by Harry Cook
“Poppy,” I reply while Rye’s face floats blissfully into my mind.
“Poppy,” Dad repeats with a grin. Yep, he’s definitely hearing church bells. Possibly christening his grandkids.
As he disappears down the ladder and out of sight, my phone buzzes.
Poppy: Still all good for later?
Me: Yep. Can’t wait.
Poppy: Great. Wear something spooky.
Me: If you insist.
6
Fin
I look like a mix between Daryl Dixon after a heavy day doing his Walking Dead thing and one of the zombies from the Thriller video.
I scan Penny’s Diner until I see Poppy and Rye in a booth at the back of the room. I wish I could eloquently describe their costumes, but the only words that come to mind are “freakin’ hilarious”. Poppy’s outfit consists of a giant box of Tampax and Rye is dressed head to toe in a red onesie-type thing that at first I think is supposed to be fire. Then, after putting two and two together, I realise they have literally gone as san-pro and menstrual blood.
Strong. Nailed it.
I laugh so hard it sounds like a honk and then quickly cover my mouth with my hand. Poppy spots me and waves me over.
I scoot into the booth and take them both in in all their glory.
“Jesus,” I say, mostly to myself.
“You like? It was this or a cat and a litter box,” Poppy says while swirling her metal straw in her soda.
“You look awesome!” Rye says as he leans over and touches the fake blood on my arm. “Very Walking Dead meets Friday Night Lights.”
“Thanks,” I say with a blush. “That was the plan.”
Just then a waitress comes over and sits herself down in our booth.
“June-bug!” Poppy says as she budges up and pushes her plate of fries over to her.
“Hey,” June says as she takes a fry with a manicured hand and bites half of it.
“Fin, June, June, Fin.” Rye does the introductions with a neat little wave between the two of us.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, reaching my hand across the table.
June takes it and kisses the top of it like a starlet in one of those old black and white movies.
“Mwah,” she says with a wink.
Rye simply does this half-smile thing that manages to make me feel all tingly and then motions to June.
“June here is the leader of the queer-straight alliance at school, a pro at Call of Duty 3 and also the first trans gal to ever play Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors.”
“And the first brown trans gal in Lochport, period,” June replies with a giggle. “Well, the first that we know of to flourish like I have.”
She glowers over my shoulder and mouths the words “I’m bloody getting to it”, then looks back at us and sighs.
“What are you guys after?” she says.
“Uh . . . Did you just swear at your manager?” Poppy says, wide-eyed.
“Ugh, Luke is such a douche.” She rolls her eyes. “Plus, I mouthed it. There was no sound. It’s like farting on an aeroplane. It doesn’t count.”
I produce a less intense version of my earlier honk laugh and Rye giggles to himself. I feel my stomach drop as June and Poppy both burst out laughing.
“You are insanely cute, Mr Fin,” June tells me, as she takes out her waitressy notepad and pen.
I notice Rye look between June and me and shift in his seat. When I meet his eye, he smiles and keeps looking right back at me.
“I’ll get the waffles and cheese fries,” he says, briefly breaking eye contact with me to address June.
“Make that two,” says Poppy.
“Three,” I chime in.
June stands, then leans against the side of the booth and readjusts her gorgeous long hair underneath her red and white hat.
“I finish my shift soon and I have Dad’s car while he’s away on business.” She slaps her back pocket, which makes a jingling sound.
“Nice. We’ll wait for you,” Poppy says as June looks over at her manager and rolls her eyes again.
“Your food will be with you shortly,” she says in an extremely over-exaggerated voice. “Lovely to meet you, Fin.” June smiles and heads to the kitchen, her manager staring at her grumpily.
Rye, Poppy and I all sit quietly for a moment. The only noise is coming from the overhead speakers that are blasting Fleetwood Mac; it sounds like vinyl, which is the only respectful way to listen to such musical genius.
Our food is brought over shortly after and our giant buckets of “Screaming Soda” are adorned with marshmallow ghosts on sticks and fake jelly fingers. It looks pretty rad, I must admit. As we scoff everything down our food, Poppy offers Rye and me a swig of vodka from a hip flask, which we both happily accept. It’s not usually my thing at all – the vodka – but, when in Rome . . .
“So, where did you say you were from?” Rye asks.
I swallow a bite of an extra cheesy fry. “Pittford?” I tell him. “It’s about –”
“No. You do not come from Pittford,” Poppy chimes in, her mouth a perfect “O” shape.
“I . . . Yep. I do,” I say, the back of my neck suddenly very warm.
“My cousin Brad lives there. He used to go to Pittford High but graduated about three years ago.”
“Cool,” I say, racking my brain to think if I’d ever encountered anyone with the name Brad.
“Yeah, he’s desperate to leave. Says there’s nothing there but old white people and Jesus freaks. Isn’t Pittford where that fanatical Westplain Baptist Church is? He told me about some crazy parade they have every year. Called the um . . . The –”
“The Birth of Jesus Parade? Yeah . . . That’s a thing,” I say, unsure how to veer the conversation away from the very last thing I want to talk about.
“What happens?” Rye says, seeming a little apprehensive.
“It’s just a giant parade every Christmas where people dress up as biblical characters instead of your usual Santa or Rudolph,” I say. Hearing it aloud makes it sound even dumber than I remember. “They’re pretty anti-Santa Claus over in Pittford. Anything that isn’t about the true meaning of Christmas, you know, doing exactly what they think the Bible says or burning for eternity in hell, is strictly forbidden.”
Poppy laughs and says “I like him” to Rye.
“What did you go as?” Rye asks, genuinely intrigued.
“Santa Claus,” I say, which sends them both into fits of giggles.
“I like you, Fin,” Rye says, echoing Poppy’s words. His perfect teeth are smiling at me below his perfect eyes set in his perfect face.
As I’m about to reply – to say what, I really don’t know – a behemoth of a guy slides into the booth next to Rye with a flump.
“Hey, babe,” Rye says, leaning over to give the guy a kiss.
But the guy swats Rye away like he’s been shovelling crap all day.
“Not in public, Rye. Seriously.”
Rye fidgets for a second but then seems to centre himself with Buddha-like zen.
“And what the hell are you wearing?” The rude dude sitting in front of me stares at Rye and Poppy’s costumes, obviously trying, and failing, to figure them out.
“Um . . . So, Fin, this is Eric. Rye’s boyfriend,” Poppy says cautiously, looking between the three of us as if she’s gauging what kind of mood Eric is in – or maybe to see how I’ll respond to this turn of events.
Of course he has a boyfriend.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, as friendly as I can. I lean over and outstretch my hand for Eric to shake.
He does a weird slap thing to it and then makes a fist which I assume I’m supposed to bump with my own. I’m almost certain he’s drunk.
“Likewise, Tim,” Eric says.
“No, it’s . . . It’s F–” I attempt to correct him, but he’s already whispering something in Rye’s ear.
Poppy leans over to me and whispers, “Just pretend I’m talking to you.”
I sit like an idiot for wha
t feels like an eternity until Rye looks up.
“What are you doing, you goof?” he says to Poppy, a grin on his face.
“Oh, sorry. I thought it was a whispering kinda night. I’m just telling Fin here how pretty his ear is.”
Eric looks up. I don’t know if he’s sure whether Poppy is being pissy or having a joke.
“You’re funny,” Eric says.
“I know,” Poppy says, taking out her hip flask and pouring another slug of vodka in both mine and Rye’s drinks, avoiding Eric’s recently purchased grape slushee.
“Um, thanks,” he says, half joking.
“You’re of legal age. Buy your own. This stuff is hard to get a hold of when one is in one’s youth.” Poppy snaps the cap back on and takes a sip from her bucket. “Plus, you stink of booze and your left eye is having trouble keeping up with your right. I think you’ve had enough already.”
Rye keeps looking over at me and, maybe I’m imagining it, but whenever I look at him, I think I see a hint of a nervous smile on his lips. I feel like he’s embarrassed by Eric and unsure of what direction his random behaviour might go in.
“And your costume is shithouse,” Poppy says, motioning to Eric’s half-assed attempt at a Fred Flintstone costume. He is wearing an orange T-shirt with permanent-marker black dots all over it. There’s a stick, which I guess he just found outside, sitting in front of him on the table. I’m assuming that’s his “club”.
“So, Tim,” Eric says as he takes a bite out of one of the jelly fingers from Rye’s drink. “Are you ready for a game of rapid fire?”
“It’s Fi– . . . Rapid . . . Rapid what?” I ask, baffled yet intrigued.
“Fire. It’s where we ask you a bunch of questions and you have to answer without thinking. Any question you hesitate on you need to take a gulp of your drink. Hesitate too much and you’re wasted and throwing up behind the bins outside. Right, Pops?”
“Correct,” Poppy says with a wink, but she doesn’t look exactly enthusiastic. “Not a great sight. But don’t feel like you have to. It’s a dumb jock game that acts as a mask when it comes to getting to know people, but I suspect it’s actually a ploy to kill someone via alcohol poisoning.”
I half laugh but secretly want to leave. I don’t mind drinking, I really don’t. I’m not against it. It’s just not my favourite activity. (I know that’s weird coming from a sixteen-year-old, but it really isn’t.)
“Um . . . Sure,” I say, suddenly realising I have torn a cardboard coaster into about a million pieces.
“Remember, if you feel like you’re going to barf, aim that way,” Poppy says, pointing to Eric, who flips her the bird.
“Three,” Eric begins.
“Two.”
“One.”
“Go.”
“Name?”
“Fin.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“Shoe size?”
“Ten.”
“Siblings?”
“One.”
“Brother or sister?”
“Brother.”
“Older, younger?”
“Older.”
“Favourite food.”
I go blank. “Uh. Pizza.” I’ve no idea why I said that.
“Drink.”
I take a drink.
“Ready again?” Eric’s eyes are glowing like this is the most fun he’s had in years.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“Favourite drink?”
“Water.”
“Chocolate or strawberry?”
“Chocolate.”
“Banana or raspberry?”
“Banana.”
“Gay or straight?”
Has someone sucked all the air out of the room?
“Woaah, Eric. Easy there, big fella. We’ve only just met the guy,” Poppy chimes in.
“What? Like I care. I’m with this dope, aren’t I?” Eric says, motioning to Rye, who can’t meet my gaze.
“I . . .” My body doesn’t seem to know how to process anything right now.
“Or bi? Maybe bi? Pan? Asexual? Trans? Les-bi-an?” Eric is enjoying himself. “Or just boring straighty-one-eighty?”
“Gay.”
For a second I feel like somebody else has spoken. It takes a beat to realise it was me. Poppy looks up and smiles awkwardly. I’m struggling to believe the words have actually left my mouth. I don’t know whether I’ve ever said it out loud before.
“Well, ain’t that something,” Eric says, looking over at Rye. “Who knows where he’s sprung from, but you’ve managed to make friends with the first new gay guy Lochport has seen in years. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be a dick, Eric,” Poppy snaps, adding to the tension bristling around us.
“No one dialled your number, Popsicle,” Eric says back with a cold smile.
“I . . . I didn’t mean to c-cause –” This is excruciating. My words aren’t working.
“No, buddy. Totally fine. We gotta go now anyway.” Eric stands and puts his coat on. “Right, Rye?”
“Yeah. We’re um . . . I think we’re gonna go,” Rye says, avoiding our eyes like we’re the Medusa or something.
“That was quick,” Poppy says, a sharp hint of irritation in her voice.
“Yeah . . . We. It’s getting late and Eric needs to be up pretty early for practice, so –”
“Sure. Catch you tomorrow,” Poppy says, eyes fixed on her drink as she swirls her straw around.
“Up top, Tim,” Eric says as he throws his hand above his head.
“Fin. My . . . It’s Fin.” I slap his hand.
“Whatever,” he says, laughing, before leading the way out, Rye trailing behind him.
Poppy and I sit opposite one another. The low-hanging lights above our heads make a humming sound and the smell of coffee and caramel fudge that wafts past us as a waiter walks by lets us know that it’s getting to the dessert stage of the evening.
“Sorry about him,” she says with an eye roll.
I twist a piece of thread from the tablecloth around my finger. “Is . . . Is he always like that?”
Poppy nods. “I hate that you had to do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, my finger turning blue as I twist the thread tighter.
“Come out to us. Well. Like that I mean. It’s shitty. It’s a shitty thing he did. He’s shit.”
“It’s okay.” I smile, trying to reassure both her and myself. “I guess it’s one less awkward conversation out the way that I don’t need to have anymore.”
“I think it’s a flaming bag of crap that you even have to come out. Straight people don’t have to. Why do people just assume you’re straight-down-the-line hetero-flaming-sexual unless proven otherwise?”
I shrug, letting the blood return to my finger as I unwind the snake-like death grip the piece of thread has on it. I can’t believe how easy Poppy is making this. Talking about being gay. The only other person I’ve ever chatted like this with is Emily and it took me months to get up the courage to tell her. I’m starting to wonder what in the fresh hell my parents were thinking bringing me here of all places. It’s surely not quite what they had in mind. So far, it’s like gay utopia – I seem to have fallen in with my tribe – though, to be fair, Pittford was pretty big on its identity as a homophobic hell hole. Whatever the go is, I’m kind of revelling in my new-found friends and the confidence they’ve given me.
“I have no idea what Rye sees in him,” Poppy continues. She cups her chin in her palm and stares ahead, clearly lost in her own thoughts. “Rye is such a decent guy. And Eric . . . He’s – Well, he’s not . . . that decent I guess and . . . I dunno. It just – It just makes no sense to me.”
I sit quietly. I’m not sure if she wants me to respond. I also don’t really want to. Privately, I agree that he doesn’t seem that cool but I don’t know the guy . . . Or the situation.
A Katy Perry song starts playing over the speakers, which se
nds Poppy’s eyes into her forehead as June comes over and squeezes back into the booth with us.
“Where’d Rye go?” she asks, taking one of Poppy’s fries and delicately chewing it to avoid smudging her perfectly glossed lips.
“Home with that ass-hat of a boyfriend of his,” Poppy says.
June shakes her head sadly. “I’ll be finished in five. You guys wanna come over to mine?”
I look at my phone: 10:18 p.m.
“Abso-frickin’-lutely,” Poppy says. “Fin, you in?”
I nod. Curfew isn’t until midnight.
7
Fin
We arrive at June’s house, a nice bungalow right on the water, and immediately I’m pulled into an embrace by her mum, Regina, who gives me the warmest smile ever and offers me the leftover Halloween candy that hasn’t been eaten by the neighbourhood kids or June’s little sister, Rita.
After the introductions we head to June’s room, which has more fairy lights adorning the walls than Disney World, and also a back door which leads down to one of two docks behind their house. I’m assuming the small fishing boat, which is bobbing up and down in the darkness at the end of the boardwalk, is their own personal row-boat.
“So, Fin. Mister Fin. The Finster. Fin for the Win! Fin of Finland!” Poppy is on a roll.
“Enough. My god. Are you drunk?” June is laughing as she throws her bag in a corner and sinks into a giant beanbag near the window.
“That would be wonderful. But sadly, no,” Poppy says as she spins on June’s desk chair.
I take in my surroundings. Old Hollywood movie posters line the walls and Broadway playbills are collaged across the ceiling.
“This place is amazing,” I say. “So, do you go to Lochport High?”
“We do. And lucky for you, you have made friends with two of the most amazing gals you’ll find at that old concrete dump,” Poppy says, wandering over to the window and leaning out to look at the stars, which are truly spectacular, their reflections sparkling across the water.
“Rye is pretty special, too,” June says as she lets her head sink back into the bean bag and closes her eyes.
“That he is,” Poppy says.
I check my phone: 11:11 p.m.
“Eleven-eleven. Make a wish,” I say.
