Dear Poppy

by Ronni Arno

  When the table is set, and Dad is satisfied with whatever he’s got in the oven, he calls Troy in from outside, and tells us both to take a seat at the table (reminding us, of course, not to touch anything).

  “So, kids.” Dad pulls out a chair and sits down. “Tammy should be here soon.”

  “Okay?” Troy says, like he has no idea what Dad’s new girlfriend has to do with him. Boys can be so clueless.

  “I just want to make sure you’re . . .” Dad fiddles with his apron strings. “You know, that you’re okay with it and on your best behavior.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “On our best behavior? Dad, I think that boat sailed like five years ago. Nobody says that to kids who are our age.”

  “Well.” Dad’s cheeks turn pink. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, that’s cool.” Troy fidgets in his chair. “Anything else? I need to finish washing the truck.”

  “Go,” Dad says. “And hurry up so you can get cleaned up and dressed in time for dinner.”

  “But I am dressed.” Troy looks down at his ripped jeans and beat-up SpongeBob T-shirt that he’s had since fifth grade.

  “Yeah, not quite, buddy.” Dad pulls at Troy’s shirt. “Please put on some clean clothes. And it would be great if they’ve been washed sometime this century.”

  Troy grumbles as he goes outside, but I don’t get up.

  Dad’s tapping his fingers on the side of his chair. “Dinner will be fun. You’ll see.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “Tammy seems really nice, Poppy. Try to get to know her, okay?”

  I sit up straighter in my chair. “Okay, Dad. But you’ve got to make the same promise.”

  Dad looks at me, tilting his head like a dog trying to decipher human language.

  “You have to try to get to know her too,” I repeat. “Just because someone seems nice, doesn’t mean they are nice.”

  Dad nods. “Fair enough.”

  “Okay, then.” I stand up. “It’s a deal.”

  “Poppy?” Dad looks up at me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. For trying, I mean.”

  My chest feels like it’s being squeezed into a parka that’s three sizes too small. But then I remind myself that the sooner Dad learns the truth about Tammy, the better it will be for all of us.

  Just as I’m about to go upstairs to text Mandy, the doorbell rings. Dad jumps up off the chair, rubs his hands together, and gives me a brilliant smile.

  “Ready?”

  I nod.

  Bring it on, Tammy Griffin-Woodruff.

  CHAPTER

  17

  I SAY HELLO TO TAMMY (because Dad makes me), then go upstairs until dinnertime. I eyeball my underwear drawer every two minutes. Wouldn’t Mom understand if I read her next letter a little early? Don’t dire times call for dire measures?

  I flop down on my bed and put the pillow over my face. I promised I’d open one a week, so that’s what I’ll do. Even if it kills me.

  I open my nightstand drawer and pull out Mom’s pictures. I place them gently on the lacy bedspread, and spread them out so they’re side by side. There’s Mom with her cowboy boots. Mom with her big hair. Mom’s scraggly roses.

  I hear Dad’s booming laugh coming from the kitchen, and the taste in my mouth reminds me of that time I ate moldy sour cream. Do I actually have to go down there?

  I get my answer five minutes later, when Dad calls us for dinner.

  My stomach grumbles as I trudge down the steps. As much as I’m dreading this dinner, apparently my stomach is looking forward to it. Stupid stomach.

  “Hi there, Poppy.” Tammy’s hair is not in a ponytail. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  “You too,” I mumble.

  “Kathryn was so disappointed that she couldn’t join us tonight.”

  I purse my lips together and force them to turn upright into something that resembles a smile.

  Troy comes leaping down the stairs. He’s dressed in a pair of (clean) jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt. Like Dad, he has some kind of weird gel stuff in his hair, which makes him look a little like an unattractive porcupine.

  Tammy compliments him on his ’do. And his shirt. And his eyes.

  My goodness, David. He has the same beautiful blue eyes you have.

  Troy is eating it up. He actually believes her! This just proves what I’ve known all along. Troy is full of shenanigans.

  “What can I help you with?” Tammy turns to Dad when she’s done inflating Troy’s ego.

  “Nothing at all.” Dad gestures for the table. “Won’t you all sit down? Dinner is served.”

  I’m about to sit in my regular seat when Tammy slides right in there like she’s been sitting in it for years. Good thing I catch myself before I sit right on her lap.

  “Oh, is this your seat?” Tammy notices that I’m hovering, and starts to stand up.

  “No, no. Stay there.” Dad brings a big salad bowl and puts it on the table. “Poppy can sit across from you.”

  So I do.

  “Oh, David,” Tammy says as Dad sits down. “This looks wonderful.”

  “I hope so.” Dad unfolds his napkin and puts it on his lap. “Please, dig in!”

  I serve myself some salad, which turns out to be the most amazing thing made with the best lettuce that I’ve ever had. The dressing is warm, and it’s made with walnuts, goat cheese, and dried cranberries. I have two helpings.

  Next, Dad brings out a pan of roasted chicken breast, smothered in caramelized onions and mushrooms. It’s to die for. As happy I am to eat this amazing meal, I can’t help but feel angry that Dad’s been holding out on us. We’ve been living on pizza delivery and Chinese takeout for the last five years, when he could cook like this?

  “So Poppy.” Tammy takes a dainty bite of chicken. “How do you like EVMS so far?”

  I shrug. “It’s fine.”

  “Are the kids nice?”

  “Some of them.” I emphasize the word “some,” but she seems unfazed.

  “Well, Kathryn tells me that she loves having you there. She thinks it’s wonderful to have a bright new face in the group.”

  “That’s nice of her,” I say. Tammy doesn’t sense the sarcasm.

  “It’s terrific that everyone’s so welcoming,” Dad chimes in.

  It’s obvious to me now that neither of them know about the Poopy Poppy incident. I guess Mr. Russo hasn’t told Dad yet.

  “Your dad tells me you’ve been working on a garden.” Tammy blots the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

  “Yep.” I take another serving of chicken.

  “You know, your mom and I used to garden together.”

  I stop chewing and look at her.

  She laughs. “Of course, we were more like opponents than partners!”

  I swallow. “You were?”

  “Oh, sure. Our roses were always competing for the blue ribbon at the 4-H fair.” Tammy smiles at the memory.

  “Who won?” My voice is low and raspy.

  “You know”—Tammy puts her fork down—“I don’t even remember. It was silly anyway. To let that kind of stuff get in the way of the friendship we had. Luckily, our many years of being best friends overshadowed that childish competitiveness.”

  Mom and Tammy were best friends? But that’s—that’s impossible. I read Mom’s letters. There’s no way that could have been true.

  Unless . . .

  Unless those letters were written before Mom and Tammy became friends. Maybe they just had a rough start, like Britt and me.

  “Is it okay if I talk about her?” Tammy asks Dad. He gives a half smile and nods.

  “You know, Poppy . . .” Tammy looks me in the eyes, and suddenly instead of snake eyes, Tammy’s eyes look like the color of caramel, all warm and gooey. “You can ask me anything about her.”

  “I can?”

  “Sure.” Tammy reaches across the table and touches my hand. �
��There’s no reason that her memory shouldn’t be alive and well in your life.”

  Then she drops my hand and says, “Now, who’s ready for pie?”

  Dad clears the dinner dishes. I know I should help, but I’m too stunned to move. Could it be that I had it all wrong about Tammy? Mom’s letters, just like the photos inside them, are just a snapshot of her life. Maybe later letters and photos would tell a very different story.

  Tammy cuts the cherry pie and gives me the biggest slice.

  It’s the best pie I’ve ever tasted.

  CHAPTER

  18

  EVEN THOUGH THERE’S A POSSIBILITY that Tammy isn’t as bad as I thought she was, Kathryn still terrifies me.

  I climb the stairs to the bus on Monday morning, and my stomach sinks when I see that someone is sitting in the seat behind the bus driver. Brody notices and waves me over. Of course, he’s in his usual seat in front of Kathryn and Emily.

  I take a deep breath. Maybe Kathryn will be nicer, now that her mom and my dad are . . . whatever they are.

  I smile at Kathryn as I’m about to sit down, but as usual, she just glares back at me. I guess nothing’s changed.

  “How was the big date?” Brody whispers to me.

  “Okay,” I whisper back.

  “Have you been watering the roses?”

  “Every day.”

  Brody smiles. “Good.”

  I keep waiting for Kathryn to kick the seat, or pull my hair, or shout out POOPY POPPY to the whole bus. But she doesn’t. She just ignores me.

  When we get to school, Brody walks with me to our lockers. I worry that maybe Kathryn’s ignoring me because she did something far, far worse than putting cow poop in my locker, but when I get there, everything’s fine.

  Kathryn doesn’t talk to me in any of my morning classes. She doesn’t even look at me.

  Things are going so well that I decide to brave the cafeteria for lunch. I sit at my usual table, and Britt joins me. Kathryn and her ponytailed posse stay at their own table. Nobody bothers us.

  “Do you think it’s the calm before the storm?” I ask Britt, in between bites of lasagna.

  “What do you mean?” Britt takes a chocolate chip cookie out of a Ziploc bag.

  I glance quickly at Kathryn’s table. “She’s been so quiet.”

  Britt shrugs. “Who knows with her. Maybe she found someone else to pick on.”

  “Or maybe her mom told her to leave me alone,” I say under my breath.

  “Oh yeah!” Britt puts her half-eaten cookie on a napkin. “How was the dinner date?”

  “You know . . .” I lean back in my chair. “It wasn’t that bad. Tammy was actually pretty nice.”

  “Really?” Britt’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a surprise.”

  “I thought so too.”

  “It’s not like I know her that well,” Britt says. “Kathryn and I don’t ever hang out together. But my mom definitely doesn’t like her, and my mom likes everybody.”

  I stare at Britt for a minute. She always gets a sad look on her face when talking about her mom.

  “Are you and your mom close?”

  Britt looks down at her cookie. “We were. Before my dad left.”

  “Yeah, I get it. My dad and I were close before my mom died too. Then he just sort of . . .” I search my mind for the right word. “Disappeared.”

  “My mom just got really busy. And stressed out. I still try to talk to her about stuff, but Brody always stops me. He says she doesn’t need any more on her plate.”

  “That stinks,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Britt takes a bite of her cookie.

  We finish our lunch in silence, and bring our trays back up to the counter.

  “What do you have next?” I ask Britt.

  “Woodworking.” Britt puts her silverware in the big blue bin. “How about you?”

  “Intro to Agriculture.” We walk out of the cafeteria. “Why don’t you take that class? You’d love it.”

  “Because I’d have to enter into the 4-H fair, and I’m not going to do that.” Britt stops at her locker and I wait while she gets her books out.

  “So? You’d rock the 4-H fair. You’d beat everyone.” And then I add, “You’d beat Kathryn.”

  Britt closes her locker and we make our way down the hallway toward mine.

  “I don’t think flowers should be grown for the purpose of winning or losing,” Britt says. “Something about that just feels wrong to me.”

  I don’t understand what she’s talking about, but I don’t push her. I guess it will just be up to me to beat Kathryn. Me and Mom, that is.

  Kathryn’s already in Intro to Agriculture by the time I get there. She and Emily are standing over Brody’s desk, giggling. I take my usual seat next to Brody.

  “Hey, Poppy,” he says.

  “Hi.” And then I look up at Kathryn and Emily and say hello to them as well, but they don’t even acknowledge my presence. Oh well. Being ignored is much better than being harassed.

  Mrs. Quinn starts the class like she usually does. She tells everyone to start working on their 4-H projects.

  “Poppy.” Mrs. Quinn waves me over to her desk. “Have you chosen a project yet?” Mrs. Quinn folds her hands and looks up at me, as if I’m about to present her with the most spectacular 4-H project in the history of 4-H projects.

  “I, uhhhh,” I begin. “I haven’t exactly chosen anything yet. But I have a few ideas.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Quinn says. “What’s in the running?”

  I glance back at Kathryn to be sure she’s not listening to me. She’s not. “I’d like to grow roses.”

  “Excellent!” Mrs. Quinn claps her hands together.

  I smile.

  “How long have you been growing roses?” Mrs. Quinn asks.

  I pause. “I started recently.” I don’t tell her “recently” means last week.

  “And you think they’ll be ready in time for the fair?”

  “I think so.” I don’t tell her that my dead mother is helping me. I have a feeling that wouldn’t go over so well.

  “Wonderful! I can’t wait to see what blossoms for you.” She chuckles at her own pun.

  I go back to my desk and pull out my book on roses. Brody walks over to me. He’s holding a roll of chicken wire.

  “What did you decide?” He taps the chicken wire roll on my arm.

  “I decided to grow roses.”

  “What?” Brody sits down in his chair and leans toward me. “You know they’re not going to be mature in time.”

  “They might be.” I give him a hopeful look.

  “Poppy, there’s no way—”

  “I know you think that, Brody. But these roses are . . . special.”

  “Special? They’re not special. They came from our garden, so unless you know something I don’t, you could fail this class.”

  I lean forward so that the tops of our heads are almost touching, and then I lower my voice. “Maybe I do know something you don’t.”

  The bell rings, and I give him a little wink as I head to my next class.

  CHAPTER

  19

  DAYS GO BY WITH ABSOLUTELY no drama from Kathryn. I even sit with Brody on the bus, and she doesn’t say a word.

  As I walk into school on Thursday, Mr. Russo calls me into his office.

  “Have a seat, Poppy.” I do, and he sits on his desk across from me. “It seems we’ve found out who vandalized your locker.”

  “You did?” I lean forward in my chair. I wonder what kind of trouble Kathryn’s going to get into.

  “Yes, the student will be suspended, and a formal apology will be given.”

  Maybe that’s why Kathryn’s been so quiet.

  There’s a knock on Mr. Russo’s door, and Mr. Russo stands up. “Ahhh, here’s the apology now.”

  I can’t wait to see the look on Kathryn’s face when she—

  But it’s not Kathryn.

  It’s Thomas. The kid who tripped over my backpack th
e first day of school.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Palmetto.”

  Thomas sits next to me. “Don’t you have something to say to Poppy?”

  Thomas looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Poppy.”

  I just stare at him. I hardly even know Thomas. Why would he do that to me? He can’t still be upset about the backpack, can he?

  “Thank you, Thomas. Now please go wait in the main office. Your parents will be here soon.”

  Thomas plods out of Mr. Russo’s office, closing the door behind him.

  “Are you sure it was Thomas?” I ask Mr. Russo, once Thomas is out of the room.

  “Quite.” Mr. Russo nods. “He posted a picture of your locker—filled with manure—on his Instagram account. Plus, he lives on a dairy farm. So it all makes sense.”

  “But why? What does Thomas have against me?”

  “I don’t think it was personal, Poppy. Thomas has a history of pranks. This was probably just a game to him.”

  “So are you going to tell my dad?”

  “Yes, now that our investigation is complete. But I’ll explain to him that you’re perfectly safe here, and that Thomas pulled an extremely inappropriate practical joke.”

  At least I won’t have to tell my dad that his new girlfriend’s daughter pooped my locker. And it’s a good thing, too. When I get off the bus, I see Tammy’s car in the driveway. She and Dad are sitting on the front porch.

  “Hi, Poppy,” Dad says. “How was school?”

  “Fine.” I walk up the steps of the porch and put my backpack near the front door.

  “Tammy made lemonade. Would you like some?”

  Tammy holds the pitcher out to me, and I notice there are no fresh mint leaves inside.

  “No, thanks.” I pick my backpack up again.

  “So,” Dad says. “Mr. Russo called.”

  “Yeah?” I adjust my backpack onto my shoulders.

  “He told me what happened to your locker.”

  “Yeah. It was pretty gross.”

  “Are you okay?” Dad asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, sounding as laid-back as possible. “The school had to give me new textbooks, though.”

  “I’ve known Thomas Palmetto for a long time,” Tammy interjects. “This doesn’t surprise me at all.”