Dear Poppy

by Ronni Arno

“Longer,” Britt chimes in. “We weren’t even in school yet.”

  Brody nods. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “So.” Britt puts her hands on her hips. “Let’s get this farm back in action.” She smiles, and it’s amazing how different she looks when she does. She looks so much like Brody when she smiles.

  “This is where my dad said the garden can go.” I point to the dusty, brown patch of land, which was once thriving and alive with color.

  Britt pushes the bangs out of her eyes and stares at the would-be garden. She bends down and picks up a blob of dirt. She feels it in between her fingers as if it were a piece of silk. Then she looks up at the sky, looks down at the dirt, and looks up at the sky again.

  “This will do,” she says finally.

  “Great!” I smile. “There are tools in the shed. We can—”

  “Hang on,” Britt says. “We’re going to need some topsoil. And some compost.”

  I blink.

  “I don’t know if we have any of that.” But then again, I don’t even know what any of that is. “I’ll go ask my dad.”

  I run into the house and find Dad vacuuming the family room. I had no idea Dad even knew how to use a vacuum. Back in our apartment, Troy and I had to keep our rooms neat, and a cleaning lady came in once a week to clean the rest of the place.

  “Oh hey, Poppy.” Dad turns the vacuum cleaner off. “What’s going on?”

  “Do we have topsoil or compost?” I hope I remembered that right.

  “I just ordered some topsoil. It was delivered yesterday. I had them drop it off behind the barn. No compost, though. That we have to make ourselves.”

  “Can we do that now?”

  Dad laughs. “No. That takes some time. Compost is basically rotting organic matter. You know, fruit, vegetables, leaves that break down after a while.”

  I crinkle up my nose. “Sounds smelly.”

  Dad smiles. “Not if it’s done right.”

  “So can I use some of the topsoil for my garden?”

  “Sure. There’s a wheelbarrow and some shovels back there too.”

  I head to the door when Dad calls me back. “Please don’t leave your phone on the kitchen table. Remember we’re having guests tonight.”

  “Fine.” I stuff the phone in my back pocket, then run back outside and tell Britt and Brody about the topsoil behind the barn. Britt sends Brody and me over with the wheelbarrow, while she goes into the barn to search for a hoe. Which, apparently, isn’t just something Santa Claus says.

  “Hey,” Brody says, handing me a shovel. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have a dad.”

  “You don’t?” I take the shovel from Brody.

  “Well, I do, but I don’t see him anymore.”

  “That stinks,” I say.

  Brody shrugs. “He’s kind of a jerk.”

  “I’m really sorry.” I look at Brody, but he’s looking at the topsoil. “But maybe he’ll change. People can change.”

  Brody smiles, but it’s not his usual light-up-his-face smile. It’s kind of a halfway smile, and he almost looks sad. “Maybe.”

  “Well.” I try to catch his eyes but he’s still focusing on the topsoil. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Yeah,” Brody says. “Since you told me about your mom, you know, I wanted to tell you that not everybody has two parents, so I kind of know how you feel.”

  If my knees weren’t wobbling so much and I could actually move my legs, I’d run and give Brody a hug.

  “I really appreciate that,” I say instead. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, so I figure he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. I pick up my shovel and take a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Brody laughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You are.” He leans against his shovel, smiling at me. “You’re—you’re not like anyone else around here.”

  I feel like I just ate a spoonful of compost. I can’t believe Brody thinks of me like an outsider too. Just because I—

  “I mean that in a good way.” Brody elbows me in the side.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” Brody isn’t looking at the topsoil anymore. He’s staring right at me, and the sunlight is making his green eyes glow so brightly that they look neon. “I like you. I mean—you’re cool.”

  I’m pretty sure my head is about to explode, and I want to tell him that he’s cool, and that I like him too, but I’m afraid if I try to say something fire will come out of my mouth instead of words.

  After I don’t say anything for a few seconds, Brody looks down. “I guess we should start filling the wheelbarrow or Britt will have us working overtime.”

  I nod, and we both dig into the big mound of dirt with our shovels. It doesn’t take long to fill the wheelbarrow, and Brody pushes it over to the garden, me tagging behind.

  We dump the dirt out, and Britt spreads it across the designated garden area. We do this for another couple of hours, and when we’re done, I can’t believe what I see.

  There’s a garden. I mean, there are no flowers or anything in it yet, but Britt found some wood in the barn and made a cute little fence along the outside to keep animals out.

  After the last of the dirt is spread, Britt looks up, wipes her sweaty forehead with a gloved hand, and says, “Now the real fun begins.”

  Britt goes over to her bike and opens up what looks like a small cooler that’s strapped in behind her seat. Unlike Tammy’s lavish cooler, Britt’s is old and worn. She brings the cooler over to the garden and sets it on the ground.

  She lifts off the lid and pulls out a tiny little rosebush. There must be at least half a dozen of them in there, each planted in a miniature pot.

  “Awwww,” I say. “They’re so cute.”

  “They’re babies,” Britt says. “And like babies, they need lots of love and care to grow.”

  Britt strokes the tiny leaves as if they were the ears of a puppy. As she holds the roses, everything about her is different. Her eyes soften, her shoulders relax. She has none of that tough-girl exterior that I saw the first day of school.

  “First, we have to dig a hole for each of them,” Britt says, and Brody hands me my shovel. “So let’s mark the spots where each of them will go.”

  Britt makes six little Xs with a stick, all in a row. Brody and I each take three, and we start digging the holes while Britt gently removes the roses from their pots.

  Once the holes are dug, Britt gently holds the rosebush toward me. “Here you go. Your first baby!” Her green eyes light up like fireflies.

  I hold my hands out, not quite sure what I’m supposed to do with this teeny, very delicate plant. If I hold too tightly, I’ll squeeze it to death. If I hold too loosely, I’ll drop it. Britt can probably sense my extreme newbie-ness, so she drops the plant into my palms and tells me to just cup my hands around it.

  “Now just place it into this hole.” She’s standing over the first hole in the row.

  I bend down, holding the plant as if it were made of fine china, and place it in its new home.

  “Perfect.” Britt nods. “Next, we need to pack the soil gently around it.”

  Brody kneels beside me and we each push the soil toward the tiny plant. Our hands accidentally touch, and I practically fall backward.

  “Sorry.” He gives me a real quick smile, then looks back down at the dirt.

  “Oh, it’s okay.” I put my head closer to the ground so he can’t see that my face is turning more red than any rose has ever been in any garden anywhere in the whole wide world.

  “Nice.” Britt nods, satisfied with our technique. “Now you just want to do the same for the rest of them.”

  Brody and I repeat the process five more times, and when we’re done, there are six tiny rose plants sticking out of the ground. Just knowing that these roses are in the exact same spot as my mom’s roses were when she was my exact same age makes me feel lighter than I’ve felt in days.

  “We’ve got to
get a picture of this.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and get pictures of each and every rosebush. Then Britt, Brody, and I huddle together to take a selfie with the garden in the background.

  “Now, just for fun,” Britt says, and she pulls a packet out of her cooler. “Let’s throw some seeds in there.”

  Britt tells me to hold out my hand, and she pours something that looks like little pebbles into my palm. Then she gives some to Brody.

  “It’s really hard to plant roses from seed, but since we have some extra space, I thought we could give it a try.”

  We sprinkle the seeds down into the soil. Britt stands back and admires her handiwork. “We should cover them in mulch.” Britt looks at me. “Does your dad have any?”

  “I’ll go ask.” Just as I’m about to turn around and go inside I hear my stomach rumble. I have no idea what time it is, but it is probably well past lunch. “You guys want to come in and get something to eat?”

  They both nod enthusiastically, then take their gardening gloves off and put them on their bike handlebars. We kick our muddy shoes off, and they follow me into the kitchen. Troy’s in the family room playing video games, and Dad is nowhere to be found.

  “That’s my brother, Troy.” I point to the blob on the couch. “Troy, this is Britt and Brody.”

  Troy waves, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the television.

  “Have a seat.” I wave over to the kitchen table, and then go into the pantry for some chips and salsa. I grab the lemonade out of the fridge and pull some mint leaves out of the produce drawer. I open the bag of mint leaves and take a nice, long whiff.

  Smells like Mom.

  “Let’s eat on the front porch.” I pour three glasses of lemonade and plop a mint leaf into each. I put the glasses, chips, and salsa on a carrying tray I find in one of the top cupboards, and carefully lift the tray off the table.

  “I can help with that,” Brody says, and takes the tray from my hands.

  “Want me to carry anything?” Britt asks.

  “I think we’re all set,” I say. “Let’s go out the front door.”

  We step out onto the porch, and Brody sets the tray down on the table in between the rocking chairs. He picks up a glass and takes a sip of lemonade.

  “This is delicious.” He licks his lips. “The mint makes it even more awesome.”

  I smile. “Mint was my mom’s favorite.”

  “Mint’s my favorite too,” Brody says. “Especially when it’s fresh.”

  We spend the next few minutes slurping our lemonade and crunching on chips. We’re quiet, but it’s not that awkward quiet that people get when they don’t know what to say to each other. It’s more like that quiet people get when they don’t need to explain every little thought that goes through their heads.

  The front door opens and Dad steps out with a broom.

  “Hi, there.” Dad gives us a wave. “Don’t mind me, guys. Just going to tidy up a little bit.”

  Of course he decides to clean RIGHT NOW.

  “Oh hi, Dad.” I put my lemonade glass back down on the tray. Dad keeps sweeping the same spot over and over again, looking up at me every few seconds. I think he’s waiting for an introduction. “These are my friends Britt and Brody.”

  Brody stands up and extends his hand. “Hello, Mr. Pickler.”

  “Hello, Brody.” Dad shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Britt gives a little wave. “Hello, sir.”

  “Hi there, Britt.” Dad squints as he looks at her, and then his eyes go back to Brody. “Are you guys twins?”

  “Yes, sir.” Brody nods.

  “You look so much alike.” Dad smiles, and starts sweeping the porch.

  “Can I help you with that, sir?” Brody asks.

  “No, thank you, Brody,” Dad says. “This will only take me a minute.”

  “Did you see the garden?” I ask Dad.

  He stops sweeping. “No, I haven’t been back there yet. How’s it looking?”

  “Great.” I dip a chip in salsa. “These guys have been a huge help.”

  “Fantastic,” Dad says. “Maybe they can help me get the rest of the farm up and running.”

  “We’re happy to help anytime.” Brody’s voice sounds deeper than usual, and I wonder if he’s making it sound that way on purpose.

  “Thank you, Brody. Maybe you’re looking for a summer job?”

  “Really?” Brody’s eyes grow huge. “That would be awesome.”

  Dad pats Brody on the back. “Great! You’re hired. How about you, Britt?”

  “Maybe, sir,” Britt says. “I usually help my mom with stuff around the house in the summer.”

  Dad nods. “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “Remember, Poppy.” Dad looks at me. “We’re having a guest for dinner. So if you could start cleaning up, that would be nice.”

  I roll my eyes when he turns to Britt and Brody.

  “You kids want to stay?” he asks.

  “Thank you, sir,” Brody says. “But we told our mom we’d be home for dinner.”

  “Another time, then.” Dad winks.

  “Thank you, sir,” Brody says again. None of my friends back home ever called my dad “sir.”

  Dad goes back inside and I groan. It’s so totally embarrassing when your dad tries to be cool around your friends.

  “What?” Brody asks. “Your dad seems really nice.”

  I shrug. “He’s okay—now. He was very different before we moved here. I hardly ever saw him.”

  “We hardly ever see our mom.” Brody takes a chip and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. “She’s always working.”

  “That’s how it was with my dad,” I say. “But now that we’re here he doesn’t have to work as much, so he has more time to . . . I guess to be a dad.”

  “It must be nice to have him back,” Brody says.

  “Yeah.” I hold the glass of lemonade in my hands and stare down at the mint leaf floating inside. “But I miss my mom.”

  “I miss my mom too,” Britt says, her voice barely above a whisper.

  I want to ask her why, since she sees her mom every day, but she’s looking down at her feet, and I get the feeling that maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it any further. Instead, I raise my lemonade glass. “Here’s to moms.”

  Britt and Brody raise their glasses to mine, and they make a light clinking sound as they touch.

  “Speaking of moms, you’ll never guess who my dad is having over to dinner tonight.”

  Britt and Brody look at each other and shrug.

  “Kathryn Woodruff’s mom.”

  Britt stands up, and lemonade splashes out of her cup. “Your dad is dating Tammy Woodruff?”

  “They’re not exactly dating.” My voice is so loud it echoes off the porch floor. “They’re just—she’s just coming over for dinner.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” Britt says. “She’s trouble.”

  “You hardly even know her, Britt.” Brody takes a swig of lemonade. “How do you know what she’s like?”

  “Because Mom hates her,” Britt says. “And I’m sure she has her reasons.”

  “You don’t know that.” Brody shakes his head.

  “What are her reasons?” I lean forward in my chair and look at Britt.

  Britt shrugs. “I don’t know. But whenever we see her at school events, or at the grocery store, my mom says words she shouldn’t and turns the other way.”

  “Do you think maybe you can get the scoop from your mom?” I say. “I need to get some concrete evidence so I can convince my dad not to see her.”

  Britt and Brody look at each other for a split second.

  “Our mom—she’s—she’s been really busy and stuff. We try not to bother her with too much unless it’s an emergency.” Brody takes an ice cube out of his lemonade and starts chewing on it.

  I look back and forth between Britt and Brody, but neither of them looks up at me.

  Don’t they know that this is an emergency?

&nbs
p; CHAPTER

  16

  GOOD GOBLINS. MY FATHER IS wearing a tie.

  He’s also running around the house like getting ready for dinner is an Olympic event. There’s something in the oven (looks bad, smells good), there are candles on the table (looks good, smells bad), and hold on a second . . . Did Dad gel his hair?

  “Poppy, can you set the table?”

  I stare at him. “Dad, it’s only three o’clock.”

  “And that means Tammy’s going to be here in an hour. I want everything to be ready before she walks in the door.”

  I roll my eyes and head for the cabinet where we keep the dishes.

  “Not those,” Dad says. “The good plates.”

  I blink. “What good plates?”

  “The ones in the china cabinet in the dining room.” Dad slips his hand into a giant oven mitt and grabs a steaming dish out of the oven.

  I just stare at him. After a few seconds of taking things out and putting things into the oven, he realizes I haven’t moved.

  “Poppy? The dishes?”

  “Those are Grandmom’s good dishes.” I put my hands on my hips.

  Dad closes the oven door, then looks back at me. “You know they’re ours now.”

  “And we’re using them for the first time on Tammy?” My fists clench, and I dig my fingernails into my palms to distract me from the fact that tears are sprouting in my eyes. “We’re supposed to use them for special occasions only.”

  Dad adjusts his apron. “Having someone over for dinner is a special occasion.”

  “You just met her. Shouldn’t we save the good china for family and friends?” He opens his mouth to say something, but I keep going. “I mean, friends you’ve known for longer than five minutes.”

  Dad takes a deep breath. I know I sound like a bratty five-year-old. But I’m still right. Tammy doesn’t deserve my grandmother’s—my mother’s mother’s—best china.

  “Fine,” Dad says tightly. “Use the regular dishes.”

  I can’t tell if Dad sees my point of view, or if he just doesn’t have time to argue with me. I grab four dinner plates out of the cabinet and set each one on the place mats dad set out. The place mats are flowery and fancy, but since I don’t recognize them as ours—or Grandmom’s—I don’t say anything. I bet Dad went out and bought new place mats. Old Dad used to eat off paper plates.