This guy had fan pages, web sites, an absurd amount of posts and links, and an official social net page with well over 50,000 props. My page only had a total of 1053 props, which I used to think was good. This couldn’t be him. This guy was too perfect, too amazing, too unreal to be Poppy’s boyfriend.
Not that a guy like this wouldn’t like her, but she was just some high school chick, and he didn’t seem like an actual person. He seemed like he was some digitally enhanced internet poser, or some kind of fishing hoax trolling for babes.
I clicked on his social net fan page to get a better feel for this dude. Maybe this wasn’t the right Declan Davies. Maybe I had to refine my search for someone less, well, less perfect.
His page read: 50,000 props, Declan Davies is a professional model who works internationally, appears in print, on the runway, in television ads, and music videos. Send him a prop, or join his fan page.
Great! I thought. How would I measure up to that? But, there was a miniscule chance that it was not him.
I clicked on his photo album. I found a bunch of pictures that were uploaded by his fans. Someone had posted a few pics recently. In fact, only a couple days ago, after spotting him in downtown Detroit, at a local electronica concert. It was a selfie with him smiling wide. He put his arm around some enamored fan. I squinted, taking a closer look at the tiny image. There, in the background. I gasped. There she was, my little petal had photo-bombed the fan pic. Incredible! Only not. It was him. Confirmed it!
In the picture, behind Mr. Model, danced a man in a T-shirt that read ‘Eat, Sleep, Dub Step.’ Next to him danced one pretty, poised Poppy. Bingo!
My hands dropped to my lap. Elated. Disappointed. Yep! That was definitely him. Mr. Model. Declan Davies was absolutely Poppy’s boyfriend. How on earth could I compete against that?
I stood up, looked at myself in the mirror, and sighed.
I stared at something sorta ugly compared to Mr. Model. My nose was too big. My skin, too zitty. My mouth, too crooked. My hair, too unkempt and floppy, never staying in the style I intended.
Declan’s images depressed me. They forced me to examine myself. See what I didn’t like. Count my flaws, which were too numerous. But, on the other hand, sometimes idols like him fall, and break into a million pieces. I’d found what I was looking for, Poppy. And, her relationship status could change in an instant, once a guy like Mr. Model decided to move on to less floral pastures.
My next tactic was to friend Denver. I pulled up her social net page. I clicked the connect button to send her a friend invite. She accepted my request almost instantaneously. Weird, but, I was in!
I perused her page. She had about 700 connections. Poppy was not one of them. So, I decided to see if Denver was connected to her brother. I typed Declan’s name. His personal page popped up. I clicked on it.
Odd. He had very few connections compared to his public page. His sister, his parents, a few other random people, and Poppy.
I took a big slurp from my energy drink, and scratched my head. Why would Mr. Model have such a small personal connection? His sister had tons of friends. Was he too busy being amazing to hang out in cyberspace? Probably. I scrolled through his posts to find his pictures. Score! I discovered the mother-load of Poppy pics.
Declan and Poppy lay somewhere on a beach, plopped on their stomachs in the white sand, propped up by their elbows. Tropical beverages sweated in tall glasses, nestled in the sand in front of them, decorated with tiny, colorful paper umbrellas with cute swords skewering cherries and oranges. They both rested their chins on their hands. Poppy’s lips parted slightly as she bit down on her thumb. They smiled lovingly at each other. A bout of jealousy gurgled in my belly. I needed to find a less offensive picture to obsess over.
Just as I went to sort through more of Declan’s album my phone rang. It cut off my tunes, wrecking my stride. I picked up my cell, and put it on speakerphone.
“Seriously, Mom?” I asked, irked that she broke my concentration the moment I had uncovered a new path in the maze that was Poppy.
“You really need to turn down that music before your eardrums implode. I can’t scream that loud. It’s your turn to make dinner. Plus, you better finish those chores. D . . .”
“All right!”
“And do your homework.”
“All right.”
“Do you have any homework?”
“I said all right, already. I’ve got it. I’ll get it done. Just chill.”
“You don’t tell me to . . .”
I hung up the phone. I could hear my mother yelling from down below, probably perturbed that I hung up on her mid-sentence.
Since I had to make dinner, I decided to dedicate my time to formulate a plan. I would work on hooking myself up with my quest, my muse, my petal, my Poppy.
My legs swayed in a zombie-like slow motion. So fatigued from too many energy drinks, and not enough sleep, I felt the air whoosh below my feet. I had spent most of the night lying in bed practicing what I wanted to say to Poppy. Creating and recreating conversations, I’d run through several scenarios, all which I’d forgotten by this morning due to my drowsy state.
My coated tongue stuck to the roof of my cottonmouth, making it hard to form coherent words. My temples throbbed, hung over from exhaustion. My consolation prize for my late night cram-session for my science test was sleeping through my alarm, and not having enough time to shower. The stench alone might drive away my fair lady.
As I stomped toward the classroom, Denver cut me off just shy of the entryway. “Hey, Dexx,” her voice tinkled like tiny bells. “I’m so glad you connected with me last night.”
“Yep.”
“Well, anyway,” she paused, awkwardly, “I mean,” unsure of her words, “I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Yep. I gotta get in here to look over my notes,” was all I could muster. I wanted to pass my test.
“Oh, okay. Cool,” Denver mumbled, and walked away.
“Cheers,” I called after her.
I sat down in my seat ready to fail my science test. Class flew by. I slumped over in a sludge-like stupor. My eyes glazed and blurred while I answered some of the test questions. I found myself stuck in a daze. I calculated in my head what I needed to get on the next test if I failed this exam. I tried to figure out how I could still pass the class. I think I needed at least a B on the next test. Strange noises buzzed in my head. I rested my eyes and crumpled my arms on the desk. My head fell forward and smacked onto the wood, drowsily.
“Hey, man, the bell rang.” Jack punched my arm, alerting me to get up and leave for my next period.
“Whoa. Thanks, dude,” I managed in a froggy voice. I cleared my throat. I horked up a bit of phlegm and spat in the waste bin.
I shook my head to try to stay awake. I tumbled into the hall to head to my next class. A pair of mauve lips accompanied by a matching sweater floated down the corridor. My mind instantly snapped awake. Like a bucket of icy water splashed in my face, I renewed my energy. It surged through my veins, sending the last drops of caffeine into my blood stream to work their magic. As Poppy headed my way, I sped up to catch her.
“Hi, um, hi there, Poppy,” my voice cracked.
She didn’t answer. She only smiled and quickened her pace. Thinking fast, I matched her stride.
“Gee, um, I just took a test, and it was hard as poop,” I rambled, starting up a conversation with her.
Poppy turned bright red at the mention of the word “poop.”
“Really, that’s funny, poop isn’t that hard,” she snapped, taking me way too literally.
I didn’t know how to counter her response. She seemed mad at me. My mouth flung open, but failed to produce any words.
She hastened her pace, turned, and walked away from me. She carried her books in one arm,
and her patchwork mall bag in the other. I rushed to her side. I took a closer look at her bag. It had some random scribbles on the side. But after taking a closer look, I realized those scribbles were a bunch of words. It read “It’s easy to be brave with you by my side!” Funny. Why would she write a note on an old, ripped bag?
Poppy hunched over and started to sprint. I was losing again. I had to come up with something witty to say in order to slow her down.
“Wait, er, I heard you went to some techno fest in Detroit the other day, or week, or . . . uh . . . something. How was it?” I made my move to stop her from running away. I hoped this would open up a better conversation so we could chat.
Poppy stopped. She smiled. It worked.
“Oh,” she sang, “it was positively popping with perfection!”
“Ha, ha!” I laughed with her. “Hey, Poppy, do you have a ‘P’ problem or what?” I joked, poking a bit of fun at her propensity to use an abundance of “P” words.
“Pee problem?” Her cheeks darkened. “Are you asking if I have a pee problem? Well, that’s none of your business! How severely rude!” Her lips pinched with anger.
“No, not pee problem. ‘P’ problem, you know, because you used a lot of ‘P’ words. I didn’t mean . . . rats!” I babbled uselessly.
Poppy turned to walk away. I went to grab her arm so that she might stay long enough for me to re-explain what I meant. Instead, my hand caught her paper bag. It ripped at the crease. The tear cut across her note, and severed several words in half. All of the contents spilled to the floor. Three tubes of lipstick, a mirror, some car keys, and her lady products. Poppy’s cheeks flamed.
“Just look at what you’ve done.”
Tears wet the corners of her eyes. She quickly scooped up her belongings. Poppy ran into Old Gunderson’s empty classroom. She placed her stuff on a table.
I followed, sick with fury that I created another screwed up mishap with Poppy. “Here, let me help you.”
“No! I think you’ve done enough!” Poppy wept. Her tears streaked down her purple tinged cheeks with a trail of dark makeup. Her eyes bled a muddy brown. She found a tape dispenser, and desperately tried to repair her torn bag.
“I’ll go to the mall and get you a brand new bag.”
“No. It’s fine. I’m fine. Please, just leave.”
“Sorry?” I offered, but Poppy left the room. She hugged her tattered sack close to her chest.
It must have meant a lot to her, and I destroyed it. I ruined everything!
I sighed. Poppy-take two, another bust!
Chapter 6
Lenn
Poppy meandered through the hall. She gripped her shopping bag. It appeared even more ratty-tatty, ripped down the entire side, and shoddily patched by odds staples, and slivers of tape. Her eyes glistened a pinkish red.
“Hey,” I called.
“Hello,” she answered back weakly.
“Poppy, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I’m fine. What’s up?” She instantly changed the subject.
“Nada. So, anyway, I hear this girl, Oceane, is having a party next weekend and she’s hosting Dexx, as a DJ! Can you believe it? Well, at least, I heard he might show up with his equipment. Anyway, I was wondering if you could come with me so I can try to hook up again, um, with Dexx. He totally knows you are taken, so, I think it’s safe for me to approach him. Chat him up, a bit, or something like that.”
“Oh, yeah, um, I don’t think so. No. I can’t go,” Poppy responded, bluntly.
“Come on, Poppy! You’ve gotta come.”
“Ask Kit.”
“I don’t want to ask Kit. I want you there with me.”
“I can’t go, Lenn.”
“Why not?” I raised my voice.
“Because! My mom won’t let me go to parties. Too much inappropriate stuff goes down at parties!”
“She lets you go to clubs!”
“Yeah, they are safer! They cater to the underage crowd.”
“She lets you stay overnight at your boyfriend’s house,” I threw in her face.
“Yeah, I know! That’s for holidays, family vacations, and stuff. Plus, I have my own room! The Davies are very scrupulous.”
“I don’t know what that means!” I yelled, agitated.
“They don’t let any shenanigans go on under their roof,” Poppy explained. “Denver wears a purity ring and everything! I mean, for goodness sakes, there’s no funny business taking place under their watch. They are quite the respectful household. I think I’m safe from being subjected to, or suspected of inappropriate behavior!”
“So, why don’t you wear a purity ring if you are so good?”
“Like, because, I am Jewish! We do not wear purity rings. It’s not part of our tradition. Besides, it does not mean that I take these matters lightly, Lenn. Seriously? I am just as devoted as Denver when it comes to that kind of ‘funny business.’”
“Okay, fine. Well . . . you are not going to partake in any ‘funny business!’ I get it. So, why don’t you just come to the party?”
“First, there is going to be underage drinking there, and . . . I do not drink.”
“No offense, Poppy, but that’s poppycock! I’ve seen the pictures of you drinking.”
“Well, you know how the old saying goes,” she shrugged with a sheepish grin, “when in Rome.”
“Funny, speaking of Rome, the rest of us also don’t get international phone calls from mysterious men calling us at home at all hours of the night.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said brushing it off like it’s nothing. “I don’t actually speak Italian anyway. And, he barely spoke English.”
“Okay, how did he understand your telephone number, which you obviously gave him?”
“We use the same Arabic numeric system. It’s not like I gave him my digits in Roman numerals,” she giggled.
“I don’t understand a word you are saying! Are you talking in code? How did your BF like you getting calls from European suitors?”
“He didn’t,” she sniffed.
“I wish I were getting calls from boys all over the world.”
“Seriously, Lenn, my life is extremely bland. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Says the girl who’s getting calls from boys all over the world.”
Poppy drummed her nails against the wall.
“Forget it. I have another idea. Invite Declan to the party as your chaperone. That way he can guard you from ‘funny business’, exotic men, and intoxicating liquids,” I suggested.
“He can’t come. He’s busy.”
“What? Are you embarrassed of us? Or, is he embarrassed to hang out with the ‘younger crowd’?”
“Neither. It’s not like that at all. He’s working. I promise. And, I want to be with him. He’s gone all of the time, and I barely get to see him. Barely ever.”
“I give up. Your loss.”
“Sorry.”
“Fine. I’ll go with Kit. We’ll report back. But, we’ll miss you. It’s not the same without you, dancing around in a sweaty crowd to Dexx’s music.”
Poppy smiled and nodded. A woman of few words.
“Bye.” She waved and left clutching her ripped tote.
An Ode to Vanilla
Choosing a distinct cake flavor poses a delicate problem. The inexhaustible selection of choices could become quite daunting. An entire world beyond the standard chocolate and yellow cake trends heavily in the baking community. Local bakeshops tout varieties such as salted caramel, ricotta fig, and Mayan cayenne cocoa, to name a few. The influx of gourmet selections tend to overshadow the obvious choice, vanilla.
Vanilla. So simple, so pure, so elegant, so natural and honest. Born from a single bea
n, this flavor stands the test of time. Even with the insane amount of crazy concoctions, vanilla continues to win, reigning champion as the number one flavor. Hidden in this choice lives a variety, many nuances of vanilla, accompanied by a spectrum of textures and colors.
Moist, white cake. Soft, sweet, and rich on the tongue. As beautiful as a fresh blanket of snow. Perfect for a girl whose alabaster skin shines like a powdered hill on a wintery Christmas morning, sparking from the sun that peeks through the naked tree branches. Such a treat will work wonders to win and keep the heart of this treasure, this winter flower.
I scour through ancient cookbooks to select the perfect recipe. Sure, the Internet houses literally every instructional guide on how to bake a cake dating back from, well, from forever. But, I pride myself on taking instruction from a good, old-fashion dust-covered hard copy. I’ve uncovered a treasure trove of eloquent cookbooks and magazines in Mama’s library. I selected a French recipe hailing from a Parisian patisserie. Seems quite fitting, dontcha think?
Dexx
Beat down and burnt out, my heart panged in my chest with sadness. Why did I continue to ruin every encounter with Poppy by saying all of the wrong things? Doing all of the wrong things? Poop. Pee. What, was I? Six years old? What was I thinking? That wasn’t the way to her heart, at all! This rarely happened with any other girl at school. They all seemed to hang on my every word, even Denver.
I racked my brain for ideas to make things up to Poppy, win her over, and keep her heart. Treasure her forever.
I swiveled back and forth at my desk in front of my laptop. I typed “how to get a girl to like you” into the search engine. Thousands of hits popped up, including several inappropriate selections. I slammed down the cover, closing my gadget, frustrated.
My phone lit up. It played my current musical obsession by a DJ close in age, but way more successful. It was my inspirational ringtone, meant to motivate me to stardom. I picked up my device and tapped speakerphone. “Hey, what’s up?”
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