by Ronni Arno
Kathryn gives me a tiny wave.
“Hi.” I force a smile. “Good luck.”
“Kathryn’s going for her fourth consecutive blue ribbon.” Tammy bounces up and down on her toes. “If we win this, she’ll beat the record for most consecutive ribbons in her age category. And you know who currently holds that record?”
Dad and I shrug.
“I do!” Tammy says, beaming.
Kathryn just looks at the floor.
“So.” Dad gestures to the flowers exhibited on the tables. “Which one of these beauties is yours?”
“I’m number thirty-two.” Kathryn points to a vibrant red rose standing proudly in a clear vase. The flower is bigger and brighter than the other roses. She’ll win for sure.
My shoulders slump. That should have been my rose. Mom’s rose.
“Last call for entries.” The voice comes over a loud speaker. “All exhibits must be ready for judging by nine a.m.”
Tammy’s talking a mile a minute, telling us all about what it takes to have champion roses. Kathryn just nods along, because after all, she would know.
“Three minutes.” The loudspeaker booms. “Three minutes to have all entries checked in.”
As riveting as Tammy is (NOT), my attention is drawn to someone running into the barn at full speed. My jaw drops to my socks when I see who it is.
It’s Britt.
And she’s holding something close to her chest. As she gets closer I see that it’s a clear vase.
And towering over the top is the most perfect pink rose I’ve ever seen.
Dad, Tammy, and Kathryn follow my gaze.
“What is she doing here?” Tammy demands, hands firmly on her hips.
“I don’t believe this,” Kathryn mutters. But she doesn’t say it like she’s upset. More like she’s impressed.
Britt places her vase on the exhibit table with the other roses. She attaches a card with the number fifty-four on the front.
While Tammy and Kathryn are whispering at each other, I run over to Britt.
“You entered?”
She smiles. “I can’t believe it, but I guess I did.”
I look at her rose. “Britt, this is incredible.”
Britt shrugs. “I think it’s the prettiest one I’ve ever grown.”
“But what about that thing you said—that flowers shouldn’t compete with one another and judges are judgy and all that?”
“Oh, I still believe that.” Britt nods. “But I also believe that maybe I believe that because I don’t quite believe in myself.”
“Uhhhh, that’s a lot of believing.” I raise an eyebrow.
“I guess it was easy for me to sit back and say that contests were stupid, because then I wouldn’t have to compete in one. But I’ve decided that, win or lose, I have to at least try.”
“That’s really cool of you,” I tell her.
“Maybe, but I also just want to beat the smug out of Kathryn and her mother,” Britt whispers.
“All entries should be in and ready for judging,” the voice over the loudspeaker says. “The judges will be coming around in the next few minutes.”
“Hello there, Britt.” Dad must have escaped the whispering Woodruffs. “Poppy didn’t mention that you’d be here.”
“She didn’t know,” Britt says. “It was a last-minute decision.”
Dad looks back at Tammy, and I can see that she’s giving him the same glare Kathryn is famous for.
“Well, good luck,” he says, and then he meanders back over to Tammy.
Britt stands next to her flower when the judges come by. They take notes in their little notepads, thank Britt, and then move on to the others. I watch as they examine Kathryn’s rose, but their reactions don’t change from one flower to the other.
After several minutes, the voice booms over the loudspeaker. “The judges have made their decision.”
I squeeze Britt’s hand. The judges stand in the front of the display, three ribbons in hand.
“The white ribbon, signifying third place, goes to Gregory Keller,” the head judge says, and everybody claps while the judge places the ribbon in front of Gregory’s rose.
“The red ribbon, signifying second place,” the judge begins, “goes to Kathryn Woodruff!”
I look over at Kathryn, and her face is snow white. She can’t even manage a fake smile as the judges present her with the red ribbon. Tammy’s face, on the other hand, is a shade of purple I’ve never seen before.
“And the blue ribbon, signifying first place,” the judge says, “goes to Britt Fuller!”
I jump up and down, and throw my arms around Britt.
“You’ve grown a gorgeous flower, Miss Fuller.” The judge places the blue ribbon in front of Britt’s vase. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.” Britt shakes the judge’s hand.
I turn to Kathryn, and tears are rolling down her cheeks. Tammy’s talking to her, but her back is to me and I can’t hear what she’s saying. Dad is standing on the other side of Tammy, looking like he’s trying to disappear.
Tammy grabs Kathryn’s hand, and they leave the barn. Dad congratulates Britt, and then reminds me that it’s just about time to set up my own project.
“Do you want to wait here for Tammy?” I ask him. “I can get the poster board out of the truck myself.”
“I can help,” Britt offers.
“No, that’s okay, Poppy.” Dad pats me on the back. “I’m sure we’ll find her later on. She’s probably trying to help Kathryn right now.”
We walk out of the barn and weave in and out of a sea of people carrying plants, leading horses, and towing bunny pens.
“I know a shortcut.” Britt points to the right.
We follow Britt past some smaller outbuildings. It’s much easier to walk quickly here, off the beaten path. We pass a small shed when we hear yelling coming from inside.
“I can’t believe you let this happen. After all we did to be sure Poppy wouldn’t win.”
I stop in my tracks, and Britt walks right into me.
Dad’s about to say something, but I put my finger to my lips to shush him. Surprisingly enough, he closes his mouth.
“You’re crazy, Mom,” another voice says. “Poppy was never a threat.”
“Maybe not this year. But those roses would have matured and been ready next year. I will not let a Walsh or a Pickler or anyone beat us.”
I recognize these voices, and by the look on Dad’s face, he does too.
“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?” It’s Kathryn. And she’s obviously crying. “Because Britt won.”
“We could have stopped her,” Tammy shrieks. “She’s a nothing.”
“This is ridiculous, Mom.” Kathryn’s voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. “They’re just flowers.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Kathryn,” Tammy says. “First you let that idiot Thomas almost get you suspended—”
“He didn’t tell on me,” Kathryn hisses. “I told you he’d cover for me.”
“It was too close for comfort. Next year we’ll . . .”
“There won’t be a next year.” Kathryn’s voice is louder now, more solid. “I’m done with this! You can grow your own flowers, and you can intimidate your own competition. I don’t care anymore!”
“Don’t you talk to me that way, young lady. We’re a team. The Woodruff women!”
“Maybe I don’t want to be a team anymore,” Kathryn says. “Maybe I just want to have my own life.”
And then the shack door swings open, and Kathryn comes running out. She sees us standing there and shakes her head.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks, and storms off in the other direction. Tammy comes zipping out after her. She sees us and freezes.
“Oh.” Her eyes grow to twice their normal size. “David. I’m sorry. I—It’s been a long day and . . . I didn’t mean to say that. I—”
Dad puts one arm around my shoulder and one arm around Britt’s. �
�No. I’m glad you did. It’s always best to speak the truth. And the truth is, I’d rather not see you again.”
And then he steers us toward the parking lot.
CHAPTER
26
I’M INSTRUCTED TO BRING MY project to Barn C. I walk in to find a big open space, with tables lining the perimeter of the room. Most of the other displays are already here, so I quickly find an open spot next to a project on global education, and set up. The students are supposed to stand next to their posters, so that anyone who walks by can ask questions.
As soon as my display is up, the barn door opens. A swarm of people come wandering in. I stand next to my poster, giving it a quick once-over. It’s not the project I thought I’d have, but I’m proud of it anyway.
“And what do we have here?” An older woman with a pink sweater smiles at me.
“It’s a scrapbook,” I answer. “Except it’s on a poster board instead of in a book.”
“Ahhhh.” The lady nods. “It’s very pretty.”
“Thank you.” I point to the left side of the poster. “This stuff is from when my mom was my age.” There’s all the photos that I found in her letters, along with quotes from the letters themselves, the movie stub from The Breakfast Club, and the mix tape from Brian. Carefully pinned to the cardboard is the dried rose I found inside A Popular Guide to Roses. “And the right side of the poster is about my life.” There are photos of Mandy and me, printouts of our texts, the selfie Britt, Brody, and I took while we were planting the roses, some pictures of the baby roses, and the iPod that Brody let me borrow.
“That is fascinating,” the woman says. “So many similarities. You even resemble each other. What a fun time you and your mother must have had putting this together.”
I look at the picture of Mom with her big hair, and a lump grows in my throat.
The line of people looking at the projects is out the door now. I explain my poster over and over again to each person that comes by, until I recite the lines from memory. I’m grateful for that, because repeating the words over and over again causes them to have less meaning somehow. After what feels like forever, the line gets shorter, until finally there’re just a few people left.
Mrs. Quinn and Mr. Russo are at the end of the line. I straighten my collar and take a sip of water as they approach.
“Hey there, Poppy,” Mr. Russo says. “Mrs. Quinn tells me you’ve got a pretty cool project here.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
Mr. Russo stops in front of my display and his eyes focus on Mom’s side of the poster board. “Well, would you look at that.” His voice, usually strong and chipper, is so soft I can barely hear him.
Mrs. Quinn takes her glasses from the chain around her neck and puts them on. She squints at the pictures. “Why, Brian, isn’t that you?”
“It sure is.” Mr. Russo’s eyes are fixed on the photo of Brian and Mom.
Brian and Mom.
Mr. Brian Russo.
Mr. Russo’s first name is Brian.
Brian is Mr. Russo!
“I remember when that was taken.” Mr. Russo laughs. “We were at the seventh-grade square dance.”
“You kids were so cute back then. Hard to believe I taught you all those years ago.” Mrs. Quinn winked at me. “I’m older than I look.”
I try to speak, but my mouth is so dry, the only thing that comes out of it is a puff of dust.
“Where did you find all this great stuff, Poppy?” Mr. Russo is looking at me. I can only stare back, and that’s when I notice that he has the exact same face now as he did then. I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier. Sure, his hair is gray, and he’s got wrinkles and a beard, but otherwise, it’s the same. Same curls. Same kind eyes.
“I . . .” I cough, trying to clear my throat. “I found it. Around the house.”
“These are true treasures.” He looks back at the photos.
“Mr. Russo,” I finally manage to say. “You’re Brian? I mean, that’s you in the pictures?”
“It sure is.” Mr. Russo beams. “I was quite a handsome fellow, wasn’t I?” And then he laughs. “In fact, there may be quite a few familiar faces here, Poppy.”
Wait. What?
“Let’s see . . .” Mr. Russo looks closer at the class photo. “Sure! There’s Mike Walker.”
“Who?” I squint at the picture.
“Mike Walker. Or, as you know him, Mr. Walker. Your science teacher.”
I stare at the photo. “That’s Mr. Walker?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Russo says.
“And there’s Tammy Griffin-Woodruff.” Mr. Russo points to a girl with a high ponytail. I was right. That’s Tammy.
“And there’s your mom.” Mr. Russo gives me a small smile, his eyes looking a little misty. “She was such a sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I recognized her immediately.” I look at the photo again. Mom’s smile is hard to miss.
“Oh, and there’s Penelope Topolski, right next to your mother, as usual.” Mr. Russo laughs.
“Those two were always inseparable,” Mrs. Quinn says.
“I’m sorry. Who?” I had no idea there was someone Mom was inseparable with.
“Right there.” Mr. Russo points to a girl right next to Mom. “They were the best of friends.”
“Hey!” Mr. Russo snaps his head up, as if he just remembered something very important. “Is that who you were named after?”
“What?” I ask. My mind is spinning.
“Penelope.” Mr. Russo points to the girl next to Mom in the photo.
“My name’s not Penelope, Mr. Russo. It’s Poppy.” I’m not sure which one of us is more confused.
“Yes, of course. ‘Poppy’ was Penelope’s nickname all through middle school. We didn’t start calling her Penelope until high school. When we were kids, everyone called her Poppy.”
I blink.
“So . . .” I try to talk, but the words get jumbled up in my mouth. I clear my throat and try again. “So my mom’s best friend in seventh grade was named Poppy?”
“Sure was.” Mr. Russo is still staring at the photo. “Isn’t that a hoot?”
CHAPTER
27
“EXCUSE ME,” I MUMBLE, AND I run out of the barn. I need to get some fresh air. I feel like I’m choking.
I walk as fast as I can, even though I have no idea where I’m going. I pass the dairy barn and the poultry barn. I’m about to pass the rabbit pen when I hear someone calling my name.
Britt runs up to me. “Poppy! Wait up.”
I stop and look at her, but my mind is somewhere else. “Are you okay?” She’s out of breath. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your project?”
“Sorry.” I put my hands in my hair. “I—I needed some air.” And then the tears come. I try to wipe them off my cheeks, but it’s no use. They’re coming too fast. Just as I’m about to tell Britt the whole story, Brody comes running up to us, a woman wearing a blue zip-up uniform following closely behind.
“Mom?” Britt says when the woman reaches us. “What are you doing here?”
“Brody called me.” She’s out of breath. “He said you’re entering the flower exhibit?”
Britt’s ears turn pink. “I am. I did.”
“Am I too late? Did they judge already?” Britt’s mom looks around, like the flower display will appear in front of her.
“They did judge already.” Britt takes the blue ribbon out of her pocket. “I won first place.”
“What?” Britt’s mom’s hands fly to her mouth. “You won?”
Britt nods, and her mom throws her arms around her.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have been here.”
“I tried to tell you this morning, but you were running late for work and said you’d talk to me later. Remember?”
“That’s what you wanted to say?” Mrs. Fuller shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “What kind of a parent have I been?” But she says it more to herself than to Britt or Brody.
&nb
sp; When she opens her eyes, Mrs. Fuller notices that I’m standing there.
“Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.” She looks right at me. She has the same green eyes as her kids. “How rude of me. I totally interrupted your conversation with Britt.”
I wave my hand in front of my face. Actually, the distraction helps. Tears are no longer pouring out of my eyes, so that’s a plus. “It’s okay, Mrs. Fuller.”
“Oh, please call me Penelope.”
“Penelope?” I whisper.
“Yes, ‘Mrs. Fuller’ is my mother-in-law’s name. And I never liked that crazy old bat.” She laughs.
“Mom, this is our friend Poppy,” Britt says. “She’s the one who moved into the old Walsh house.”
Mrs. Fuller—Penelope—looks like she saw a ghost.
“Poppy? Your name is—oh my goodness. It can’t be. Are you . . . You are. You look just like her.” Her eyes well up with tears. “You’re Daphne’s daughter.”
“And you’re Poppy.” Now we’re both crying.
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Brody asks.
“I can explain everything,” I say, as I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. I turn to Penelope. “I think I have something that belongs to you.”
CHAPTER
28
THE FULLERS FOLLOW ME OVER to Barn C. It’s almost empty now, except for a few kids taking down their displays.
When Penelope sees my poster, she gasps.
“Oh my,” she says. “Daphne.” Tears run down her cheeks.
I pull the last letter out of my pocket and hand it to Penelope. “I think this is supposed to be yours.”
She stares at it, and her face melts when she realizes what it is. “This is Daphne’s handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“I found a stack of them in the barn. They’re from the spring of 1985.”
Penelope holds the letter to her chest. “The spring of 1985. I remember. I went with my parents on a research trip to Greenland.”
“Greenland?” I ask.
Penelope nods. “They were scientists, and every year we went to some faraway place. Daphne and I always wrote letters to each other while I was gone. Only in Greenland, I remember, there was no way to get mail.”