4. Poppy Wells

4

Poppy Wells

T he last time I walked down this street, I was chasing after a dream I knew would never be mine. I didn’t know what I thought would happen, but little girls liked to dream until they realized that the world doesn’t deal in pinkie promises and wishes on stars.

I shivered as the crispy Oregon breeze brushed against my skin. I’d forgotten how cold the wind blown in from across the open ocean down here on the coast could get. Hawthorne Hills was a small town tucked away on the West coast of the United States of America—where the forest met the ocean. From evergreen pine trees coated in dew drops from the morning light rain down to the concrete roads laced in a veil of mist, there was an almost mysterious aura hidden beneath the threads of summer and golden beaches.

Vast mountains roamed the outskirts as wildflower meadows were tucked neatly between small pockets of forest and patches of free roaming grasslands. The waves kissed the golden grained beaches, hugging the fallen rocks piled at the bottom of the cliffs.

A single onyx road ran parallel to the coastline, connecting the old main street down at the northern oceanfront to the new property developments that had been renovated by the floods of wealthier families who’d moved to town over the years.

If you followed the road past the cliffs at the ocean’s edge and down towards the beach, you’d be greeted with the end of the old main street where most of the local homes resided. Sandy sidewalks coated in greenery lined each side of the paved street, on which homes of gray wooden planks and cobblestones lay. It wasn’t anything fancy, not like the main part of town, but it was enough.

Hollows beach hugged the mainland—aka, the best stretch of beach for surfing. From its soft sands to its monstrous waves, it followed the west coast down to the next town over. Huge fragments of cliffs jutted out into the ocean that were broken off from the mainland; the waves eroding them away slowly until only the memories of them remained.

Most days, my life felt like those cliffs—that I was slowly being washed away into memories. The only difference between us was that people here would remember the cliffs.

No one would remember me.

Hawthorne’s natural forests with rivers for veins and branches of pine for fingers surround the town. Vast stretches of it weaved through Hawthorne Hills, no part of the town untouched by the comfort of the woodlands. Small bridges connected parts of the forest where the crystal clear post-glacial rivers ran through them.

I remembered when I was little, I followed the various woodland trails across the bridges down towards Glacial Point. I used to love sitting down, my legs dangling through the wooden bars above the ravines below. Chirps of wild birds soaring overhead and the current of the flowing river below quickly became the most comforting melody I’d ever heard.

Snow-covered mountain tops peaked through the low stretch of clouds in the distance and small local-owned shops were littered along the main street, including Buckley’s bar, which catered more to the passing tourists and Elite kids, especially because it was a family-owned bar by ice hockey hotshot Cade Buckley.

Locals from the other side of town, like myself, opted to hang down by Sunny’s Hut on the old main street. From surf gear to smoothie bowls, Sunny’s Hut was vibrant and full of life, and also happened to have everything a small beach hut business could ever need—including pastel deck chairs for outdoor seating.

At the top of the cliffs lay the local surf school, a place I had always wanted to attend since I was a little kid. Enclosed in a forest of green, a small oak boardwalk lead down the cliffs to the beach below. Most of the wooden planks were coated in grains of sand and stained with droplets of salt water that had fallen from the boards of the beginner surfers that took classes there.

I always wanted to be one of them, but my father refused to let someone else coach me. He thought of them as if they were evil villains trying to corrupt me and turn me against him. I always envied the kids who got to experience the joy and friendships formed in those classes, but my father taught me how to win, and that was something I never lost sight of. I was the Orca, after all, second was never an option for me.

Just then, taped to a nearby lamppost, a glint of a flier caught my eye .

Surfing teacher wanted!

If interested, please contact Daniel Gonzales at the surf school.

All are welcome!

I pursed my lips before taking the flier down and folding it into my back pocket to look at thoroughly when I got home. That was the perfect job, if there ever was one. I’d get paid to surf —well, teach kids to surf but how difficult could that be? At least it would be something stable.

I’d heard of the Gonzales family. They moved here from Latin America years ago now, and the last time I saw them, they were expecting a kid of their own. Ever since the accident, they were one of the only families who didn’t join in with the public slaughtering my mom and I faced that month continuously until it became too much, and we had to move away. But, on a positive side, they would be less inclined than others to refuse to hire me because of who I was.

By the time I reached the junction, I decided that I would go down and ask if there was a position still available for hire. I needed the money, and if that made me a selfish bitch, one of my favorite insults they loved to call me, then so be it—financial security was important to me, and besides, I had to dig my way out of this hell hole somehow.

Not that any of these idiots cared.

Part of me still couldn’t grasp why they all did what they did, but I’d given up trying to understand that night years ago. To this day, I hadn’t been able to open up to anyone about it and I was beginning to think it was something I would take to my grave.

Now that , being six feet under in a casket, seemed more comforting than having to face starting a new life here again and having to go home to an addict mother who was slowly killing herself.

I shoved the thoughts away.

It was a new year.

A new Poppy.

I shuddered, fighting the wave of nausea that just surfaced in my throat. I’d thrown up three times this morning because I was so fucking nervous, I could’ve ripped my hair out. My fingers couldn’t stop shaking so I decided to fiddle with the wire of my headphones in my pocket as I walked.

I knew there was something wrong with me. Even though I didn’t strive to starve myself, my relationship with food was definitely far from perfect . Looking at food shouldn’t make my entire body itch with the weight of my anxious thoughts, yet here I was struggling to eat more than a few bites because the voices inside my own head had convinced me it would make me ill. Now I could barely stomach more than a handful of bites before I felt full. Over the last few years, I’d lost so much of the muscle and physique my father and I had spent so long striving to achieve.

I wanted to get it back, to get it all back—Jesus, I just wanted my life back.

But there was a small, hidden part of me that found some sort of comfort in the pain—in the sorrow and suffering, and for some reason, I didn’t want to let it go. The darkness inside my head had enveloped my mind for so long, I didn’t know who I was without it.

And worse, that same small part of me didn’t ever want to find out.

All I had to do this year was keep my head down and surf like hell if I wanted to grab one of Hawthorne Hills Elite Academy’s scholarship programs. As it was so well funded, it was the only Academy in all of the Northwestern Pacific states that could only accept students from wealthy backgrounds. However, it did offer ten scholarship places each year. It didn’t matter what the scholarship was for, there were ten and ten only .

Never more. Never less.

And this summer, I was going to make sure that one of those places belonged to me .

Making my way down the old, hidden path that led up towards the back of my old house, I found myself holding my breath as I approached cautiously. People stared at me with a look I couldn’t escape from. The one everyone puts on as they see me—the one of disgust and fear.

Each time, they were met with my unyielding stare and clenched jaw. But, of course, they took one look at you regardless and decide that they knew everything about you. It happened all the time, especially when I went to the ER a few years back for a broken rib and busted shoulder—the doctor took one look at my file, read the words ‘ has anxiety , do not prescribe any pain medication’ , and decided that I was a nut-case with a drug problem.

Of course, he didn’t know that the only reason I overdosed on those pills was so that my mom wouldn’t be able to crush them and get high again. It didn’t stop her from forcing her fingers down my throat, screaming at me to throw them up. It wasn’t because she cared about me or wanted me to live…it was because she wanted them.

She wanted to be the one who got to leave this hellhole.

I unlocked the door and shook off my shoes onto the worn-out mat. The next few hours went by in a blur as I cleaned—just me, the trusty old mop, and my music. I put my Harry Styles playlist on shuffle and let myself forget the world.

Just as I tucked away the rest of the cleaning supplies under the sink, I jumped up onto the counter which was just big enough so that I could sit on it and stuffed my hands into my pockets, letting my head fall back against the cupboards overhead.

I remembered the panic that itched its way through my body when I pulled out the flier with the surf teacher job written across it, and immediately jumped off the counter. I threw on a pair of worn-down sliders and ran like hell was chasing me.

That was how I ended up here, standing outside the surf school’s door, inches away from knocking as the sun began to set below the waves behind me. Just as I was about to knock, calling up the courage past Poppy used to own and make work for her, the door flew open, crashing straight into my face.

The cry that left my lips was drowned out by the string of Spanish curses from the person responsible for the trickle of blood that now dripped down my chin. Before I knew it, I was being pulled inside by the elbow and guided into what looked like a medical room. Pushed up against a chair that looked like the ones from the sick room back in kindergarten, I sat down and began to tilt my head backwards.

“ No, no, no, ” the same voice drew out, before huge, sturdy hands gripped the side of my face and tilted my head back down, “always tip your head down when you get a nosebleed, or you could end up choking on the blood.”

If I could, I would’ve smiled at the kind note, but my face was throbbing, and even thinking about doing that hurt. My eyes blurred over, and I could barely make out the tall figure crouched down, grabbing various things from the draws below. The only noise around us was the rustle of plastic packaging and opening of drawers, but it still managed to give me a headache.

“You’re not going to murder me, are you? Because I can scream really loud, and I’m sure the neighbors could hear me if you tried to stab me or something,” I said quietly, shocked that I’d even said something in the first place. I guess the nosebleed was making me lose tongued. Or maybe it was the throbbing pulse of my head making me dizzy. I couldn’t tell.

“If I was going to murder you, it would be with poison. Stabbing someone comes with a lot of blood that I would have to take care of, and like you said if you had a powerful scream, I wouldn’t have enough time to get rid of it all before the cops showed up,” the voice mused, playing along with my hypothetical situation.

“Seems like you’ve thought about this a lot. Have you done this before?”

“Done what before?”

“Bash girls noses in with doors and then plot how you’re going to murder them.”

He laughed, and it felt like a dream.

“Nope,” he breathed, “you’re my first victim. ”

I tried to laugh. “I’m honored.”

“I think—” his voice stopped immediately, and only seconds later did I realize why as his firm hands gripped the side of my head, pulling me back upwards. A string of curses left his lips as he spoke quietly to himself, but I could still hear him. I think I would always hear his voice.

What felt like moments later, he removed the tissue from under my nose, and I wondered how long that had been there. Wow , this must be what my mom felt like when she was out of it. That thought alone was enough motivation for me to fight the faint that was about to take over my body.

Tight arms wrapped around my waist as I felt his warm body push against mine. He leaned back, taking me with him, and I was suddenly increasingly aware of his bare chest pushed up against my back.

Just as I squirmed out of his grip, he hushed in my ear, “Don’t fight it. I’ve got you.”

And suddenly, that was enough encouragement my body needed to plunge me straight into oblivion. As my vision went, I barely felt his fingers as they brushed a strand of my hair behind my ear, or his rushed breaths as he held me tighter to him.

Everything went black, but for once in my life…

I felt safe in the darkness.