Page 38 of Five Summers

Poppy: Sorry, new phone, who’s this?

Xander: Well played, Princess. Well played.

Chapter thirteen

Poppy

As usual, my mother has a tendency to lose her temper over the most trivial shit. She got pissed off by a phone call that disturbed her sleep. Unfortunately, it was the principal on the other end, delivering the news that I had detention for the entire week.

Since I arrived home, she has been venting her frustrations about the situation. Thank goodness, the weekend is just a few days away, so I only have to survive two days of detention. Regardless, it's really annoying sitting here and listening to her ramble.

After enduring my mother’s incessant rants for another forty minutes, I escape to my room. Determined to avoid hertirades, I focus on watching the clock, eagerly counting down the minutes until she leaves for work.

Suddenly, she taps on my bedroom door and barges in without waiting for an invitation.

"I'm heading to work now," she announces, her eyes lingering on my keyboard. Then, they move slowly to explore the array of posters displayed on my wall.

Finally, her gaze lands on my father's guitar, over in the corner. Her body tenses and her expression becomes stern. Her intense loathing for my father is evident. But still, he is a part of me. Sometimes I wonder if she hates me because of that.

Her gaze shifts back to me, and I can sense a clear sternness in her voice as she addresses me.

“Instead of just sitting around doing nothing. Why not take the initiative to find colleagues for Aged Care like I’ve been requesting for the past two months?”

I pause for a moment, then respond. “Because I don’t want to do that.”

She takes a few more steps into the room, folding her arms across her chest. “Since when?”

“Since forever, and you would know that if you bothered to listen to me.”

“Are you still going on about that music thing?”

I stand my ground, meeting her gaze.

“Yes, mother. I believe I possess more of my father’s qualities than you give me credit for.”

I can tell by her body language that my words have an impact. I notice her gulp at the mere mention of my dad.

“You’re just as delirious as he was. Music will never bring you money.”

“I couldn’t care less about the money.”

“No, because I’m the one who pays for everything in your life.”

“I don’t care what you say. I’m choosing music, not aged care.”

“You are so much like your father.”

“Well, I’d rather be more like him than like you,” I remark, standing up from the bed, no longer interested in listening to her. I make my way towards the keyboard as if I’m about to switch it on. I’m aware that my mother will promptly exit my room if she believes I’m going to play. Perhaps I should have gone straight to the keyboard when she first came in. That way, she would’ve left me alone.

My plan unfolds precisely as expected. With a sudden motion, she abruptly turns, clutching the doorknob firmly. Exiting the room, she forcefully shuts the door behind her, causing a resounding slam that reverberates through the silent space.

Returning to the bed, I plop down and release a sigh. She truly is maddening. If only my dad were here to guide me in pursuing my passions. He would grasp the importance of music. How it has the ability to connect with your soul and evoke a profound sense of calmness. Each note played feels like an extension of oneself, a way to express who you are and share it with the world.

When I hear the front door slam shut, I stay put on the bed, with no intention of moving.

I let out a deep breath and smile when my phone pings. I know exactly who it is.

Picking up my phone from the bed, I glance at the text message.

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