Work Text:
Natalie Scatorccio, through no true fault of her own, is the absolute opposite of a late bloomer. Someone should have told her that life wasn’t a sprint or a marathon. That it didn’t matter when you experienced what or at what age and that there was absolutely no rush. But Nat had always felt like she was racing against time. A scared little girl, desperate to prove something, running toward nowhere in particular.
She had all her firsts far sooner than practically anyone else she knew. A product of both nature and nurture, she supposed, and a fact that also meant that she was there for a generous number of firsts for the girls on the team.
She was there for Shauna’s first drink. Well, there is an understatement. She poured Shauna’s first drink, and then the next, and the next one after that.
The first time Van got drunk, Nat was the one holding her hair back. She taught her the power of bananas and water. Something she learned the hard way and generously shared with Van, but not without poking fun at the surprisingly lightweight. Who would’ve thought the dork who talked with such bravado and gusto couldn’t handle her liquor? She was still hilarious, at least, so Nat taught her the art of finding that sweet spot right after, too.
The first time Jackie got high was totally, completely, not at all Nat’s fault. Well, not entirely at least. It wasn’t her fault that Jackie just swiped the blunt from her hand as she stormed out of her house. Maybe letting Jackie actually have a puff was her fault. Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have taught Jackie how to actually inhale that didn’t make her want to hack up a lung. And maybe she really should’ve stopped Jackie at two hits, because when Shauna came barging out looking for her only to find a barely coherent best friend, Nat knew she was fucked and done for. Shauna froze her out for a week after that. It wasn’t until Coach Martinez stepped in and called them to quit it that she actually passed the ball again. It took two more weeks for her to actual hear Shauna speak to her.
And Lottie Matthews, well, Nat was present for most of her firsts. An important and vital participant, even, in Lottie’s first real kiss. A proper make out session, tongue and all.
—
“I just worry I’m not good at it,” Lottie mumbles as they walk a bit further away from the crowd. Nat can’t remember how they got to this topic, but it sure as hell beats another round of gossip about Jackie and Jeff, with Shauna sulking and pouting in the corner.
"Lot… we've all literally seen you and Sam kiss on the football field last season. And also after soccer practice. And whenever he’d pick you up from wherever.” Nat recounts, her words only slightly slurred as she hobbles and topples. “I mean, you remember him. Really tall? Like, freakishly? Was a senior last year, dark hair, really rich. All brooding and quiet in an almost weird way sometimes?”
Nat recalls all the air-blown kisses and tight hugs post games. He and Lottie were nauseatingly sweet in the way they made the freshmen swoon with envy the entire four months they were dating; it almost rivaled the whole Jackie/Jeff duo.
Every after practice, Jeff and Sam would be outside waiting with their cars. It was like a pissing contest — the boyfriend battle to end all boyfriend battles. No matter that it took one look to see that the senior could’ve folded Jeff like a lawn chair if he wanted to. If Jeff brought Jackie a small sad-looking bouquet of flowers, the next day Sam would have a larger one for Lottie, and a couple boxes of pizza for the entire team to share. Figures that the boys Lottie would date should also come with trust funds, seemingly Mr. Matthews approved. Nat wonders if they had to show their family’s tax returns to get a first date. She wouldn’t put it past the guy.
Point being: there’s no way Lottie wasn’t just lying just to lie. Rich girls tend to do that.
“Those were literally just pecks! I just felt, I don’t know…” Nat eyes her with her patented shit-eating grin, completely intrigued and entertained, as Lottie continues. “Tongues feel really weird, okay?”
Nat loses it at that, bursting out in laughs that almost makes Lottie storm off with a flipped bird until Nat pulls her back by the sweater sleeve, mumbling half-apologies still soaked in chuckles. “I’m not laughing at you, alright? It’s just— man, Kevyn’s gonna love hearing that that guy’s a bad kisser. He’s always had it out for him, dunno why.” She does know why. Stupid boys and their silly insecurities. And they say girls are the emotional ones.
“I just feel unprepared,” Lottie continues, defensive with her arms crossed across her chest. “Besides, we really didn’t do much you guys haven’t seen anyway.”
“No way, Lot,” Nat scoffs, continuing to move around the trees. She hooks her hand on the trunk of one and the one another, making waltz partners out of a tree then another as they ventured further and further away. Whatever hand isn’t busy making bodies off of wood makes a habit of pressing joint to lips, not worried at all about how high she’s getting. It’s just Lottie, anyway. “You gotta be messing with me.”
Lottie shoots her a look, as if to ask why the fuck would I lie about this? Nat just smiles as she took another hit, then passes the blunt to Lottie. Because of course little miss old money, with her hair braided and her perfectly pleated skirts, is not only a full-blown virgin, but is also too afraid of not being perfect to try.
“Why didn’t you just practice with Mr. Perfect? That guy was practically obsessed with you.”
“He wasn’t so perfect when he wouldn’t accept ‘no’ as a graduation gift.”
Okay, now that Nat understands. Maybe she should lay off on the teasing.
"Look, it's really no fucking big deal, alright? Haven't you ever tried it y'know—“ Nat makes a loosely clenched fist her hand, the thumb pressed close to the index, mimicking the form of lips. Lottie scrunches her nose at the display.
“I'm not good at make-believe, Nat. I can’t really imagine things that aren't there.”
“Shit, Lot, I'm sure any guy here would be—” Nat starts, easy at first, only to stop once she notices the way Lottie holds her gaze, annoyingly big brown eyes looking at her all vulnerable. Maybe she shouldn’t be making such light of all this, Natalie realizes, backtracking on her own words. While no boy in any corner of Wiskayok would ever turn down the chance to French kiss Lottie Matthews, Nat knows no boy would be gentle enough with her to deserve it. Not during, predictably pressing for more, and most certainly not after, shouting embellished stories in locker rooms with all the other boys.
"Would you…” Lottie starts, knocking Nat right out of her thoughts “…help?"
Nat’s brain short-circuits, taking a minute to power back up again. Ultimately, she decides to play it cool, raising a brow. If Lottie was just messing with her, she wouldn’t risk the humiliation of letting the other girl know her mind went there at all. Nat’s mouth is practically cotton, and she probably reeks of booze and grass and cigarettes with a sad trace of cheap laundry detergent that Lottie have probably never heard of. Not to mention that she’s obviously high off her rocker, to add to the long list of why there is absolutely no way Lottie means what Nat thinks she does.
“What, you need to me look for worthy boys for you to play with, Matthews? I’m not sure my circle’s the kind you’d be into, no offense.” She jokes instead.
“No, ugh, Nat! God, you fucking loser.” Lottie shoves her playfully, practically red in the face, which all but confirms Nat’s initial understanding. Charlotte Matthews wants to suck face with Natalie Scatorccio.
“No, say what you mean, c’mon… don’t be a coward.”
“I just. I know you have experience in all this—“ The phrasing would’ve been enough to make Nat ready to bolt, to have her ears perked up at the possible prelude to an insult, if only weed hadn’t dampened her response time. And before the insinuation even has a chance to register, Lottie’s scrambling her words, verbally scratching out and writing over what she had just said.
“That’s not what I meant! I really don’t care about any of that. Nor do I believe in an any of it at all either.” Nat just smirks, because the girl is definitely high, still stumbling on her words, continuing in almost a whisper, “I just know you wouldn’t judge me.”
The earnest is what stops her in her tracks. She thinks back on what happened just moments ago, Lottie having been the one to try and stop Tai from running her mouth. Of course, Lottie wouldn't, but she's beaten to the punch. Lottie's freak out happens quicker than any attempt at reassurance. Stupid weed.
“God, never mind forget I asked!”
“Hey, Lot, wait!”
Nat tries to catch up to Lottie, almost tripping on thick roots as Lottie continues to stride away.
“Hey, dude, calm down…”
She calls out and Lottie spins, still huffing and pouting, which to Nat is cue for a bit of lightening the mood. She doesn’t do well with earnest, anyway.
“And not cool, man, don’t steal my weed,” she teases, reaching to grab the inch-long joint back.
“My weed,” Lottie corrects. Which, fair enough. It’s become a habit now, albeit surprising, that Lottie so generously brings a little baggie on team hangouts. Usually, when Van's around, she grinds it up and brings the paper while Nat rolls the joints, but lately she's been off and about somewhere else. So those added tasks fell onto Nat, too. Not that she minds.
“Fine, our weed.” Nat jokes, which makes Lottie break out into a smile and a slight roll of her eyes, but the fact that Lottie relents warms her a little—the implication of having something shared between them, an intimate ritual that’s theirs alone. Nat doesn’t have much beyond the team and their games that she can stake some sort of claim to. Having this sounds like something she could live with, happily even. Who says no to free, good weed?
She takes a moment to regard Lottie, to fully take her in as her mind attempts to wrap itself around the situation. She wears those same docs, not too unlike hers, but with coloured laces that Nat wouldn’t be caught dead in. Even their skirts aren’t too far apart. Plaid in some way, a few steps different in the shades. There’s some sort of symbol here, Nat thinks hazily, about being the same but not quite. She gives up trying to figure it out and instead focuses on the fuzz on the girl’s sweater. It’s pink. Nauseatingly pink. Just like Lottie’s lipgloss.
The truth is kissing is just not a big deal at all. She could tell Lottie as much, tell her to just buck up and do it with the next guy she even half-fancies. But then. If it isn’t a big deal, why can’t she do it?
Her brain goes through a speed run on any memory that could be helpful at this moment. It flips through her mind’s rolodex, flitting from one party tableau to another. (To Jackie’s. To some-guy-probably-named-Mike’s. To Lottie’s mansion. To last year’s valedictorian’s. To the woods.) It flit from one game to the next. (Suck and blow. Spin the bottle. Seven minutes in heaven.) It jumped, trying to remember the various pairs that had their lips locked. (Mari and Gen, a laugh-riddled peck. Jackie and Shauna, a soft. press of their lips. Allie and Melissa, a completely comedic torrid sight. Van and Tai, a bullet-quick smooch.)
Point is, it’s happened before. In their team, nonetheless. And nothing happened. There was no fire, no explosion, no end of the world.
Girls play and practice kiss all the time. It just isn’t a big deal. The lack of audience and games doesn’t make what they might do any different from what has been done before.
Still, she shouldn’t . They shouldn’t , really. But Nat’s just high enough, bored enough. And the longer she holds the silence, the more she feels Lottie’s unease. She sees it in the way she just stands her, her toe and heel taking turns which one gets to dig into the soil. And if she’s being completely honest, there’s something pretty punk rock in being ballsy enough to ask your friend to play tongue tennis with you. So maybe Lottie deserves at least some sort of reward for that, or at least the thing she’s actually asking for. Nat’s kind enough to acknowledge that, she thinks. Not to mention she’s also really fucking intrigued enough about what making out with the Lottie Matthews would even entail. She is, after all, Wiskayok royalty.
So Nat starts walksingaway, without a word, to an even less crowded part of the woods, deeper into the wilderness.
"Come on, Lot. I’m broke as hell so I can’t really buy you dinner first.” She calls out, expecting Lottie to follow along. She doesn't think about the others, still by the trucks in the clearing, probably busy piecing together whatever drama had just likely occurred. Maybe there was a fight. Probably between Randy and some other dweeb. Maybe Shauna had finally had enough of Jackie’s queen bitch schtick, and finally gave one bone-chilling meltdown. Public and ruthless and absolutely tragic. Maybe Tai had sucker punched Allie. Maybe Misty did something really weird, and everyone’s laughing. Maybe they missed it. Maybe they’re missing it now as they settle just by a hollow stump, not speaking, just looking at each other.
Maybe, but Nat figures she doesn’t really care.
There are far worse ways to kill time, at this party or anywhere else, than making out with Lottie Matthews