Young Writers Society

Hi, my name is Poppy Victoria Anna Maria Newman. But you can just call me Poppy. I’ve been in the support group for about six months now and it still isn’t helping, believe it or not. And I’m doing alright.

That’s how I introduce myself every week in the living room of my church group leader’s stuffy, 80-year-old-smelling house. I would tell you how I introduce myself outside of the support group but I don’t really talk much outside of the support group. Those words are usually the only words I ever utter throughout the week, unless something special happens.

My mom has convinced (brainwashed) my dad into believing the stupid thing helps. But it doesn’t. It never has. I don’t tell her that because that would mean actually speaking and actually speaking takes energy that I don’t have.

School is alright, I guess. I’m in all advanced classes but somehow, I still find every person that walks on the classroom floor unbearably unintelligent. Except for two people. My English teacher, Dr. Leicester—pronounced Lester, not Lice-ester, which is how the other nimrods pronounce it. And Lillian. But Lillian is gone. Excuse me for a second.

Dr. Leicester’s name is a pain to spell but I like Doc anyway. He gets why I don’t talk. He doesn’t pester pressed-her gesture me to speak up, to “get over it,” like everyone else does. I bet he’s been through something similar, but to ask him would mean actually speaking and actually speaking takes…well, you know.

Doc gives me busy work during the day to keep my mind off of things. Things. Excuse me for a second.

Doc lets me do whatever I want in his class, which is nice because doing whatever I want means doing actual work, whereas the idiots surrounding me just copy down whatever their fellow idiot writes. I like working. It…helps. Unlike support group. Support group makes you think and thinking makes you want to speak and speaking makes you want to do and I can’t do anything right now. Maybe not ever again.

“Poppy,” says a voice. Shattering splattering scattering my mindless thoughts. It’s my support group leader. She’s convinced, like my mom, that she’s making a difference but I can see right through her charade parade tirade. She was once a nincompoop like the rest of them. She says my usage of insults is my way of coping but really I’m just a bad person.

“Poppy, where are you right now?” I shift to tell her I’m here. Where else would I rather be than right here. With Lillian? That’s a joke.

“Poppy, why don’t you talk to us?” I look up through my bramble shamble ramble blonde hair to see eight other faces staring at mine. I see one in the corner who is actually kind of cute but probably intolerably stupid, like the rest of them. Their ignorant eyes beg me to enlighten them. Suddenly it dawns on me that maybe Lillian would want me to speak, for their sake. So they won’t die stupid. Like she did.

“Lillian Catherine Omega Johansen was my best friend and who can’t be best friends with a girl whose middle name is Omega—” Here, they laugh and I don’t because I’m not funny. I’m horrible. “She was…she was…”

“Poppy, I promise you we won’t get caught,” Lillian promises me. I toss my head back and let out a ripping laugh. I can’t help myself. Driving at the top of our lungs, tearing down the empty country road towards town, having nothing to do but drink whatever it is Lillian took from her parents’ basement, we took to freedom like a baby bird took to flying: too much, too quickly.

“AND SHE WILLLLLLLL BE LOOOOOOOOVED,” we screamed with Adam Levine, adding drunken laughter to the soundtrack when we felt it appropriate—and even when we didn’t.

I pulled off a back road to our favorite clearing. We stopped the truck, got out and laid in the bed, looking up at the sky. Lillian started drunk-talking about life and why we’re here and I tried to drink it in but found I was too full. I was too full. I was too full. I didn’t hear. I didn’t notice.

Driving back was quiet. Weird.

The next day was quiet. My phone made no noise. Strange. Then: Jacob Pullman updated his status: “May the soul of Lillian Catherine Johansen rest in peace.”

My last thought was, Omega.

“My mom found me just in time,” I finished. No one was laughing now. “And that’s why I’m here.”

“Here, as in the support group?” asked the Cutie Patootie. No, I thought.

“No,” I said. I stood. “I mean why I’m here. On earth. To…to…” That night I thought I didn’t hear her…I had heard her, or at least I did now. Loud and clear: live.

“To live,” I whispered to no one.

I walked out of the room and down the street, to my home.