Blackbird

Tate |Chapter 1

IT WAS A PERFECT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA EVENING. The sun seared down the neck of my t-shirt as I walked the route to Flocks. Newly built homes gave way to canyons, and across from that, sporadic trailer parks and landscapes dotted with cacti and aging palms. Perfect, if it were not for the fourteen-foot realtor's billboard of my father's face beaming at me with his porcelain-capped teeth, arms crossed over in a power pose.

It was an unfunny joke that everyone was privy to. Every crosswalk and intersection for fifty miles had one. Nadine would have bust a rib laughing if not for the target it put on my back. I hitched my backpack further up my shoulder and continued to walk.

Bumper-to-bumper cars lined the street. Derek Benitez slipped out behind a stationary mustard-colored Pontiac with a 'Jesus is my airbag' bumper sticker. Not one to cross, I regretted that decision when his friend Tyson followed behind.

He bore no physical characteristics of his famous namesake other than a shitty face tattoo of a blackbird at the corner of his eye. Derek lurched the second I was in spitting distance, driving his shoulder into my chest in a technically flawless football tackle.

Jesus wasn't my airbag because my head hit the dirt hard.

Derek narrowed his eyes, studying me for a moment. I could see the gears turning in his head. Two against one was never going to be a fair fight. There was no love triangle at the core of Derek's hostility. He hated my surname because it belonged to my father.

Just when I thought he would pummel me again, he stepped back and let out a bark of laughter. There was no opportunity to retaliate because Tyson pinned my arms back as Derek's foot lashed out and connected with my abdomen.

As he let go, Derek hauled me by my t-shirt until the fabric bunched in his fingers. I couldn't help but grunt in pain as his grip tightened on my shirt, then he said, "Don't even bother showing up at the party later, Tate."

I grinned, tasting blood; my ears still ringing because, for a moment, I thought he'd called me mate, which would be ludicrous given the circumstances, and he wasn't British.

Derek released his grip and pushed me away. My wobbly legs were grateful for the reprieve. I spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and steadied myself. Derek and Tyson finally walked away.

For a moment, I sat as the sun kissed lower on the horizon.

Ten minutes later, I arrived at Flocks. One of my nostrils had started to bleed. Without knocking, I walked in and tossed my school bag onto the oak dining table. From there, I rummaged through Flock's refrigerator.

"Who happened to your face?" Flock reached, but I retracted. "You're lucky you don't need sutures, Tate—again."

"I'm too pretty for sutures. We're invited to a party." I neglected to share the particulars of the invitation because it felt irrelevant. I would go anyway, but even I questioned my own motives. The smart thing would have been to let Derek think he'd won one over me. However, his version of winning would recycle itself, dooming me to repeat until I taught him the lesson he seemed so eager to learn.

I closed the door once I found a bag of frozen peas and turned to Flock. My tongue probed my gum line, testing where I felt pain the most, before holding the bag in place. When Derek cornered me on the walk home, I hadn't anticipated it but wasn't surprised by it either, but a beating would never change our last names.

"End-of-summer semester parties are lame. Derek will be there, and if this is his handy work, why tickle the tiger?"

"They have beer," I added.

Flock's eyebrows inched up, taking a split-second to persuade.

We waited until the bleeding stopped, and I took a couple of Tylenol. Located two blocks away, the house could be seen from the street. As soon-to-be seniors started their summer break, bodies crammed into the cracks of the two-story home. While I sat in the corner, I reverted to my favorite pastime of watching Flock navigate the world of normal people.