Page 1 of Five Summers

Chapter one

Poppy

The sound of my mother’s keys jingling at the front door interrupts my usual morning routine of rinsing my breakfast dishes. She’s home from her lengthy night shift at the nearby aged care facility. I shove my bowl into the dishwasher and turn to see her eyes on me.

I can already predict what she’s about to say before she even says it. It’s the same thing over and over, like a broken record.

“You’re going to be late?”

Yeah, well, hello to you too, I want to say, but instead of getting into a heated argument with her, I just go with, “Yeah, I know.”

As I’ve grown older, my relationship with my mom is somewhat strained. When I was nine, my mother kicked myfather out of the house. Whenever I think of him, a heavy wave of sadness crashes upon me, like a dark storm cloud rolling in, casting a shadow over my heart. Despite not having seen him for years, I miss him, along with the sound of his laugh.

To him, I was his princess, and he was my daddy. He could always make me laugh with his silly stories. He was the best father a girl could ever wish for. He is the reason I have a passion for music.

I have fond memories of the two of us sitting side by side as he patiently taught me the chords on his guitar. He taught me the art of composing music, showing me how to seamlessly merge a melody with lyrics. And then, we would sing the words we had written.

I can still recall the proud look on his face when I totally crushed those high notes.

Too bad my mother couldn’t see what we had before she kicked him out. If she did, maybe he would still be here. But thanks to her he’s not around now, because he left, and I haven’t seen him in years. I guess I wasn’t special enough for him to stick around.

With my mom still standing by the door, giving me a watchful glance, I quickly grab my bag and make my way towards her.

“So, have you made a decision yet?” she asks.

Damn, I was hoping I could get through today without her asking me this again. Always the same fucking question.

“Nope, as I’ve said a hundred times. I have no idea about what I’m going to do when school ends.”

Of course, I know what I want to do. I want to pursue music, but I can’t bring myself to tell her because I know she’ll be livid.

Right before I’m about to walk out the door, I pause.

“Seriously, Mom, stop asking me the same thing every day. Remember, I get to decide what I do. This is my life, not yours.”

Frustration and irritation wash over her face, causing her brows to furrow and her lips to tighten. “Poppy, you have no idea what awaits you beyond these walls. It is important to have some qualifications. Don’t be as useless as your father."

And there it is. It always circles back to him. She wants me to follow in her footsteps and pursue a career in caring for the elderly, just like she does. That job is okay, I guess. I mean, the elderly are adorable and everything, but it’s just not my cup of tea. My true passion lies in music. It’s what my dad passed on to me.

I know that music is a touchy subject for her because of my father. He used to be the lead singer of a band.

One day, when she was ranting about him in front of me, she let slip that he had been unfaithful to her multiple times with his groupies. That’s why she despises my dad. He shattered her heart into a million pieces. Talking about him causes her to become mad and sometimes unresponsive. That’s why I can’t talk to her about my desire to pursue music, because she’ll only dismiss it as if it holds no importance.

I walk out the open door without even attempting to say goodbye to her.

Walking across the front patio, I rummage through my satchel in search of my car keys. When I can’t find them, it finally hits me that I took my shitty Toyota Corolla to the mechanic yesterday afternoon.

Shit. Now I have to catch the bus. The school bus that is full of mean bitches.

The second I step out the front gate, I see the bus approaching. It’s only Tuesday and I’m already confronted with a dilemma. I so desperately want the weekend to be here already.

I’ve got two choices.

Either I can sprint my ass down the street - or I can go back inside and ask my annoying mother to give me a ride to school. But that will only result in another lecture about what I’m doing next year. Yeah, it’s a no-brainer.

Just so you know, I'm not really a runner or anything. I'm definitely not in shape, far from it. But there’s no way I’m dealing with my mom again this morning. Once is bad enough.

I quickly sling my satchel over my shoulder and sprint like a maniac down the street to catch the bus, my feet pounding against the pavement. I’m sure I look ridiculous. I’m not overweight at all. And I guess I’d consider myself average-sized. However, compared to all those Instagram wafer-thin bitches who strive to look like a walking skeleton, people consider me overweight.

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