KDBookOnline
Share Us
Chapter one
Poppy
My shock factor soaredwhen I bought a hearse. People stared whenever I rolled down the road in Tallulah, especially after I added the fire decals. A not-so-subtle warning that I’m hell on wheels.
It’s easier to be shocking than likable, at least in my experience. So, instead of smiling at strangers and learning the “art” of small talk, I stomped through life with my combats boots, making as much noise as possible despite my small feet. I dressed in all black, my accessories heavy, loud, and plentiful.
Why? Because I want to make people feel. Shock, annoyance, curiosity, the emotion doesn’t matter as long as it’s strong. After all, emotions are the only thing separating us from the AI robots. I don’t always go for shock. Most of my sculptures are about losing my dad as a kid, the heartbreaking duality of grief and love. I put my softer feelings into my art and saved the rest for the world at large.
Unfortunately, I’ve struggled for inspiration lately, and all those soft feelings have knotted into a big ball of annoyance.My small studio, aka the shed in our backyard, was usually my sanctuary. Not so much anymore. The electric heater grated my nerves, the incessant hum an unrelenting reminder that only it was working.
I sure as hell wasn’t. The clay on my worktable looked the same as when I scooped it from the bucket a half hour ago. Normally, I saw a piece in my mind before I touched the clay. It felt like the sculpture was already inside, waiting for me to carve it out. For the past few weeks, the lump of clay has just been a lump.
I played with the zipper on my fleece-lined hoodie. Despite its persistence, the heater hadn’t quite squelched the chill. At least the zipper cut the monotonous hum. Up, down. Up, down. Until the sound added to my irritation.
I grabbed my clay knife and stabbed the lump. The handle sticking from the blob was the closest thing to art I’d created in weeks. I could call itDeath to Inspiration.I gave the old lazy Susan I stole from Mom a solid spin and watched the knife whirl around. Nope, still not art.
Fuck it. No sense wasting time I didn’t have. I wiped the knife clean on a cloth and dumped the clay back into an airtight bucket, so it’d be ready to torture me another day. I switched off the heater and relished the silence a moment before I tromped across the brittle grass to the house, my breath forming angry little clouds with every step. The kitchen light cast a warm glow across the gray afternoon and my dark mood. Rowan darted past the window on her way to and from the pantry, preparing for her second baking sprint of the day. Fifteen minutes with an icing bag and my sister was just what I needed to feel better.
By the time I opened the back door, Rowan had already taken her place in the small corner between the stove and the sink. “Back already,” she called as she measured from one of the extracts lined up on the counter like a battalion awaiting hercommands. She might as well have been using a pipet for how exact she measured.
“Cookies won’t ice themselves.” I unlaced my combat boots and put them on the waterproof mat Mom insisted everyone use. My Oscar the Grouch socks sneered up at me while I wiggled out of my hoodie. The kitchen felt like a sauna after the studio and smelled like brown sugar and bacon from whatever Rowan had in the oven. Mom’s old appliances barely got a rest these days. I ran cold, so I knew I’d be comfortable in a few minutes, but Rowan stood closer to the stove and looked in serious need of an iced beverage.
I washed my hands at the sink before I headed to the prep table to decorate the snowflake cookies Rowan baked earlier. Mom gifted us the large stainless-steel table for Christmas and let us put it in the space where the kitchen table used to be. I laid out decorating bags, piping tips, food coloring, edible glitter, pearl dust, and enough royal icing to drown my bad mood. When I had everything ready, I tucked my short hair behind my ears and got to work.
My love of all things shocking started with my hair. In the ten years since middle school, I’d worn it every color except my natural red. To be fair, that first dye job was less about shocking people and more an attempt to limit comparisons to my perfect older sister.
Rowan got straight A’s, never spent time in the principal’s office, and never, ever complained. So instead of repeating everything Rowan did, only three years after she did it and not as well, I made it obvious we were nothing alike. Despite my best efforts, my face could still unlock her phone.
The similarity stopped at the physical. I’m goth to her girlie. Blunt to her charming. Sarcastic to her sweet. I should have hated my sister on principle, but the bitch was too nice, toosupportive, tooRowanto be anything but loveable. Which meant I was unlovable.
I guess my family loved me, but that’s hardwired in their DNA. A few friends tolerated me in small doses, but real love, the kind that changed a person for the better, wasn’t something I inspired. Just ask all my ex-boyfriends. I hold the dubious honor of being dumped by each and every person I’ve dated.
I eased into a rhythm while I worked. The muscles in my neck, then shoulders, relaxed as I squeezed all my frustration into the piping bag. I tried out different icing colors and designs before settling on one I liked.
“Have you made your New Year’s resolutions yet?” Rowan asked.
“I don’t believe in them,” I said, putting the finishing touches on the snowflake I wanted to copy for the rest.
Rowan wiped her arm across her forehead and joined me at the table. “Resolutions can be helpful.”
“You want to change? Do it. Why wait until the weather’s crappy and the sun sets before dinner?” I held out the cookie and admired how the pearl dust made it shimmer like a real snowflake. I preferred the dust’s subtle sparkle to the edible glitter I’d tried on another cookie.
“Wow, that looks incredible,” Rowan said, leaning over my shoulder.
My chest warmed at her compliment, but I shrugged and put the cookie on a wire rack to dry. “So, what are your resolutions?” I asked as Rowan cracked open the window over the sink.
The cold breeze made goosebumps rise on my arms, but I didn’t say anything. I could always put my hoodie back on. Rowan was down to a pair of shorts and a tank top and still flushed.
“To find a place for Red Blossoms Bakery since we can’t keep operating out of Mom’s kitchen. And to marry Cal, of course.”
My sister got that dopey, lovestruck look she’d been sporting for half a year, and I mimed gagging. Truth was, I couldn’t wait for the wedding.
Talk about inspiring a love that changes a person. Rowan had turned our fuckboy neighbor Cal into a doting fiancé in less than four months and grew her own backbone in the process. Metaphorically speaking. Her real back was still shot from an accident that happened last summer, which was how she got tangled with Dr. Caleb Cardoso in the first place.
Caring and unquestionably hot, Cal was a perfect match for my sweet sister. Which unfortunately meant Cal’s best friends had become regular fixtures in my life. Aiden O’Malley was an ass of epic proportions. I’d rather let my hair grow out my natural color than date him. But I’d had a full-blown crush on Theo Makris long before Rowan and Cal got together.
Nope. I wasn’t thinking about Theo. I was icing cookies. Lots and lots of cute, identical snowflakes. I laid out a dozen and iced the same portion white before switching to a bag of silver to add details, keeping them all the same. As usual, the simple repetition relaxed me enough for my mind to wander.