know if he loved me for me, if he wanted me and not just my body—He had to ask me to marry him—then he could get to third base ... but that meant nothing else until I was engaged. Could I do that? I was hurt and heartbroken and I was almost ready to swear off guys forever anyway so I made it the rule. Nothing down the pants until there was an engagement ring on my finger. That would be time for full disclosure on my part as well. I would have to tell what Cole left me with ... before it got to them asking for my hand. Problem was I didn't want to tell anyone... ever! But it wouldn't be right to lead a guy on that far and not tell them. Then it hit me: it was the perfect way to keep me from saying “I love you.” I would only say I loved them if I was ready to tell them about the other stuff, too.

  Scoring was easy: all the way was all the way. It only made sense for the home run to come on the wedding night.

  Done! My rules were set. I underlined “NO MORE” on the page and told myself, no more I love yous, no more mistakes, no more diseases, no more heartbreak, no more Cole Jackson. No more. I was starting fresh, new. I ripped the page from the pad, flipped on my back and held it up to the light, as if the light would expose any flaws in my plan. I scanned the bases, what we would do, and what they would have to do to get at each. I can't say that I thought it through completely, but I made it more than a memory. My game became as much a part of me as my dreads or scar. I was the new Tatum, with a past and a future. I wasn't going to fall in love easily, I wasn't going to be taken advantage of, and I wasn't going to believe any more lies. The game was in action. I wanted to put the paper up where I could see it every day to remind myself that things were different, but I thought better of having a paper with words like “dry sex, finger bangs, and blow jobs” written on it and posted where my parents or brothers could find it. I folded and creased the page just below “no more I love yous” and carefully tore the words away from the picture. A little nub pulled away wrong and tempted me to redo the whole thing so it was pretty, but it had taken so long I thought better of that, too. When I was done, I taped the words to the top of my mirror and looked at them dozens of times a day. I knew what they meant if no one else ever did. I folded the rest of the page in fourths and put it in my underwear drawer.

  Then I moved on with my life. I made a new one where I didn't fall in love and didn't even date for over a year. I learned to love other things—my new home state and base, my new weekend job at a gym not too far from base, my new hair, and my new outlook on life—new everything.

  Once my senior year started my teachers, my parents, my older brothers, everyone, wanted to know what my plans were after school. I didn't have any. Maybe I would enlist; maybe I would go to college to be a physical therapist. I really liked that idea. I thought it would be cool to be a therapist for a major league baseball team. I could travel, without the risk of IEDs going off around me, and I could watch ball all the time and get paid for it. It seemed to impress people when I talked about being a sports injury physical therapist so that was usually my answer to the question even though I wasn't exactly sure it was
really what I wanted to do.

  I went all that time, from the day I made my rules, to the spring of my senior year without an outbreak, and, like before, I almost forgot. There was always a lingering thought but nothing ever happened so I hoped it was something else, something Google didn't know about, but then another one popped up. The timing couldn't have been worse. My sports physical, the last one Mom said she would ever schedule for me, was the next day. I told her I wanted to go in alone. I felt bad but I couldn't have her in there.

  I was nervous to go back to the exam room alone. I didn't know how I would tell them about what was down there. Sure enough, the doctor examined me and told me I had an STD. Even though I already kind of knew the truth, hearing it from her made it real for the first time. My world caved in all over again. I preferred the uncertainty to knowing for sure. It didn't matter what rules I played by now ... I was, and would always be, “that girl.”

  She said there was no cure. She said I could infect anyone I was with. I was ruined. Cole Jackson ruined me. It didn't matter that he was my first and only; it didn't. I said I wasn't easy but I had sex with him on our first date, and he didn't even care when I broke up with him. I was paying for it and I would be reminded of the biggest mistake of my life forever. I hated him more at that moment than anyone, ever. Why hadn't he said anything? It didn't matter that the doctor told me some people didn't know and that's why protected sex was so important with multiple partners. I reminded her that I didn't have multiple partners, just one, and she pointed to a chart on the wall with all the people's germs I could have been exposed to by having sex with “just one” person. And it was mostly protected, every time but twice. I wanted to cry.

  She wanted to talk about medicine and treatments and birth control. That meant my mom would know so I was adamant that there would be no medicine and there would be no mention of this to my mother. I didn't want them to tell my mom at all ... ever! They had to respect my right to privacy so they had to let it go, but the doctor recommended I come in on my own and get it. I didn't need medicine; they had only happened three times in my life and what hurt the most was my pride and self-respect. There was no pill for that.