Poppies for Christmas

by Stacy Renée Keywell

  I plucked a few stray pieces of lint off the taupe chenille pillow, buried my face, and screamed. I really, really hoped that Declan didn’t embarrass me this time.

  He’d cackled when he spotted me putting up the mistletoe. He circled the room eyeing the placement for his own grosstastic amusement. His eager hands shook as I yelled at him. I reminded him it was my time, and I had invited a new guest. He argued, informing me this constituted as his first Christmas dating Poppy, which gave him just as much of a right to use the festive arrangement for his own romantic purposes. He harangued me for not actually having a boyfriend, whereas he actually had a girlfriend.

  Blah, blah, blah! So? Big deal! It was only Poppy! She’d been here a million, zillion times already.

  I screamed, and cried at my brother. I asked him if he could just be normal for once. He countered by sticking out his tongue, telling me he was normal, and that I was the one with a problem. Which in turn caused me to yell “Mom!”

  Declan simply laughed. He flipped me off, and then hugged me. He told me he loved me, and I was the best sister ever, only to enrage me even more.

  I wrung my hands together, nervous that Declan would ruin things for me as he had done in the past. My jaw clenched. I gritted my teeth. My lips tightened to hold back the tears. I hated feeling that way about Declan. I reminded myself that he held no bearing on how my life had turned out, which caused me to laugh bitterly. Did I truly believe it? Or, was I just kidding myself? I forced my hurtful feelings back into that cavern hidden inside my mind.

  Dexx. Dexx was coming. Dexx was coming to be with me, and that’s all that mattered.

  Several housekeepers poked their heads in the family room. They clicked their tongues at the scuffed floor. I rolled my eyes and kicked off the offending heels. I rolled onto my stomach on the couch.

  “Denver,” my mom called in a tirade from upstairs, “you did not pick up your room!”

  “Ugh!” I groaned.

  “And the dog, did you feed him yet?”

  “It’s Declan’s turn, Mom! I did it last time.”

  “Declan’s busy, dear. Plus we do not keep track in this household, we perform our chores with grace, and humility.”

  Grrrrr!

  Hard work. My parents firmly believed in many things, one being hard work. They preached that children, especially ones from privileged homes, should not rest on their laurels, victoriously spoiled, while others toiled away for them. Children must contribute equally, if not more, to their own success.

  Even in our youth we were expected to take ownership of our own destinies, and not stand idle and let life happen. We were expected to make life happen. Laziness was not an option. Dogs should be lovingly cared for, shoe scuffs wiped with care. And clean rooms were next to heavenliness. So, well, my room tipped into the dark underworld of forgotteness.

  “Denver!” my mom screamed once more.

  “Fine!” I grunted and rolled on my back.

  Pushing off the slippery leather, I slid off the couch. Like Dancer, I crawled across the hardwood floor, only I did so begrudgingly. I groaned.

  Dancer followed me. The tags on his little collar jingled.

  “Shoo!”

  Dancer ran off to find a kinder friend, probably my brother.

  I flung myself through the kitchen, and into the mudroom. I filled Dancer’s bowl with dry food, and used the laundry tub to refill his customized water dish. I grabbed a rag to buff the stripes off the floor, but first I had to tackle the messed-up cavern, my bedroom.

  When I reached the steps, I collapsed. I inched up on my knees, dragging the rest of my body up the stairs. Suddenly, I was five again.

  I reached the landing, rolled onto my back, and took a rest on the red, floral, woven carpet. I considered bribing the housekeepers to help me. This kind of hard work didn’t mesh well with my skill sets. Room cleaning didn’t suit me. I was more of a delegator than a picker-upper, and Declan wasn’t here to delegate to.

  Still disgruntled, I picked my body off the rug, and threw myself into the messy pit, otherwise known as my bedroom. Rows of naked, pink satin hangers hung in the dimly lit closet, like girlish skeletons in a forgotten cave. They dangled over mountains of clothing that formed colorful peaks, and valleys surrounding a very lonely, very empty white wicker hamper.

  I performed the essential sniff test. Selecting a few key pieces to hang, I gathered the rest of the offending garments, and hid them away in the laundry basket, closing the lid tight, and out of sight. Done! All clean! Checked that item off the list!

  Crumpled piles of magazines mixed with clothing, soft warm blankets, faded stuffed animals, various yearbooks, and empty semi-crushed cans of energy drinks decorated the rug in front of my canopy bed. Gauzy sheets hung sideways in sleepy disarray, sadly shlooping from an anxiety-ridden, sleepless night. Still slightly fatigued, and not really refreshed from my caffeinated beverages, my cozy bedspread called me to bask in it, and to take a nap. It ordered me to ignore my duties, and dutifully snuggle with it instead. I considered its generous offer.

  A twisted smirk crept across my face as my mother’s sage words banged around noisily in my head. Like a bunch of cans on a string of good intentions, those words trucked around my brain, clanked, and hit a well of wishes, spilling coins down a hole of hope.

  I became that obedient, ideal daughter. At least for a few moments.

  Hastily, I scooped up plump armfuls of junk, and stuffed the contents into my already bursting drawers. In opening my wardrobe, a blast of belongings exploded forward onto my face. Junk plummeted like a waterfall from above. Jewelry and accessories gushed down, and toppled on my head from the overflowing top shelf.

  “Ah!”

  I panicked that my mom might spot the disaster smashing against my body with the waters of unmentionables. I was a failing human shield who attempted the impossible, to dam up the leaking junk hole.

  Gathering up the last armfuls of evidence, I tossed the rest of my mess in the closet, and slammed the door shut, hard enough to wobble the mirror on my vanity. With the junk hidden away, my room passed the spot check cleaning inspection, just as long as no one dared open any doors or drawers.

  I threw my arms up in disgust at my inability to do anything right. But, satisfied for the moment, I tiptoed out of my room, and pranced into Declan’s.

  Just as I had suspected. Dust free and spotless. Pictures hugged the walls. Boyish action figures sneered, jutting out their rugged chins. The crisp corners of his duvet shot out at perfect angles on his rectangular bed. My brows knitted devilishly as I vaulted my body through his open door, and pounced on his bed.

  “Woo-hoo!” I rolled around, wrinkling up the hospital corners on his sheets.

  “Denver, what are you doing, dear?” my mother interrupted me, looking rather displeased. Dancer panted at her heels. He chewed a mouthful of kibbles.

  “I . . .”

  “Please tidy up Declan’s bed, and deliver these holiday cards to the housekeepers, babe.”

  She left shaking her head at my antics. Dancer trotted away behind her. He yipped happily. His golden tail wagged at the sonic speed of a video game character from the latest hot phone app.

  Leaping onto my feet, I tucked the sheets back under the mattress, and smoothed out the duvet. I gathered the cards in my hands.

  Generosity. My mom often explained that there will always be people that have more than us, and there will always be people that have less than us. She emphasized the importance of giving to those who had less, or those who had a need we could fulfill. Christmas marked the season for giving, not receiving.

  She conscientiously tucked in extra cash, gift cards, and fat bonuses into all of her cards. Spreading joy brought joy. Living generously through generosity brought inner happiness. “Money will come and mon
ey will go,” she would remind me, “and we never know what the future holds, but if we have the means to give, we give, whether it be money, time, food, or belongings, we give!”

  Mom also insisted we release those who worked for us early for the holidays. They didn’t need to spend their time with us, they needed to tend to their own families. We could finish setting up our home ourselves. Hard work and generosity. Those were just two of the virtues my family lived by. And, well, I was trying to live by them. I was trying, really, really trying hard.

  Chapter 11

  Dexx

  Heat blasted from the vents in my mom’s car, drying out the contacts in my eyes. Luckily, I’d packed plenty of drops and fluid. I could refresh them once I arrived. My vision blurred, forcing me to blink rapidly to clear up my sight.

  “Everything all right?” Mom asked, still heavy-hearted that I decided to leave for the holiday.

  “Yeah. Totally.” I’d already paid my dues arguing, and convincing my grumpy parents to let me attend the Davies festivities. Enough was enough. I was done with the guilt.

  “She must be some special girl.”

  “Oh yes, she is, so special,” my voice dropped off dreamily.

  Poppy, I thought, you and I, together as last.

  “Denver is her name?” Mom interrupted my daydream.

  “Yep. Her name is Denver. She and I have been, er, hanging out a lot together lately . . . and . . .”

  “And she wants you to spend the holidays with her family, already?”

  “No, I mean yes. I mean, it’s not like that, exactly. Her brother, who is a bit older, hogs the whole guest list, and Denver felt it wasn’t fair her brother always got to have visitors, and she didn’t.”

  “She couldn’t have invited a girl?”

  “Well, she did, kind of.”

  “There’s another girl coming?”

  “Yes, it’s a friend of hers, sort of. That’s why they wanted to balance the mix with me, a boy!” I struggled justifying why I was invited to the Davies house to my mother.

  My mom shook her head, obviously wondering what trick I was pulling on her. But, there wasn’t a trick, only time alone with my muse.

  The car zoomed down the windy, twisty back roads. It swerved on snow-covered patches of black ice. My mom pumped the brakes.

  “I’ve never been down here before,” she commented.

  “I never even knew it existed.”

  Naked trees crystalized by frost hung over the road, lacing their branches together like entwined skeletal hands, creating a translucent tunnel. Large flakes of snow dusted the windows with frozen flecks of diamonds. Dark, shiny eyes peered around the thin, ghastly white trunks. A family of deer steered their way through the labyrinth of trees on the forested lot.

  Gravel ground beneath the tires. The car drove down what appeared to be a very long driveway.

  “Am I going the right way? Do people even live here? Do I have the correct address? Could your friend have given you better directions?” Mom grumbled a series of questions at me. She hit the old GPS with her hand. It had lost the satellite signal from the icy winter wonderland that hung over our car.

  Two brick posts appeared on either side of the road. At the top of the posts, words etched into a concrete sign read Davies Estate. Iron fences began behind the posts leading us toward the house. The road wound around an empty tennis court, and a snow covered garden that hibernated for the winter.

  “Hmmm, an estate? Who are these people?” Mom demanded.

  I shrugged. “Just friends, I guess.”

  I realized I had no idea who these people really were. I totally knew nothing about Denver other than she seemed to have a lot of gift cards, a limitless credit card, some fancy clothes, and a luxury vehicle. If anyone asked me where she lived, I’d have been clueless. So, perhaps my mom was right. Maybe, it was bizarre that I was attending this special holiday with virtual strangers. But my intentions were pure, weren’t they?

  A stone building materialized out of the blustery snow. My mouth dropped in awe. This was more than a house down the street. This was a chateau. Some sort of castle. Some kind of old English country manner. A mansion and then some.

  Two flags blew in the wind from the top of a spire, an American flag, and one with a large D. we had arrived at the Davies estate.

  “Is this a former hotel?” Mom gawked at the grandeur.

  “Shhh, Mom, please don’t embarrass me,” I begged.

  “I’m not,” she snapped. “Can I walk you in?”

  I gave her a look.

  “Fine,” she said, resigned. “I’ll pick you up in a few days.”

  “It’s not like I’m that far away. Besides, I have my phone. But, please, don’t call me!” I grumped. “I mean, I’ll call you, later.”

  “Funny, we’ve only been driving for about fifteen minutes, and I feel like we’re a lifetime away.” Her eyes dazzled as she looked up at the home.

  “I’ll call ya.”

  I pecked her on the cheek, and took my bag. I slammed the car door. As soon my mom sped away, gurgly nerves crept into my stomach. I was left standing in a massive stone driveway. Snow tenderly fell, salting the top of my head. The doors to the seven-car garage stood open. Tarps covered up a few of the cars. Vanity plates labeled the three remaining vehicles, Denver, Debbie, and Dereck. One spot was empty.

  I faced the main entrance. The door stood like a massive, intimidating guard, a mysterious oracle to the Davies’ world. Stained glass windows decorated the center of the wood frosted with mosaic D’s in the middle.

  I held on tight to the bag in my hand. I took a deep breath. My nerves still bundled up in a ball. I willed my legs to move. As stiff as the rusted, old tin man, my limbs slowly reacted to my oily courage. They unlocked as I urged my body toward the door.

  Slowly, I crept. My heart beat furiously. I cursed myself for being so anxious. What’s the big deal? I was merely a guest of a cool, new friend. My brain barked at my body to relax.

  The jitters ran through my arms. I raised my shaky hand to ring the bell. The most regal sound echoed throughout the interior of the building. I half expected a butler named Jeeves to answer the door, but instead, Denver appeared with a giddy smile plastered on her face.

  “Oh, hi there,” she squealed. Her teeth glowed and sparkled like the twinkling stars on a clear night.

  Denver had adorned herself with a large, white pearl necklace which popped on her black, knit mini-dress. White stockings hugged her tiny, rail-thin legs. Blonde locks flowed down her back with glinting golden flecks highlighted by the large, crystal chandelier that hung above our heads. She was a living shampoo commercial in real time. She shook her head and fluttered her lashes. Her hair danced and bobbed around her shoulders.

  I hesitated for a moment. My brain rumbled with questions. Why would Denver Davies, the most flawless, perfect girl in the school, invite over a techno-scrub like myself? I belonged to a less perfect world. I coexisted with the flawed and the peculiar, the more unique and eccentric, the Poppies and the DJs.

  Denver snapped me out of my stupor. She grabbed my shoulders. We hugged awkwardly, both patting each other on the shoulder blades.

  “Hi,” I responded, more shy than I intended.

  “Hi, again. Well,” she clicked her tongue and looked around the empty foyer, “come in. Come in. Let me, um, er, take your bag.”

  She placed it on a large, round, beautiful tapestry that spread out over the parquet flooring.

  Intimidated, I gently wiped, and removed my shoes. I placed them on a black rubber mat next to the entryway.

  “Come on,” Denver clapped her hands eagerly, “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  I followed behind, still too shocked to speak.

  “The drawing room, b
lah, blah, blah, the den, the living room, the dining room.”

  Denver rattled off names of rooms. She pulled me by the arm too swiftly to allow me to see the sights, or let the grandeur of her home take its full effect.

  “My dad’s office, the family room . . .”

  “Wait,” I stopped her before she could drag me away further into her house. “I want . . . I want to look around a bit. You’re going too fast.”

  “Oh!”

  Denver halted, shocked. Her mouth curled downward, pensive, like it never occurred to her that she was going so quickly. Biting her lip, she looked around the room as if it were an ordinary ole family room, which it probably was to her, not some immense spectacle filled with curiosities, which it was for me.

  To me, it was a furniture showcase, as if we walked into a grandiose model showroom, or a foldout spread in a designer home magazine. Strategically placed brown leather couches and chairs allowed for optimal movement for a large number of guests, while a tasteful sprinkle of art graced the walls. Subtle hints of “D’s” decorated the room, including a large cream D on top of the mantle above the fireplace. On either side of the D sat family photos encased in matching cream frames.

  Right off the runway, each picture resembled the artificial families that came stuck in the frame before you removed the paper. Once you stuck in your real pictures, they were usually a disappointment compared to the model family. But Denver’s family was that model family. They looked artificial. Perfect. Too amazing to be real.

  Denver’s dad resembled a slightly older version of her brother. Bright eyes, handsome, chiseled features, dark, wavy hair with the tiniest hint of salt, and the most minute crinkles around the eyes, all the while still exuding a rugged charm. Her mother could pass as Denver’s sister, her face natural yet frozen in time. Long golden locks tumbled down her shoulders, cut at a more modest length. Little dimples on her cheeks sat on either side of her fantastically luminous smile.