Dear Poppy

by Ronni Arno

  I laugh. “I really hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I don’t know, Poppy.” Amanda shakes her head. “It could get pretty boring without any friends.”

  “I don’t need friends.” I smile. “I’ll have my mom.”

  We go back to packing up my room until it gets dark. When it’s time for her to leave, I give her a big hug and promise to text as soon as I get there.

  The next morning, the moving truck arrives, and I’m actually excited to leave. I didn’t have time to go back to the barn to grab the letters before heading back to the city, so I had to leave them at the farmhouse. Now, when I should be miserable that I’m leaving Amanda, my home, and the fact that I won’t be within a fifty-mile radius of a Starbucks, all I can think about is getting back to those letters. And Mom.

  We finally drive back to the farmhouse on a rainy Friday morning. It’s a five-hour drive, but it feels like five days. The movers are in the truck behind us, carrying what little furniture we had crammed into our two-bedroom apartment.

  Dad tries to talk to me on the car ride, but I tune him out. He’s talking about the new school I’ll go to, the courses and electives they have, blah, blah, blah. I don’t care about any of that stuff. I only care about Mom’s letters.

  When we pull into the long driveway, I practically leap out of the car while it’s still moving.

  “Glad to see you’re so excited to be here, Poppy,” Dad says as he parks the car.

  “Yep, can’t wait,” I call back. I eyeball the barn, and then look at Dad and Troy. I can’t let them know about the letters. They’re made out to me, not them, and if Dad sees letters from Mom, he’ll insist on reading them. Maybe Mom doesn’t want Dad to read the letters. After all, she does mention that Brian guy. . . .

  I wait until Dad and Troy are busy with the movers to make my mad dash to the barn. It’s been exactly one week since I read the first letter. I glance back to the house to be sure nobody’s looking, and then I slide open the barn doors and slink inside. I race to the ladder, taking the rungs two at a time, until I’m in the loft. I push the hay bales apart and pull out the metal box containing the letters. It pops open, and I yank the letter marked #2 out of the stack. I rip the top of the envelope, and pull out the piece of paper, which is covered in hand-drawn hearts and stars.

  April 20, 1985

  Dear Poppy,

  You probably think I’m crazy, writing to you like this. I guess I just have to vent sometimes, and it seems more normal to vent to an actual person than to write something in some journal that nobody but me will ever see. I know you’ll understand.

  I overheard Tammy telling Kelly that her roses are AMAZING. I don’t know what’s wrong with mine. They were doing really well a month ago, and now they’re not. I want to beat Tammy at the fair so badly I can taste it. I think I’ll go to the library tomorrow and do some research on how to perk up roses. It’s not like I have anything better to do on a Saturday anyway, right? It’s not like I’ll be doing something fun with my parents. It’s springtime, which means farming season, which means they’ve pretty much forgotten that I exist.

  The good part about that is that my mom hasn’t noticed that I cut the necks off all my sweatshirts. And when I curl my hair, I look exactly like Alex from Flashdance! Brian even said so when we were at our lockers today. I included a picture so you could see.

  Oh, well. At least I have you. Sort of! I just can’t wait till you get back from the great beyond and we can have a real talk instead of these silly one-sided letters.

  Until next week.

  Love & friendship always & forever,

  Daphne

  I shake the envelope, and a photo tumbles out. I pick it up carefully and hold it up to the light streaming in from the barn window.

  Unlike the first photo with the cowboy boots, this one is a close-up of her face. It totally looks like Mom, but it totally doesn’t. She still has the same huge smile I remember, but her brown hair, which was short and pixie-like, was ginormous in the picture. It was long and curly, and her bangs stood straight up. I’m guessing her hair made her at least three inches taller than she actually was. Her dark brown eyes, which are highlighted with blue eye shadow, are the exact same color as mine.

  I hold both the letter and the picture to my chest, trying to get them as close to my heart as possible. Mom said she couldn’t wait until I got back from the “great beyond” so we could really talk. She knew I’d understand how she felt. And I totally do! I feel closer to Mom than I ever have. I don’t understand how it’s possible that she left these letters here for me, or why, but she did, and that’s what counts.

  As I hold the letter closer, I feel tears filling my eyes. I haven’t missed Mom this much in years. I was only seven when she died. I didn’t even know she liked roses. I didn’t know her parents ignored her in the spring. I didn’t know she looked like Alex from Flashdance (I make a mental note to Google that so I know who it is, but I’m guessing she had big hair).

  Maybe that’s why she wrote me these letters. Maybe she knew that she would die when I was young, and she wanted me to get to know her. My chest feels like it’s filled with helium when I realize this. Mom wants me to get to know her now, because I never really got the chance to before.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Troy’s loud, obnoxious voice. I wonder if Mom knew that she’d have Troy, too, or if he was an unfortunate accident.

  “Hey, Dad, want to take her out for a spin?”

  I roll my eyes. All he cares about is that truck.

  “Not today, buddy,” Dad says. “Let’s help get this truck unloaded first. And where’s Poppy?”

  I know if I don’t start helping, he’ll come looking for me. I stare at the stack of letters. I’m practically drooling at the thought of opening up letter number three. I want to read on so badly. But then I remember that Mom made me promise to read one a week, so I carefully slide the letter and the photo back into the metal box, and put the box back in its hiding place.

  I climb down the ladder and out into the yard. Dad and Troy are lugging boxes from the trunk of our car.

  “Where you been, lazybones?” Troy gives me the death stare. I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Real mature,” he says. As if he’s totally mature now just because he knows how to drive. I should remind him that he still tells poop jokes every night over dinner.

  I grab a box marked POPPY’S PERSONAL STUFF out of the trunk of Dad’s car and lug it upstairs. It feels weird to be moving into my grandparents’ house.

  “I figured you’d want your regular room,” Dad says as he passes me in the kitchen.

  I nod. I guess Dad still remembers how much I loved staying in that room when we visited. I clutch the box closer to my chest and climb up the steps. There are four bedrooms upstairs, and I head toward mine. As I reach the end of the hallway, my pace slows down. I know for a fact that this used to be Mom’s room when she was a kid. The door is open, and I put the box down on the dresser. Everything’s exactly as I remember it. Double bed with a yellow lacy bedspread. A dresser and two matching nightstands painted antique white. An oval rug with tiny red roses covering the floor. I look around for a few seconds, wondering why Mom put the letters in the barn, rather than in here. Unless she left something else for me? I run over to the closet and fling open the door, but it’s empty. I check the floor for loose floorboards, but there are none. I open every drawer of both dressers, and even crawl under the bed, but there’s nothing. The place is empty.

  It doesn’t matter. I know Mom is with me. Why else would she have written those letters? She knew I was going to be here. She knew all of this would happen.

  I take a deep breath. I just have to trust that she knows what’s best for me. She’s my Mom, after all.

  I dig into one of the boxes until I find a notebook and a pen. Then I write back to Mom.

  Dear Mom,

  I totally know what you mean about wanting to write to a real person. After you died (tha
t sounds weird), I saw a therapist at school. She said I should keep a diary, but I thought that was a dumb idea, so I never did it.

  I’m sorry to hear that your roses weren’t doing well. I remember that we had plants around our apartment when I was little, but I didn’t realize you liked flowers so much. I guess I was too young to pay attention to that sort of thing.

  That Tammy girl sounds like a jerk. When David Trillo was mean to me in first grade, you told me to ignore him, so that would have been my advice to you too.

  Can’t wait to read your next letter!

  Love ya,

  Poppy

  PS: You had really weird hair when you were 12.

  It takes the movers most of the day to unload the truck and set everything up in the new house. Dad orders pizza for dinner, and we eat it off paper plates.

  “School starts Monday,” Dad says as he tears the crust off his pizza. Like me, he eats the crust first.

  “Yep.” I take a sip of lemonade.

  “Nervous?” Dad raises his eyebrows.

  “A little,” I say. Dad hasn’t shown much interest in my life since Mom died, so I’m not sure what his motivation is here. Plus, I’m not used to spilling my guts to him, so this feels more like an interview than a real conversation.

  “I spoke with the principal last week. They’re expecting you.”

  “Okay.” I grab another slice from the pizza box.

  “So.” My dad grins at me. “Are you excited for Monday?”

  “Yes,” I answer. And I am. But not because of a new school. I’m excited because another new day means I’m closer to another week, which means I get another letter from Mom. And then I get to thinking . . .

  I don’t like the fact that Mom’s letters are in the barn. Someone else could find them, and anyway, I get the chills when I think of them out there in the cold all alone. I need to bring them inside, where they’ll be closer to me.

  At bedtime on Sunday, I set my alarm for six fifteen, a full fifteen minutes earlier than I need to get up in the morning. This will give me time to get to the barn before getting ready for school.

  I crawl under the yellow lacy quilt and close my eyes. I don’t know how long I’m lying there for, but I can’t sleep. I forgot how quiet it is here. No horns, no neighbors, no trains. Since the house is so big, I don’t even hear the television my dad’s watching. I flip over on my side and put my extra pillow over my head. I’m not sure it’s possible to block out the sound of silence, but it’s worth a shot.

  It must have worked, because the next thing I know, my alarm is blaring. I spring out of bed, tiptoe downstairs, and throw my jacket over my nightgown. I slip on a pair of fuzzy Ugg boots and slowly open the back door. A poof of cold air hits my face as I step outside, and I hold my jacket tightly around me as I run to the barn.

  There are goose bumps on my legs as I climb up the loft ladder. I pull the metal box out of the hay and stare at it. Although I want to bring it inside and hide it in my room, where it will be safe and warm and nearby, I’m afraid that will be too tempting. How will I stick to reading one letter per week if the box is so easily accessible? Then again, I can’t risk having Dad or Troy finding them. As I stand there shivering, the metal box freezing against my hands, I decide that temptation is the lesser of two evils here. I put the box under one arm and use the other arm to balance myself on the ladder.

  I run to the house, and when I swing open the door, my dad is standing right in front of me.

  CHAPTER

  3

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, POPPY?”

  Dad’s hair is sticking straight up and his plaid bathrobe hangs over a T-shirt and sweatpants.

  “Oh, uhhhh.” I tuck the box underneath my coat and hope he’s still too bleary-eyed to notice. “I left something in the car and I just went to get it.”

  “So early?” He rubs his eyes.

  “I didn’t want to forget.” I do a little bob-and-weave and sneak past him. “Better go get ready for school!”

  I run up the steps and into my bedroom. I place the box gently on my nightstand, kick off my boots, and throw my jacket on the floor. It feels like there’s a bass drum in my chest, so I take a deep breath to calm myself down. For once, I’m glad Dad is as clueless as he is.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and open the box. Letter number three is sitting on top.

  I pull it off the stack, and as I’m about to rip the envelope open, I remember what Mom asked. That I read one a week. I sigh. It would be incredibly rude to ignore her rules after all these years of her not having any.

  Just as I decide to do the right thing and not open the envelope, I hear Troy’s alarm go off in the next room. I glance at my clock—only thirty minutes until the bus comes. I carefully put Mom’s letter back, close the lid to the metal box, and hide it in my underwear drawer. That’s the good thing about living with fathers and brothers. They never want to look in your underwear drawer.

  I tear open the cardboard wardrobe box that’s leaning against my closet. As I peek in there, it occurs to me that I have no idea what to wear. It’s obviously colder here than in the city, but besides that, I don’t know anything else about the area. I guess I should look nice on my first day, so I choose a pair of black skinny jeans, a fuzzy black sweater, and a gray infinity scarf, which I wrap around my neck twice. I add a pair of silver dangling earrings, and flip up my hair so the pink tips are obvious. I coat my eyelashes with a light layer of mascara, and brush some pink shiny lipgloss on my lips.

  Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.

  I realize that maybe I am a teensy bit nervous when it’s time for breakfast. I stare at the cereal swimming in my bowl, but I just can’t bring myself to eat it. My stomach feels like it’s full of goldfish already. I pour the cereal into the garbage and pack an extra granola bar in my backpack instead.

  Troy gobbles down three bowls of cereal. His headphones are on and he’s bopping his head and chewing his food to the beat of the music, which I can hear even though I’m sitting across the table. Apparently, the high school bus comes fifteen minutes later than the middle school bus, so Troy’s in no rush.

  “Poppy?” Dad walks into the kitchen, dressed in overalls and a flannel shirt. “Ready for school?”

  My mouth hangs open when I see him. “What are you wearing?”

  “Oh, this?” Dad looks down at his outfit and smiles. “Do you like it? It was your grandad’s.”

  “Obviously,” I say.

  “I thought I’d try it out. Maybe learn a thing or two about farming.”

  “Farming?” I raise an eyebrow. “You can’t even keep the houseplants alive.”

  “True, but maybe because I never really tried before. I think I’d make a good farmer.”

  “Dad, you manage restaurants.”

  “Right,” Dad says. “And both restaurants and farmers work with food, so I should be a natural! And now that I’ve switched to consulting for restaurants rather than being at one every day, I’ll have time to learn more about farming.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble. I’ve never understood my father, so it’s nice to know at least some things haven’t changed.

  “The bus is scheduled to be here in five minutes.” Dad taps at his watch. “They pick you up right at the end of the driveway. Isn’t that convenient?”

  I shrug. I’ve never taken a bus to school before. I’ve always lived close enough to walk.

  “Remember, when you get there, go straight to the principal’s office.”

  “I know, Dad.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head for the door.

  “Listen.” Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and swings me around to face him. “Good luck today.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I manage a smile, but it’s weird to have Dad so in my face like this. Back in the city, he was still sleeping when I went to school and gone at the restaurant when I got home. He usually didn’t even get in till the middle of the night, when I was fast asleep. Days would go by where I didn’t see
him at all.

  I trudge down the driveway to wait for the bus, very happy to have my infinity scarf double wrapped. Even though it’s the beginning of April and the snow has all melted, it still feels like winter.

  I look down the road, but no sign of a bus. I wish I had my phone with me so I could text Amanda, but Dad said the school prohibits personal electronic devices. My eyes do a panoramic sweep, but there’s nothing to see. Just fields and meadows, and lots of sky. I wonder how many miles away the nearest living person is.

  Just as I’m about to go inside and tell Dad that the bus must have forgotten about me, a rumbling sound echoes in the distance. I look over and sure enough, a big yellow school bus is clamoring down the road. The goldfish in my stomach have turned into dolphins, and I’m pretty sure they’re putting on a show in there.

  The bus grinds to a stop, and the doors slide open. The bus driver is wearing a gray cap and chewing on a piece of straw. I’ve never seen anybody actually chew on straw before, and I stare at him for a minute before he speaks.

  “Hey, there.” He smiles with the straw in between his teeth. “You must be Poppy.”

  I nod. I wonder how the straw doesn’t fall out.

  “Welcome aboard.” He gestures for me to come in, so I slowly walk up the three steps, which are steeper than they look. My toe gets caught on the last step, and I stumble a bit before my hands reach out and I catch myself on the back of the bus seats.

  I look up. The bus is packed, and every single person on it is staring at me.

  Someone chuckles from the back of the bus, and a couple of girls giggle with each other, heads huddled together in a seat for two.

  I glance past them and look for an empty seat, but there are none.

  “Find a seat,” the bus driver says, straw still hanging out of his mouth. “I can’t move on until you do.”

  I can feel the heat rising into my cheeks. I’d love to sit down, but there’s nowhere to sit. I walk forward on the bus, my eyes quickly moving up and down the rows to find an empty seat.

  The only possibility is a two-seater directly in front of the giggling girls. Unfortunately, there’s someone already sitting there. Next to him are a backpack and a gym bag, which, I notice, he doesn’t move at all as I approach. And then I see why.