Poppies for Christmas

by Stacy Renée Keywell

  “Hey, Dexx, it’s me, Oceane.”

  “Oh, Oceane. What’s going on?”

  “Not much. I was wondering if you made any decisions about coming and spinning at my party this weekend.”

  “Yeah, um, maybe. I’ve sorta got a lot going on right now, in my life, but . . . I’ll see.”

  “Come on! You totally got to stop by. I’m kinda counting on you to make an appearance.”

  “Sure. I’ll try. But, I might not bring my equipment, Oceane. I want to legitimize my brand here. Playing at a high school gig might sabotage that dream. You know? I’m actually getting real publicity now.”

  “I get it, Dexx. You’re turning legit. But, stop by anyway. I told a bunch of people you’d be there.”

  “Okay. Maybe,” I snapped, annoyed that Oceane was using my rising status to entice others to attend a party at her house.

  “Cool. Thanks, Dexx. Love ya!” she squealed.

  “Right,” I grumbled and hung up on her.

  Rubbing my aching eyes, I groaned. Leaning back in my chair, I ran my fingers across my scalp and growled in frustration.

  I didn’t want to play at some stupid party. I wanted to spin downtown, and watch Mr. Dubstep bob his head while Poppy danced in the background. I wanted a crowd of people to gather around my platform, taking selfies, and posting endless pics to my fan page with my petal photobombing every single one of them.

  I grabbed my board with the drum kit. I worked at perfecting my latest mix. I strove to combine a haunting background with profound wobbles, paired with chill electronic beats.

  I swigged down the last drops of my energy drink. Some droplets dribbled down my chin. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Breaking my concentration, my mind drifted back to Poppy, then over to the party invite. A weak, flickering light bulb sparked a half-witted idea for Poppy-take three.

  Hunched over a book, Poppy slipped on a pair of dark rimmed glasses, and glanced over the text at a big wooden table in the library.

  “Whoa, total hipster glasses you got there,” I commented as I slid into the chair across from her.

  Poppy ripped the spectacles off her face and blinked. “These are not hipster glasses. They are for reading. That’s all my insurance would cover!”

  I stared back at her, unhappy with myself. Poppy didn’t seem to appreciate my sarcastic quips. I needed to find another approach to make some sort of connection with her. I smiled, and went with a more amicable tone. “I’m so sorry, Poppy. I don’t mean to offend.”

  She raised her painted brows at me.

  “I’m a fool. I can’t seem to do anything right. How about we start again?”

  Poppy looked down at her book and nodded.

  “Okay. Here it goes. So, hey, Poppy, are you going to that party this weekend at Oceane’s house?”

  A small smile crept over her lips, an encouraging sign. I might gain some favor with her. “Nah. I’m not that much into hedonism. You know?”

  “Heda, what . . . ?” I scrunched my face confused by her.

  “Besides, my boyfriend, he’s back in town, but he’s working this weekend at the mall. So, I thought I would go visit him. Kind of for support. Then,” her eyes glowed as she looked off dreamily into space, “we might go out somewhere nice for dinner. Just the two of us.”

  “Fancy, I’m sure,” I mumbled.

  “Well, I’m not sure. He does have to follow a special kind of diet.”

  “Wouldn’t want to ruin his perfect figure, right?” I emphasized.

  “No,” she snapped. “He has allergies!”

  “Oh . . . um.” Not again.

  “Please excuse me, I must be getting back to class.”

  Poppy got up abruptly. She pushed in her chair, and left me with my dumb mouth gaping open like a hungry fish waiting for me to insert my large, freakin foot!

  As Poppy left me speechless at the table, I buried my head in my arms. My eyes fluttered closed. I drifted off. A light snore escaped my mouth. It woke me up. Spit coagulated at the corner of my lip, gumming up on my face. I licked it away with my tongue. Blah! The acrid taste gave me the heebie-jeebies. My entire body shook with disgust.

  I considered finding Kit to gather more intel on Poppy, but I decided, why bother? I needed to lay low for a while. Occupy my time working on producing and mixing my music, put myself out there. Be ripe and ready for discovery. I had to do some serious promotion. Tweak my website to maximize the key words. Heighten my online presence for popular search engines. I yearned to create the same hubbub as Mr. Model. He made incredible waves in cyberspace. Drooling fans clamored for his attention.

  Dedication was key. Resolved, I stayed put. I tapped out various ideas on my notepad on my phone.

  This morning a new determination awoke within my core. Just as my musical soul beat to the drum of an unquenchable passion, my quest to conquer the world of Poppy found a renewed energy.

  The sun’s rays poked through my blinds. I hit the shower. I sorted through my clothes, selected some jeans, a white, long sleeve T, and my black T that was silk-screened with my DJ Dexx logo on the front.

  Swigging down a cup of lukewarm coffee, I stuffed a chewy bagel in my mouth. Today, I headed to the mall for a day of covert spying, and heavy-duty undercover work. I parked far away in the lot, inconspicuously embedding my car in a sea of minivans. I tucked my hair under a Detroit Tigers cap. I entered the large, glass arena of shopping extravaganza.

  This wasn’t my typical stomping grounds. I frequented low-key venues, Mom and Pop start-ups. I supported the little guy. But, my muse drove me to this retail madness, this high-end, corporate, commercial fest. I swallowed hard and began my search.

  The quest to find Mr. Model barely took any effort. I popped my head in a couple clothing stores near the entryway. But, only a few steps into the main thoroughfare, I spotted the velvet ropes sectioning off a waiting area in front of a young adult apparel shop. The kind that featured pictures of beautiful, freckle-faced girls next door in bandeau tops and gingham shorts, and bathing suit clad boys on their walls, quite like the bag Poppy clung to in the halls at school.

  Crated within the velvet ropes, hundreds of giggling, ogling, drooling girls bounced, bopped, danced, and gossiped. They eagerly clutched their phones, autograph books, and similar shopping bags, anxious to meet the chiseled lifeguards who leapt off the images on the walls. They smelled of cheap, girly cotton candy perfume spray, hot pretzels, cinnamon rolls, and old bubblegum. The scents severely challenged my gag reflex.

  A large sign at the front of the line read “Meet and Greet at noon. Come to our exclusive model mingle, featuring the fresh-faced local star, world-famous Declan Davies!”

  Poking a tween on the shoulder at the front of the line, I asked, “Is this the line to get in?”

  “Totes! You’ve got to wait in line if you want to participate in the event. They won’t even let you in the door if they think you aren’t there strictly for shopping. They don’t want people taking cuts or snapping pics out of turn. I should know, it happened to me last year. So, like, I’ve been waiting here, for like, hours! This time I got in line before the mall even ‘officially’ opened to get a good spot!”

  “Whoa! Intense.”

  “Totes! I’m pretty much a super fan. It was like me, a few other girls, and the mall walkers here for, like, hours. We had to take turns saving each other’s spots to go to the bathroom.”

  “TMI!”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Are you here to see all of the guys?”

  “Are you kidding me? Declan Davies is where it’s at right now. The rest of those dudes are just filler, and he knows it. That’s why they leave Declan for last. I heard they bring him out at the last minute, his handlers, so the girls don’t get too crazy, and mad-mob
rush him!”

  “I hear he has a girlfriend,” I threw out there to see the little tween’s reaction.

  “It doesn’t matter. I bet he has a lot of girlfriends. I’m sure to be the next Mrs. Declan Davies, if you know what I mean,” she squealed.

  Her squeaky chortle set off a chain reaction of intense teen screams. The high-pitched noise traveled down the line like people doing the wave at an action-packed Tiger’s game. It gained excited speed till it reached the end, and traveled right back to my temporary companion.

  “Well, anyway, thanks, and good luck,” I mumbled, but she was no longer listening to me. Only interested in her quest, the tween bounced up and down, caught up in Declan Davies mania. She continued her screeches with cohorts in the long line.

  I craned my neck to peek in the store. A row of red board short-clad boys clambered together. They prepped for their performance, adjusting their uniforms below their pronounced pelvic bones for full effect. But, there was no Poppy in sight, and neither was Mr. Model, who I imagined I would recognize the moment I saw him. Instead, I spotted several oversized black and white promo posters of him. They hugged the walls, advertising the store’s current fall and winter fashions. Gag!

  I scanned the inside of the store, more and more irritated. There he was, over and over again, Mr. Model. His eyes drifted off to the side of each photo. His mouth, set in a smug, disinterested line, seemed to say “I’m way better than you’ll ever be, and you know it. So, stop trying!”

  He bothered me, tremendously. Annoyed by my venture, I decided to roam the mall a bit, and come back later.

  Several other stores, lit up with glittering lights and noxious, cologne filled smells, also taunted me with wall-sized pictures of Mr. Model’s likeness. One featured a poster of him at the door. I raised two fingers, and quickly poked holes in his eyeballs, leaving two gaping spaces and a white-toothed grin.

  His dumb image was literally everywhere, scattered around the mall. Clone-like replicas of Mr. Model haunted me at every turn, tormenting me with poster boards.

  I ambled into my mom’s favorite department store. I practically tripped over a life-size figure of him. Just short of a head-on collision, a human-sized, cutout of Mr. Model held a trendy perfume bottle. I punched his face, which ripped in half, and bent backwards at the jaw. It hung on for life by his torn neck. I looked up at the ceiling. A gray orb loomed over my head. Shoot, I forgot about the cameras. They were everywhere. I sprinted out of the store in fear of getting busted for vandalizing their façade.

  Too much. Just too much. How did this place get so full of Declan Davies? When did the world stop spinning, populate the planet with his face, and start up again? When did the retail market create the Declan Davies universe? I planned on poking a few more faces when a blur in brown blazed by me. She headed to the coffee kiosk in the center of the mall.

  Poppy! So deep inside my head I had forgotten about Poppy. There she was! Phew! Finally.

  Something inside my stomach gurgled. I wasn’t sure if it was from the excitement of seeing Poppy, or good old-fashioned hunger pangs. Lunchtime approached, and one shriveled bagel didn’t quite cut in for me. Consequently, the case next to Poppy was filled with flakey pastries. Jumbo frosted cake pops, and crusty, thick sandwiches enticed me nearly as much as the girl who fell into yet another long line.

  This overpriced palace mimicked one of those outrageous lines for a popular roller coaster found at an amusement park. Too bad fast passes weren’t available for a quick cup of coffee.

  Camouflaging myself amongst the flora and fauna of plastic plants, couches, and end tables, I snooped from a reasonable distance. Crowds of shoppers sipped and nibbled their snacks around me. I plopped down on a leather chair. I rested my feet on a nearby ottoman.

  Stuck in a daze, and penned in a maze of forest green velour, Poppy waited her turn in line. She puckered her cream-colored lips which happened to match her cream, lace tube top immaculately. A long, knit, chocolate brown coat hung down her back all the way to her heels, Rapunzel’s cascading hair. She wore a cream pair of shorts with brown thigh-high stockings to keep warm. She’d tied her hair back in a thick, dark ponytail which wagged at me as she marched toward the cashier.

  Smiling and nodding at the barista, Poppy grabbed something green. A matcha tea frappe perhaps, with tons of whip, and a bottle of organic, green, vitamin-enhanced juice. She slurped from her tall straw while she carried the bottle with her in the other hand. I followed behind, leaving some distance between us, as to not get caught.

  Poppy slowly headed back toward the store with the insane line. Ignoring the roped off area, she entered, and walked in back. She greeted a man at the end of a long, white clothed table. I watched, cowering in the corner by a sales rack near the front. She smiled wide at the man. He turned his face toward the door. It was him!

  My body froze, unsure of how to take another step. As I had predicted, I recognized him straight away. Poppy stood next to him, a tall guy with wavy, dark hair, and piercing eyes. Towering over her, he bent down and pecked her on the cheek, warmly rubbing her on the back of her chocolate sweater. She nodded, then backed up as the crowd slowly crept through the doorway, and down the line.

  Mr. Model stood rigid as he greeted his guests. He occasionally bowed chivalrously at his teen admirers. He flashed them with his blinding white smile, and posed for endless pictures, signing their bags. Trembling girls cried. They snapped shameless selfies with him, or touched his muscular biceps. With each new admirer, he simply repeated his chivalrous routine, his act of bowing and smiling, smiling and bowing, flexing and signing, signing, and flexing. Over and over again, with tireless enthusiasm, as the assembly line of teenybopper girls swooned, screeched, clawed, and cried over his mythical beauty.

  In the background, Poppy swayed to the loud music that blasted from the speakers mounted throughout the store. Bored or antsy, she wandered around the back of the table, and danced. A few of the employees giggled at her charade, pointing at her. One worker even attempted to join her until a stern-eyed manager type put the kibosh on the unauthorized entertainment with a fierce look, warning against joining the Poppy party.

  Like the others, I wanted to join the Poppy party. A few model dudes murmured things to Poppy who sashayed away. She headed over to some nearby clothing racks. She picked through the flannel tops and ripped jeans her mousy friend favored. This caused Mr. Model to frown. His lip trembled from her absence. I cackled to myself, glad to see her break away from Mr. Perfect. But, I grew chagrined once she boogied right back to his side, squelching his pouty face. She ceased her swaying, and fell into rocking back and forth. She examined the ceiling to pass the time during this tedious event.

  Chapter 7

  Dexx

  Growing tired of my own exercise of futility, I treated myself to a well-deserved perfection break. I unglued myself from the summer blowout discount rack, and stretched my legs. I looped back to the coffee kiosk.

  Fed up with my own life situation, not to mention my lack of pleasing physical attributes, I decided to splurge on a little liquid refreshment rather than pick apart my obvious flaws in a self-depreciative stupor.

  A vision of a girl sauntered my way. Her golden hair flowed, an angelic, bouncy cloud of platinum perfection, equipped with a matching platinum headband resembling a halo around her forehead. Leggings clung to her extremely long, thin legs, which swam in her enormous, furry boots. A fashionable black shirt hugged a lithe, delicate body. It wouldn’t have surprised me at this point if she had spontaneously leapt into the air, pliéd, or did some kind of pirouette or something. Her mouth was set, looking tense.

  Her rigid, cold expression immediately changed when she spotted me. The ice melted as she beamed graciously. “Hey, Dexx, it’s me, Denver! From school! Can I join you in line?”

  “Ah, yeah, sure,” I mumbled.
<
br />   She surprised me with her reaction and her choice of words. Did I remember her from school? Was she kidding? As if anyone could forget the remarkably posh Denver Davies. It was near impossible not to recognize her wherever she went.

  “Great!” She sighed with relief. “Wait! I’m not bothering you, am I? Am I interrupting something? I am. Aren’t I?”

  “Of course not!” What would she be interrupting? My pity party?

  “Good. I wasn’t sure. ‘Cuz, you seemed to be in the middle of something.”

  I looked around, confused. Why would Denver presume I was too busy for her? Nobody was too busy for a girl like Denver.

  “I mean, I wasn’t sure if you minded that I joined you.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, really.” She sighed again, standing next to me with an uncomfortable expression on her face.

  “Are you here to see your brother?” I changed the subject, hoping to put her at ease. I dreamt that one day a girl like Denver would feel more relaxed next to a lug like myself rather than react like I was made out of pins and needles.

  “Gosh no!” she gasped. “I’m here oppositecally!”

  “Oppo what?”

  “Oh, you know. Oppositecally.” She stared at me, waiting for me to acknowledge her word. Was it a real word? She emphasized, “Opposite of . . .”

  “Got it. Oppositecally.”

  “Yeah. I’m here oppositecally, for a little retail therapy. I’m dying to find some new clothes for the holidays. My family makes a big deal out of them. I mean, a really big deal! They throw the biggest shindig. Ever!” Denver rolled her crystal blue eyes. “To appease Declan, of course. He’s so spoiled.”