Normal Things (Tate Langdon FanFiction)

Chapter Five:

Thursday, I was sitting in the kitchen with Mom, arguing back and forth ideas for dinner, when our doorbell rang twice. I was seated on the kitchen table, my legs dangling over the side, watching as my mother procured box after box of different dinners, an expectant smile on her face, wishing just like me to be over with this.

When the doorbell rang, Mom almost dropped the boxes; the house had been quiet save for our voices. I gave her a confused look and jumped down off the table, walking through the living room to the front door.

At five in the afternoon, Tate standing on the other side of the threshold was the last person I expected. He was dressed in a black t-shirt, worn jeans, and his battered Converse, and his hair was shiny with a sheen of sweat, the hair at his temples stuck to his skin. And in his hands was a single rose, but it looked wrong, and I loved it. It had once been a regular rose, possibly red or white or yellow, but had been painted over with black paint; in some places it still looked wet. Tate smiled crookedly at me, his eyes sweeping me from my head to my toes, his brown eyes bright with mischief and the memory of Wednesday. My cheeks heated, and I pushed my hair from my eyes, wishing I had actually taken time with my appearance.

I was wearing khaki shorts that were partially covered by a large, baggy beige sweater, the peaking of bright green sports bra able to be seen at my shoulder. My hair was a tangled sort of curly and I was nervously picking at a hole in my white cotton tights, just below the edge of my shorts, my ragged fingernail scratching my skin painfully. I was also barefoot, my terrifyingly pale-white feet where all could see.

I tightened my grip on the doorknob. Tate was still watching me, this black rose in his hand, a line of black paint dripping off the edge of one petal.

Mom asked who was here, and I heard her surprised exclamation from the living room. "Oh," she said, "hello, Tate." Tate nodded his head to my mother and I reached forward, taking his hand and pulling him inside. Mom was drying her hand on a towel; she must have started dinner.

"To what do we owe this pleasure," she said, shoving the edge of her towel in her front pocket. Tate looked at me, and held out the rose, which I took. "I painted it black. I know how you aren't fond of normal things," he said, like he had memorized it from a book.

I smelled it; it smelled like paint. "You're the first boy to ever give me a flower," I said, bringing the flower back up to my nose again, smelling the acrylic smell. "Thank you." Tate beamed and looked at Mom.

"I have come to invite your daughter to dinner at my house, if that is OK with you?" Mom's cheeks turned a ruddy color and she nodded, smiling, urging me to dress a little more formally. I hurried off to my bedroom with my rose.

I bedroom window had no window ledge; it was just a plain window with simple, green curtains. I hurried around my room, trying to find a place to set the rose, when an idea popped up in the back of my mind.

Taking a random book from my backpack, I closed the pages on my rose, flattening it. Satisfied with its new home, I started to change out of my day clothes into something more appropriate for a dinner. Ivory white skater dress, beige cardigan, baby blue velvet tights, white oxfords. I ran across the hall from my room into the bathroom, furiously dragging a brush through my hair, hearing as a few strands popped and caught in the brush, tearing out of my scalp. I set my brush aside and reached for the makeup I never really wore.

After I had outlined my eyes in kohl and flicked a bit of mascara on, I stopped to take in my face; my eyes were brighter, more golden than their normal dull brown. My skin look flushed, as if I had been running a marathon. I reached for Drew's jewelry box that always rested on the corner of the counter, opening it and pulling out her Triforce necklace, clasping it around my neck. Combing my hair back into a messily-thrown-up ballerina's bun, I left the bathroom, trying to casually make my way back into the living room where the others waited instead of sprinting like a crazed lunatic.