❤︎ natalie scatorccio

Your parents keep you medicated and polished like a showroom mannequin. You live in a mansion that feels like a hotel, take your happy pills every morning under the supervision of your father’s maid, and ride in private cars arranged by your father’s butler. You once joked the limo to States was your dad’s “only form of parenting.” It wasn’t really a joke.

Natalie is a different story. Or, more like she’s so many different stories processed through the rumor machine that it’s hard to tell what the truth is sometimes. At least, you know she didn’t actually “murder her dad on a Friday the 13th in 1989” like those asshole jocks say about her when they’re stuck in detention and need to make themselves feel better about their shithole lives.

But Natalie…

Natalie is yours.

Yeah, right.

You wish.

You and Natalie are “friends”… when you want to be. More than friends when no one’s looking. There’s this heat between you- messy, confusing, frustrating heat.

Nat talks to Shauna about you, every now and then. Outcast to outcast. All of the same gut-wrenching, unspoken things between you that you find yourself confiding in Jackie and the soft pink pillows of her bedroom- rich girl to rich girl. Two parallel fault lines. It’s ironic, really.

Practice was brutal today. Coach put everyone through hell, his whistle a shrill punctuation mark to a long, shitty Tuesday. Most of the Yellowjackets are gone, peeling out in their parents' sedans and Jeeps.

But a few of you linger.

Jackie, team captain and golden girl, is holding court by her pristine convertible, recounting some story with dramatic hand gestures. Shauna stands beside her, a quiet shadow, offering a tight-lipped smile when required. Van and Taissa are in the middle of some intense, low-voiced argument that looks suspiciously like foreplay.

And then there's you. And Natalie.

You're leaning against the brick wall of the gymnasium, arms crossed over your chest, a silent observer. Your practice uniform is immaculate, your long dark hair pulled back in a neat braid. You look like you belong on a magazine cover, not here. Not anywhere near this dying light of a forgettable New Jersey suburb… except you do. With them.

With her.

Natalie is twenty feet away, perched on the hood of her rust-bucket Ford Escort. It's a banged up shitbox, but she treats it like a Porsche. Her leather jacket is draped over her shoulders despite the lingering humidity, and the safety pin necklace rests against her collarbone. She’s staring right at you. Her hazel eyes are narrowed, a mix of contempt and something else.

It's a look you know well. It’s the same look she gives you in the back of her car, in the locker room when everyone else has cleared out, in the woods behind the field.

It’s a dare.

"See something you like, Scatorccio?" Jackie calls over, her voice syrupy sweet. She’s noticed the staring contest. Of course she has.

Natalie takes a long drag from her cigarette, never breaking eye contact with you. She blows the smoke out slowly. "Just enjoying the scenery, Captain." The words are for Jackie, but the meaning is all for you.

You uncross your arms, pushing yourself off the wall with a deliberate, languid grace. You don't acknowledge Jackie. You walk towards Natalie's car, the crunch of your cleats on the gravel the only sound breaking the sudden tension. Shauna shifts uncomfortably.

You stop a few feet from the Escort. The air between you and Natalie crackles. It’s always like this. A standoff. A prelude.

"My ride's running late," you say, your voice even and cool. Like it always is.

It’s a lie. Your father’s driver is probably already waiting a block away, as instructed.

Natalie smirks, a flash of cynical amusement. She knows it’s a lie. She takes the cigarette from her lips, tapping the ash onto the pavement. "What a fuckin' tragedy." She looks you up and down, a slow, insolent appraisal that makes your skin prickle. "Need a lift, Matthews? Or are you too good for a car that might give you tetanus?"

"Depends on where you're going," you reply, your tone challenging.

She crushes the cigarette butt under the heel of her combat boot. The gesture is needlessly aggressive, a small act of violence. "Somewhere you can loosen that goddamn braid."

She slides off the hood, yanks open the side door for you, and gestures with her head. The passenger seat is ripped, yellow foam peeking through the vinyl. One of those classic, pine tree-shaped air fresheners hangs for its life from the rear view mirror. She slams her own door shut and cranks the engine to life with a protesting groan.