Poppy

I go to the garage. And it's there. The old car. It wasn't old this morning.

I open the passenger door and it comes off. But, I sit inside anyway. I have to prop my legs up in the seat because the leg space is crunched. Like the car.

I stare at the garage door. I can imagine Mom driving right through it. I don't know why. She's normal. Like most people. But, I've always felt like it was a facąde.

"Hey, you." It's that boy. The neighbour's kid. He walks into the garage, holding a Tupperware container to his chest. "Is your mom here?"

Everyone is always looking for mom. "They bring things over so that they can have an excuse to spy," Mom would say. She's right.

The kid stares at the car. Really stares. Like he's never seen anything like it.

"I don't know."

He looks at me. He's contemplating what to do next. Like he's lost his way. Then he gets into the driver's seat. "What happened?"

"I don't know."

"You're crying."

"I liked this car."

"Me, too."

He doesn't say it because he likes cars. He says it because he thinks it's what I want to hear. I can tell. He opens the container and eats the cake with his fingers.

"Do you want some?"

I eat the cake with my fingers, too. There's a lot of snot and tears. But, he doesn't say anything. We sit in silence.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He shrugs, sucking his fingers. "I baked...this cake. Dad's not home. But, I wanted to share."

"Are you lonely?"

"Sometimes. Yes."

We didn't speak after that. Too much stuff was said. His words were heavy like the cake. And like the crashed car. And Mr Bennett's stupid Olympiad.

"Where do you think your mom went?" he asks.

"I don't know." I didn't know a lot of things. I didn't know what was wrong with his cake. But, it tasted crap. Only, I didn't stop eating.

"I think they ran away together."

We sit there and try to imagine what that's like. It's all wrong. Like a collage. It's bits and pieces.

"I don't," I say.

He laughs. "I don't either."

His legs are spread in the leg area of the driver's seat. The leg space isn't crushed there.

The kid runs his fingers over the dashboard. Broken glass sticks to his chocolate cake fingers. He licks it.

"The windscreen isn't shattered. Where'd the glass come from?" Glass glimmers like sugar on his lips.

"Her compact mirror?" Mom wears a lot of make-up. And she's always drawing on her face. Sometimes even while she's driving.

"Do you think that's possible?"

I shrug, taking the cake from him. He watches me eat the last of it.

"I don't think it was an accident." He says it like it's all facts.

I close my eyes and breath. Mom's always talking about this intuition stuff. Like, how sometimes you can feel things in your gut. I sat quietly. But, I couldn't feel anything. Nothing magical at least. My stomach cramped.

The kid sat outside the bathroom door. While I  sat on the toilet.

"I'm sorry," he said. Then paused. "I don't know what could have caused this..."

"I'm Harley by the way." He says it like it's totally normal for us to exchange common courtesy at a time like this.

"Poppy."

"Your name starts with the letter 'P'," he says. "I've never met someone with a name that starts with the letter 'P'."

"Harley is a girl's name."

"No," his voice is muffled. "It's the name of a motorcycle."

"Did they name you after a motorcycle?"

"No," he says. "My dad saw it on a shirt."

Everything I ate comes rushing out from the bottom of me. It sounds like a stampede. I laugh. Then he laughs.

"You're gross," Harley says.

"I know."

We sit outside on the lawn after and bathe in the pallid sunlight. I fiddle with the grass. And pull at its roots until I can see the earth underneath.

"I'm adopted," he says. "My doesn't know that I know."

"My mom is my sister."

"That's...messed up. What happened?"

Harley is inquisitive. I know that about him now.

"My mom died when I was young."

"Mine, too."

We have something in common. I'm not sure if I like having anything in common with him. He's odd.

We watch his dad pull into their driveway. He kills the engine and stands in the yard.

"Hey, kids?" He asks, waving at us slowly. He's not sure what he's seeing. "What are you doing?"

Harley is like his dad. They ask a lot of questions. He rolls his eyes. But, he doesn't like being asked questions.

"Nothing," he yells. "Go into the house!"

"Okay." Harley's dad does as he says.

He hides his face in his hands. But, he's not red. He's not embarrassed.

"He's so...obnoxious," he says.

"Parents are supposed to be like that. They supposed to want to know everything," I say.

"I asked him not to act weird about it though," he argues. He's not talking about the driveway thing anymore. "I have to go."