When the music starts, her face brightens.
She jumps out of the chair, runs over to me, grabs my hand and we dance. It’s amazing. She’s an entirely different person.
CUSTOM HEADPHONES BY MATTHEW MEAGHER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 81
Poppy pinches my bra strap, licks her thumb, and rubs my cheek. “Chloe, I like your clothes today.”
“Really?”
“My mom died in clothes like that.”
I should have jacked her in the face. It’s hard enough being who I am, let alone knowing I have feelings for the one girl that treats me like garbage.
We have five classes together. This one, Senior Seminar, is only 15 minutes, and students rarely show up.
Today is different. The teacher Mrs Delles holds up a bowl and says, “For your Senior Seminar Activity you will be compiling a project with a partner about your experiences in high school and your volunteer work in the community. You are all going to pick a name from the bowl.”
One after another we draw names. Pairings laugh together, excited about their picks.
“Poppy McGee,” Mrs Delles announces. “Come pick your partner.” Poppy eyes me. She walks to the front of the class and I get a waft of her flowery perfume. We are both counting, there can be only a few picks left.
Poppy places her hand in the bowl and picks me.
Mrs Delles gives us the remaining time to work with our partners. The first five minutes are death. Poppy and I don’t say a word. Finally, Poppy turns to me and says, “Look, we are going to have to get this done and I don’t want a scab on my graduation record, so let’s get this over with.”
Her words hurt. I want to be friends. But when she sees just a little bit of the shithole life I have, that’s never going to happen.
“I need your number.” she says.
I don’t respond.
“Hello?” she asks.
“Oh, sure, sorry.” I give her my phone to trade contacts. “Could we meet at a coffee shop or something?” I ask.
Poppy shakes her head.
“What?” I ask.
“Our project is Family. You can come to my place. Just shoot me a text and we’ll figure something out.”
The bell rings and she rushes out of the classroom and heads to the bathroom, I assume to fix her makeup.
It takes me three buses to get to Poppy’s place. The white mansions in her street are sick. Each driveway leads to a house standing on pillars wrapped in flowers and greenery. I feel like a black bug that accidentally got stuck on fresh white paint.
Poppy is staring down at me from a high window. “Come in,” she says, through a speaker. The door buzzes open into a show home. Pearl-white furniture scattered through three rooms each the size of my house and an unused dining room decorated with fake fruit.
At the entrance is a shoe cabinet. I look at my shoes. I’m not wearing socks. Poppy leans against the upstairs railing and stares at me, watches me struggle for a few seconds, and then says, “You don’t have to worry about that stuff. My dad is never home.”
She waves at me to come up. It’s like I’m approaching God or something. I’m out of breath when I reach the top. She meets me face to face and says in a stern voice, “No funny stuff, okay?”
“Okay.”