Quickly I run to them. Tatum stands, her fists balled.
“You better take that back before I blacken your eye so bad you won’t need that stupid eyeshadow!” Tatum threatens. I step in between them. “Hey Tatum, want to arm wrestle me for your cake?” Her face goes stoic.
“What?” She blinks wildly.
“You heard me,” I reaffirm. “Arm wrestle me. That is unless you’re afraid you’ll lose.”
Her mouth pops open before her lips form into a thin line. “Fine.”
Getting situated she palms my hand and a zing surfs through my fingers, up my arm, and right down to my gut. Looking at her, her eyes widen like she felt it too. There is something so different about this girl.
“Ready?” I act as if I didn’t notice anything.
Her brows pull together in determination.
I start out slow, not wanting to break her heart at how strong I really am. Maybe I’ll let her win, that’ll make her day.
Her strength surprises me so I push harder, the idea of maybe letting her win gone.
Just as my hand is an inch away from the table, I use both hands and push hers to the table. I can’t let a girl beat me!
“HEY! THAT’S CHEATIN!” Tate’s nose scrunches with anger, as she stands up.
“You owe me your cake sweetheart.” I shrug with a smug smile.
Her nose wrinkles, her lips pursed like a sucker fish. Looking down she grabs a random plate, and plows it into my face. Cake fills every crook and cranny of my face.
My mouth drops, the taste of icing filling my mouth.
“Tatum Davis!” Her mother puts her hand on her hip, as she eyes Tate with a look of embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry!” Her dad apologizes for her. I wipe the cake from eyes, and find a smiling Tate. She could care less that she’s in trouble. I can’t help the curve of my lips, the ache behind them as I try and fight the smile creeping through my anger.
Quickly they usher her out of the backyard, whispering and schooling her the whole time.
“She’s such a freak. Do you want a napkin?” Felicia asks, crossing her arms.
“I like her,” I respond, flicking icing off my fingers. I can literally hear the disapproval smoldering off Felicia. There’s no need to look.
There’s something about Tatum Davis, and I can’t put my finger on what it is. Most girls are pathetic wearing stupid pink stuff, and always wanting to talk about themselves and shopping. But Tatum… she’s different. I want to get to know her.
Two hours later my father shows up. Drunk.
I kick a rock as I sit on the front porch listening to them scream at each other.
Glass breaks and I can’t stand to hear it anymore.
Sprinting between the houses I spot Tatum sitting on her bed. The window to her room open. Our houses are so close together I often see her in her room. She’s always on her bed, reading something. She caught me looking once and I ducked as quickly as I could. I know she saw me though.
Getting a closer look inside she’s reading some kind of boxing magazine.
“What ya reading?” I intrude, resting my arms on the ledge of her window. Her head darts up, her blonde hair falling in her face.
“Here to spy on me again?” her words sharp.
A scream sounds from behind me with a loud bang. I don’t look behind me, but Tatum’s face goes blank.
“Can I come in?” I ask, knowing it’s a long shot. I just can’t go back home, and it’s dark out.
Her eyes look around the room wildly, her body tense.
“Please.” I can’t believe I just said that.
Her eyes slowly slide to mine, and she nods. “Yeah. But you have to be quiet, my dad will get mad if he knows you’re in here.”
“Got it.”
I climb into her bedroom window, and look around. It’s not what I thought a girl’s room would look like. There’s posters of boxers and fighters all over the walls.
Dirty clothes on the floor, and a pair of sneakers thrown in the corner.
Sitting on the floor, I gaze among the stack of magazines she’s collected.
“You’re kind of—”
“Different? I know.” She tucks her nose back into her magazine.
“Yeah, but it’s a good different.” Her eyes pop above what she’s reading.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You don’t fall into that crowd of girls that pretend to be something they’re not. I like that. Plus, we have a lot in common.”
Silence fills the air as I look over an article.
“Can you read any of this?” I ask, my mind trying to silently pronounce the words.
She slips off the bed and sits next to me, crossing her legs Indian style.
“I can read some of it. Like here,” she points to the page showing some limited edition cup, I don’t know I don’t look at it long. I watch Tate, as her eyes light up at the magazine. “It’s a cup they use for their protein powder, which helps them get strong for fights,” she explains. Her eyes meet mine, and she taps the page.