Page 28 of Caught in a Storm
When her phone rings, Margot knows it’s her daughter, because FaceTime has a particular ringtone, and Poppy is the only person who FaceTimes her.
“Hey.”
Poppy’s face comes into focus. “Mum, for fuck’s sake,” she says, which isn’t a surprise, because Poppy swears like a British football hooligan. What is a surprise is that she’s crying.
“Pop?” Margot sits up. “What’s wrong?”
Poppy wipes her nose with a balled-up tissue. “I saw you play.”
“What?”
“I’ve only seen the old you play. Never the you you. When were you in Baltimore? Why were you in Baltimore?”
Margot has no idea what Poppy is talking about. “What?”
“There are videos all over the Internet.”
She thinks of Todd, the goddamn camera guy—of Axl laughing at her. “There was this thing. It didn’t work out. But how did you see it? It wasn’t supposed to—”
“It’s a little concert,” Poppy says. “At a bar. You played ‘Power Pink.’ Other songs. You—” The girl’s lower lip wobbles. She’s a grown woman, an adult, but she’s just a girl to Margot when she’s crying. “Mum, you were amazing.”
* * *
—
They talk it through. Margot tells Poppy about being ambushed in the record shop, about how Baltimore smells like bread and beer, and about overhearing Axl.
“Twat” is Poppy’s response, which is Margot’s favorite of her Britishisms.
Before calling, Poppy watched the videos. All the videos, including new content created in response to the originals. She watched with her two roommates, who agreed with Poppy that Margot looked and sounded fantastic.
“It was just a few songs. It wasn’t—”
“Bloody hell it was. You should see the comments. My God, you’re basically Beyoncé.”
“The comments?”
“Yeah, Mum, there’s this thing on the Internet called comments. Usually, they’re a godforsaken shitshow of racism and misogyny, but people love you.” She looks off camera at her laptop and starts quoting. “ ‘This is the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.’ ‘I think I just fell in love with Margot Hammer.’ ‘I like how she looks mad but also sexy.’ ‘Am I crazy or is MH a legit snack?’ ”
“Snack?”
Poppy laughs. “That’s a good thing. Oh, and here’s an interesting one.”
“Please, don’t read them all,” says Margot. “I’m begging you.”
Poppy wrestles her hair into a bun, and it makes Margot miss her. She’s a marvel to look at, this girl, even on a tiny screen. There’s so much of Lawson in her face—an infuriating amount of him, the bastard. Her eyes, though, are all Margot, undeniable proof that the girl is hers.
“ ‘Dude in the cardigan looks sweet,’ ” Poppy quotes. She scans more comments; the screen reflects off her eyes. “ ‘Who’s the dweeb in the Neil Diamond T-shirt?’ ‘Lots of big dad energy from dat cutie in the cardi.’ Oh, here’s another good one. ‘Cool move with the high five, brah. Well played.’ ”
Margot is surprised to find that her face has just gone hot. “Dweeb is a little mean.”
“No shit it’s mean. It’s the comments, remember? The trolls raise a good point, though.” Poppy rests her chin on one fist. “Who’s dat cutie in the cardi, Mum?”
It’s not just her face now; her whole body heats up. “He’s a guy I met in Baltimore,” she says. “He’s…he’s no one.”
Margot has no idea why she’s just told one truth and then a lie. When she got back to New York, late on the night of her impromptu performance, Margot spent the next two days buzzing from playing again. It was all she could think about. As that began to fade, like adrenaline, she found herself thinking about Billy. And she kept thinking about him.
You’re the best drummer I’ve ever seen.
