She's beautiful. Poppy Grace. She's soft. Hardly ever speaks. And she's honest. I like that she's honest.
I turn back to look at her as I cross over to my side of the street. I'm not sure if I'll see her again. Dad was talking about moving again. He said that this neighbourhood was too quiet. Quiet drives him mad.
He says because he's a writer, he needs melodrama. He needs things to happen before his writing can happen.
I write, too. But, I never show anyone. I don't want Dad to make a big deal out of it. I don't want him to turn me into him. I don't want to be a writer.
I sit by my desk and watch her through my bedroom window. She's still sitting in the grass. Messing up the lawn.
I don't know what happened to her mom. I don't. But, I did that to their car. I crashed it. I did it because Dad wanted me to. He wanted melodrama. So, I gave him melodrama.
I didn't know she was going to cry about it. I baked the cake just in case. And she ate all of it. Then she got a runny tummy. I put a laxative in the cake. Dad said it would add some humour. It wasn't humorous. I felt bad for her; she was in pain.
"Hey, kid." Dad likes calling me that. He thinks that's the way we'd speak if we were in a movie adaptation of one of his books. "What are you up to?"
"I did it." I don't know why my hands are trembling.
He sits down by me. "Are you okay?"
I nod. But, I'm not. I just don't know how to tell him.
"Okay." He touches my hair. I pull away. He looks at me. "You don't hate me do you?"
I don't. I just don't like him very much. "No."
"I'm making pasta." He gets up. "It'll be ready in ten—oh. And Poppy's downstairs. She's waiting for you."
I follow him downstairs. She's sitting in the lounge, eating the biscuits at the centre of the table. She prefers oatmeal.
"Poppy?" I'm as quiet as I can be. But, I scare her away. She jumps.
"Yes," she says, rising to her feet. She's changed. She's in a conservative dress and boots.
We sit in the kitchen, eating dinner quietly with Dad. She eats Dad's pasta eagerly.
"Mom didn't come home," she says to her macaroni. Her hair hangs around her face, hiding her from me.
"It's okay," Dad says. He gives her a look. I think he's trying to be reassuring. "She'll be home before you know it. Maybe she's working late—"
"She doesn't have a job," Poppy says.
Dad doesn't know what else to say. So, we just resume our silence. It's better like that. Less messy.
My knees are wobbling beneath the table. Like jellies. I try not to stare. But, she's so human, sitting at my dining table with my dad.
She tucks her hair behind her ear and takes a sip of her Sprite. Her lips curl around her glass. They stain the rim pink. "You're lips."
"What?" she asks, staring at me as she wipes off her lipgloss. Her wrist goes pink.
"There was something on you're lips," I say quietly.
Dad rises to his feet, collecting the plates. "Anyone wants dessert?"
"No, Dad," I insist. I pull Poppy out of her seat, grab two Popsicles from the freezer and go to the backyard. It's dark out. But, the sky is still a little blue.
That's the thing about where we live. The sky goes blue when it's nighttime.
We sit on the swings. Dad had it built when we moved here. That was only a month ago.
Poppy bites her popsicle. "You're dad acts like a dad..."
"I guess." I kicked my feet up into the air. "It's whatever."
"My mom just does stuff for me," she says. "Like she doesn't know how to handle me. Like I'm a pet."
"Parents are supposed to do stuff for you," I say.
"She always does this. You know," Poppy says. She stares up at the blue. "But, she's never been away this long. At least not on a school night. She's always home before school ends. I think something is wrong."