Homesick

Tatum has her fringe cut straight across her forehead, right above dark, thin eyebrows, and her blonding red hair stops abruptly at dangerous collarbones, and it would've looked insane if any other girl was sporting it, but it's her, it's Tatum, Tatum Morgan, so it fits, it's right, it's cool. A thin, floral, rough-fabric dress is clinging to her straight form, dangling to her knees, all bony and red, and she's playing with an unlit cigarette as if the sight of underage smoking is a shocking dichotomy to the pretty, little girl image she's trying to play off.

Tatum is sitting on the highest step in front of her house, and if you squint hard enough you can see her there, among the thick trees on her front lawn, aimlessly relaxing with no aim and no care. The neighborhood is big and grand - the home behind her has one half dedicated to bricks almost as red as her hairdo, and the other half is oak wood, a trend the entire neighborhood is sporting. She's easily recognized as Trevor Morgan's daughter, the man with an office right in the middle of the city and books dedicated to his achievements in the political world; Tatum's mother is just as striking and recognizable, her eating disorder support groups hitting television headlines and news station's topics of the day. But Tatum is not much, just the product of two important people in an unimportant part of the country, so everyone sees Tatum Morgan, Trevor Morgan and Delia Morgan's daughter, not Tatum Morgan, the girl who goes to Holland Private and is settled confidently in the top 10 of her class.

Mr. Morgan has a business partner, a right-hand man, and that man is Joseph Marshall, Mr. Joseph Marshall, governor of Washington state and strong advocate for lower taxes for the more wealthy. Tatum Morgan and Nick Marshall, Joseph Marshall's soul and pride, were supposed to meet accidentally, spontaneously, and were supposed to have fallen deep in love at first sight, and this is just what Trevor Morgan and Joseph Marshall told their dinner guests when Tatum and Nick became one. Tatum is supposed to smile and agree, responding with, "Nicholas is a sweet boy; he's kind and does everything to make me feel happy," in that soft little feminine whisper of hers when anyone asks, and this is what she does when the moment comes. Their accidental, spontaneous meeting is told to be a romantic, incidental consequence of Trevor Morgan and Joseph Marhsall's companionship - no one is supposed to know Tatum would rather step in the middle of fast-moving, rush-hour traffic and come to a fatal meeting with a pickup truck than tangling her fingers in the belt loops of Nick Marshall's jeans and lean up on her tippy-toes to kiss his thin, nearly-invisible lips. But, she plays her part well, and Nick plays his part almost too well, so no one will ever know, they tell themselves, no one will ever find out.

Wyatt Morgan hates every day, every hour, every minute, every second of it. "That douche doesn't know how to handle a lady even if he's told how," he explains to Tatum with his dirty blonde eyebrows lowering towards his narrow, green-eyed gaze. "He will never know how to handle a lady." And he's right, Tatum smiles, he's more than right. Wyatt is the poised gentleman of the Morgan house - he's the only son and the only benefactor, and this is why he's treated like gold, educated like the future of the Morgan name depends on it ( and it does ), sent off to homeless shelters and cancer organizations and geography bees like he can't take one pause to have time to himself. Wyatt, from the moment he was born, was a lucky omen to Trevor and Delia Morgan. Having their first child being a son, they knew there was great fortune in their future as a true family. So, Trevor Morgan put it upon himself to dress Wyatt as a young businessman, teach him manners and grace and how to decline offers without coming off like the privileged, spoiled boy that he is.

And this worked, it was great, it was too perfect, almost. Wyatt grew yellow hair, reddened by genetics, from his mother, and a sharp, long, lean physique that Trevor Morgan had in his younger days in Boston. Wyatt's red mouth spoke firm, puberty-nipped words when he's told it's appropriate and he kept it closed when he knew it wasn't. He's well-spoken, articulate, confident, and - most of all - pure. He's the son that the state knew would grow up under Trevor Morgan's roof. He's the son that the state knew would take care of Delia Morgan when Mr. Morgan was off on business trips and would hold Tatum Morgan, his dear little sister, close when others got too close and too familiar. Wyatt is a dream, a wish, a desire.

So, as Tatum plays with her unlit cigarette on the front steps of her home, she wonders why. Why has God given her this home, this family, this brother to call her own? She knows she can't complain, there's nothing to complain about, really, because who would? Her home is nice - beautiful, really, and her life is lazy, rehearsed, and paved with gold, and this is all sweet, all to be thankful for, but this, Tatum knows, isn't what she wants. It's all sweet, but this isn't what she wants, and this makes her feel really spoiled and privileged - because she is.

Her eyes lower to the cigarette and she thinks it might be nice to actually smoke for once in her life; she's seen the girls in those beat up boots and pre-ripped shorts, bent on the edge of the sidewalk and chain-smoking their life away, and she kind of wants to join them. To see how it feels to know that your future is going to be shit and make you suicidal, but not caring enough to do anything about it.

Tatum laughs as if it's really funny. Her giggle sounds like the chirps of a bird, the flutter of leaves in an afternoon wind; it makes her a little mad that she's received the same giggle as her mother - all sophisticated and controlled. This is the opposite of what she's dreamed of, and she's almost certain to tweak a few unwanted things about her personality and her looks. Tatum is almost certain to watch her future burn before her eyes and all the while continue to toss gasoline into the mix.

"Tatum," a voice - all lovely and gentle and laced with admiration - beckons her from indoors.

"Coming," she calls sweetly back,

and this is what she knows she wants.