I was the "accident" my parents had when they were too young and too reckless. They dropped me off with my grandparents and disappeared, each starting a new life, a new family, without me. Eighteen years later, I was the state's top scholarship recipient. They fought through a crowd of reporters to reach me. "See?" my father said, beaming. "If I hadn't been tough on you, you never would have learned to be so independent." My other relatives showed up with bags of bruised, overripe fruit from the discount grocery store. "Poppy," they cooed, "don't you forget who your family is." I smiled and looked them straight in their eager, guilty eyes. "The 'family' you're talking about? I stopped needing it a long time ago." 1 I was different. The other kids had moms and dads, sometimes in the same house. All I had was Grandpa and Grandma. One day, after Grandpa came home from a long shift at the factory, I tugged on his sleeve. "Grandpa, where are my mom and dad? Why don't they even come for Christmas?" My voice was small. "Is it because I'm not good? Is that why they don't come back?" He pulled me onto his lap, his calloused hands wiping away my tears. "Don't you cry, Poppy. You're Grandpa's treasure." "Your mom and dad just went somewhere far away, and it's hard to get back. Nobody could ever not want our Poppy." But Grandpa, you were lying. I asked Mrs. Gable down the street. She sat on her porch swing, cracking sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into a coffee can. "Oh, honey, you came to the right place," she said, her voice raspy. "My Jim and your grandpa were the ones who drove out to get you and your folks after you were born. You were just a little thing, three months old." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Your mom and dad, they had the reception all planned at the VFW hall. Then, couple weeks later, poof! Your mom took off. Your dad followed soon after." I didn't wait to hear the rest. I ran home, my chest tight with a secret I couldn't understand. The next day, I told my best friend, Tina. Our small town elementary school didn't have a cafeteria, so we'd eat our packed lunches under the big oak tree by the playground. "It's a secret," I whispered, after I'd told her everything. "I only told you. You can't tell anyone." She put down her sandwich and hugged me. "I won't, Poppy. I promise." The very next day, I was taking out the classroom trash with a boy named Kevin. He shoved me, and I fell onto the dusty floor. "Teacher!" he yelled. "I don't want to take out the trash with an orphan." Every head in the class swiveled to look at me. I looked at Tina. She was staring intently at a hangnail on her thumb. Our teacher just sighed. "Kevin, that's not nice. Fine, someone else go with Poppy." From then on, I was the class orphan. Every look felt like it was laced with pity or disgust. At lunchtime, the student helper in charge of doling out the hot lunch always gave me the smallest, soggiest piece of pizza. After two months of being hungry, I finally worked up the courage to tell the teacher. The next day, the lunch helper, a boy named Mark, shot me a hateful glare. When it was my turn, he loaded up my tray with three slices of pizza, burying them under a mountain of tater tots. "That's too much," I whispered. "I can't eat all that." He slammed the serving spoon down. "What's the matter? Weren't you complaining to the teacher you were starving? Today, I'm gonna make sure you're full." His friends surrounded me, laughing, and started shoving food into my mouth. I started to gag. He stood over me, arms crossed. "Learned your lesson, Poppy? You gonna go snitching again?" My throat was clogged, but I stared right at him, forcing back the tears that burned my eyes. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. "You're a nobody," he sneered. "Who do you think you are, tattling to a teacher?" "Get on your knees and apologize, and maybe we'll leave you alone." As they tried to force me down, I locked my knees and braced my neck, my forehead hovering an inch from the grimy linoleum floor. I wouldn't let it touch. In my peripheral vision, I saw Tina watching. When they finally let me up, I touched my forehead. It was cold and sticky. Red. Then, everything went black. 2 I woke up at home. Grandma was sitting by my bed with a bowl of warm soup. Grandpa didn't come home until late that night. I found out later he had taken his old pickup truck into the city and driven straight to the district superintendent's office. He got back on the third morning. The truck had a flat, and he'd had to walk the last five miles, his pants caked in mud. I watched from the window as he bent over the tire, his spine curved like a fishing rod under a heavy catch. "Grandpa." I opened the door. The bandage on my forehead scraped against the frame, and I flinched. He whipped his head around. His eyes were shot with red. "What are you doing up? Doctor said you need to rest." "Grandpa, where did you go?" His hands tightened on the tire iron, the veins standing out. "Next time someone at that school lays a hand on you," he said, his voice a low growl, "you fight back. You hear me? You fight back like your life depends on it. I'll handle the rest." That afternoon, the principal came to our house with a new teacher. The new teacher's name was Ms. Liu. She had a kind smile and a gentle way about her. "Poppy," she said, "I'm so sorry. I should have been paying closer attention." She pulled a small, tin pencil box out of her tote bag. "This is for you. If you ever need anything, you come to me." I stared at the little rabbit painted on the lid but didn't take it. Grandma wrung her hands. "She's just shy, Ms. Liu. Thank you." When I went back to school, Grandpa drove me in his newly-repaired truck. I saw him in the rearview mirror; there were new streaks of gray in his hair. As we pulled up, I saw Mark's father yelling at him by the flagpole. Ms. Liu moved my desk to the front row. There was a little sticky note on the corner that said, "You got this." But I was still scared. Tina slipped a piece of candy onto my desk between classes. The wrapper was crinkled, like she'd been holding it for a long time. "I'm sorry, Poppy," she whispered. I didn't answer. At the end of fourth grade, I got the highest test scores in the class. Ms. Liu gave me a certificate in front of everyone. When Grandpa picked me up, he folded it carefully and put it in his breast pocket, patting it every few minutes all the way home. Just when I thought things were getting better, a new girl transferred from the city. Her name was Nicole. Our small town had so few students in the upper grades that we sometimes had to board at the school during the week. One morning, I went to grab my washbasin from under my bunk, and it was full of pee. Nicole was watching me, a smirk on her face. "Wow," she snickered. "No wonder you don't have parents. You're so gross you have to pee in a bucket." It had to be her. I thought of Grandpa's words. I wasn't going to take it anymore. I picked up the basin and threw its contents all over her. "You peed in my basin," I said calmly. "I figured you must want to wash your face with it." She shrieked, sputtering and spitting. As she ran off, she screamed, "You are so going to regret this!" My stomach dropped. Nicole was the mayor's granddaughter. 3 The walk home felt like wading through cement. The setting sun stretched the shadow of the old sycamore tree across the road. I heard Grandma's panicked voice before I even reached the yard. "Please, ma'am, she's just a little girl, she didn't mean any harm…" "A little girl?" a sharp voice shot back. "She threw urine on my Nicole! My daughter has never had a harsh word said to her, let alone this!" I peered through a gap in the fence. The mayor's wife was standing in the middle of our small living room, hands on her hips. Nicole was hiding behind her. Grandpa was squatting by the cold wood stove, a cigarette burning down to his fingers. "Grandpa." Everyone turned. The mayor's wife glared at me. "There you are, you little savage!" Grandpa shot to his feet, the cigarette dropping from his lips. "You talk to me," he said, stepping between us. His back seemed even more bent than before. "Talk to you? Your granddaughter is a menace! My Nicole is a delicate flower from the city, and she was assaulted!" "Either she gets down on her knees and apologizes, or you pay us five thousand dollars for emotional distress!" Five thousand dollars. My breath caught. Grandpa made maybe a hundred dollars on a good day at the factory. "I won't," I said, my voice shaking. "I threw it. But she peed in my basin first." "You little liar!" the woman shrieked, raising her hand to slap me. Grandpa caught her wrist. "The girl said your granddaughter started it." "You old fool, you're defending her? This isn't over! I'll have her expelled by tomorrow!" She stormed out, Nicole making a face at me over her shoulder. Grandma helped Grandpa sit down. "Why do you have to fight them? We can't afford to make an enemy of the mayor." Grandpa didn't answer. In the dim light, his eyes glowed. "Poppy, come here," he said, his rough hand stroking my hair. "You did the right thing." "But…" "We're poor, girl. But we don't let people walk all over us." He knocked the ash from his pipe. "I'll go to the school tomorrow." 4 The next morning, Grandpa walked me to school. As we passed the mayor's house, I saw a curtain twitch. In the classroom, Nicole was sobbing at her desk. Ms. Liu looked exhausted. "Poppy, my office. Now." Grandpa followed. The mayor was sitting there, sipping coffee from a mug. "Well, Bill," he said to my grandpa, "your granddaughter has caused quite a stir." Grandpa pulled a small paper bag from his coat. "Mr. Mayor, the kids had a spat. Here are some fresh eggs from our hens for Nicole." "We don't want your charity eggs!" the mayor's wife snapped, snatching the bag and throwing it on the floor. Yolks splattered across Grandpa's worn work boots. I ran in front of him. "She peed in my basin first!" "I did not!" Nicole wailed. "I saw her," a small voice said from the doorway. It was Tina. "I saw Nicole take Poppy's basin into the bathroom this morning." A stunned silence filled the room. Nicole went pale. Ms. Liu sighed. "Everyone just go home. I'll handle this." As we left, Tina tugged on my sleeve. "Poppy, I'm sorry. Before…" "It's okay," I said, watching Grandpa bend down to pick up the broken eggshells. That afternoon, Nicole was transferred to another school. The mayor never bothered us again, but the looks we got in town were colder. Some said Grandpa was stubborn; others said I was trouble. "Grandpa," I said on the way home, "maybe I should just quit school and help you work." He stopped and knelt to tie my shoelace. "Don't be silly, girl. You stay in school until the day you can be your own boss." That fall, during the harvest festival, I saw Grandpa crying behind the barn. Grandma told me the mayor had cut our family from the town's heating assistance program. "It's fine," Grandpa said, wiping his eyes. "Poppy, don't you worry." That night, I scrubbed the dried egg yolk from his boots. The moonlight was bright. I suddenly understood that Grandpa's spine wasn't bent from a lifetime of hard labor. It was bent from the effort of holding up the sky for me. On my final report card, I had the highest grades in the county. Ms. Liu pulled me aside. "There's a scholarship spot at the county high school," she said. "I put your name in for it." I clutched my report card and saw Grandpa waiting for me by the curb. The wind blew his graying hair into a messy halo. "Grandpa," I said, running to him, "I'm going to high school." He grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. "That's my girl," he said. "That's my Poppy." 5 For the first time, it felt like things were really looking up. The mayor was investigated for corruption and lost his office, and the county scholarship covered my tuition. The high school dorm was a cramped room with four bunk beds. On move-in day, Grandpa carried my bedding in a huge plaid duffel bag, stopping twice on the stairs to catch his breath. "Wow, Poppy," he panted, "this building's as tall as a skyscraper." The other parents wore new-looking shoes and carried brand-name luggage. Grandpa was in his worn-out work boots. I saw some of them glance at him. I pulled him over to my bunk and said loudly, "Grandpa, look! I got the top bunk by the window!" The bus ride from our town to the county seat was over an hour. One Sunday, as Grandpa was driving me back to the dorm in his truck, I watched his gray hair flutter in the wind. "Grandpa," I said softly, "thank you." His shoulders tensed. "Poppy, we're family. No need for thanks." "I'm going to study hard, Grandpa. I'm going to make enough money so you and Grandma can have a good life." His voice was thick when he answered. "I'll be waiting for that day, Poppy. You can bet I'll live to see it." "You better," I said, my own voice catching. "You're going to be the oldest, most stubborn old man in the whole county." 6 During my sophomore winter break, I went with Grandpa to the recycling center. The bed of his truck was overflowing with cardboard he'd collected. A bitter wind whipped snow into our faces. He stomped on aluminum cans, crushing them flat with an efficiency born of long practice. "You stand back, Poppy," he said. "Don't want you getting dirty." When he straightened up, his back cracked audibly. He pulled a baked potato from his coat pocket. "Got this from the vendor on the corner. Still warm." I broke it in half and offered him a piece, but he waved it away. "You eat. I'm not hungry." I found out later he'd only had a piece of dry bread for breakfast that morning, to save enough money to buy me a new textbook. In my junior year, a boy asked me out. I found a pink envelope in my locker. The whole class was watching me. A boy from the basketball team, Ryan, was leaning against the wall, his face red. "Well?" he said. "You gonna read it?" I walked over and pushed the envelope back into his hands. "Ryan," I said quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm focused on my studies right now." He stared at me, clearly not used to being rejected. "I can wait until after finals," he said. "Don't," I said, turning back to my locker. "I don't have time for this." During gym class that day, Ryan, who was the team captain, made me run extra laps. "What's the matter, Poppy?" he taunted. "Can't keep up?" I was never a great athlete, but I could endure. But on the second lap, a sharp pain shot through my ankle. Someone had thrown a rock onto the track. I stumbled. Ryan just blew his whistle. "Last one to finish runs three more!" My ankle swelled up like a softball. I ran the three laps, my teeth clenched against the pain. I didn't say a word. 7 The next day, during the school's "service period," Ryan assigned me the filthiest job: cleaning behind the dumpsters. He threw a broom into a puddle of muddy water. "That's your area. Don't come back 'til it's spotless." I was picking up slimy garbage when a piece of broken glass sliced my finger. Ryan and his friends were playing basketball nearby, occasionally yelling insults in my direction. When I finally finished, I walked back into the classroom covered in grime. "Whoa," Ryan shouted, "did someone forget to flush?" The boys roared with laughter. A quiet girl in the back of the class stood up. "The only thing that stinks in here is you, Ryan." She gave me a small, conspiratorial wink. Just then, the principal and my guidance counselor walked in. My grades were too good for them to let this kind of thing slide. I limped home that weekend and told Grandpa everything. For the first time, he got angry with me. "Poppy, why didn't you tell a teacher sooner? Why do you always wait until you're hurt?" He insisted on carrying me on his back to the town's small clinic. I could feel the thin fabric of his shirt, damp with sweat, and the frailness of his frame. The stars were bright that night. Grandpa's laughter echoed in the quiet street. "Well," he said, "I better hang on. I've got to live to see that good life you promised me." 8 But you broke your promise, Grandpa. The last day of my final exams, I walked out into the sunshine, scanning the crowd for his old truck. He wasn't there. My guidance counselor ran up to me, her face pale. "Poppy, there was an accident. Your grandfather… he's at the hospital." The world tilted. The trees lining the road blurred into a green smear, just like they did from the window of Grandpa's truck. "After he dropped you off this morning," she explained, her voice trembling, "I think your father called him, asking for money. He was on his way to meet him when a truck ran a red light…" The word "father" was a ghost from a forgotten language. I didn't hear the rest. All I could see was Grandpa that morning, waking up at 5 a.m. to boil me two eggs for good luck. He'd waved as I went into the school. "When you're done," he'd said, "we'll take these bottles to the recycling center and get you a new pen to celebrate." The hospital smelled of antiseptic and fear. I changed into scrubs and went into the ICU. He looked so small in the big bed, like a fallen tree. I choked out his name. "Grandpa, it's Poppy. I'm finished with my tests. Wake up, Grandpa…" He didn't move. For the first time, there was no one to wipe away my tears. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound, a dull, rhythmic torture. On the third morning, it became a single, piercing drone. I lunged for his hand, but for the first time, he didn't squeeze back.
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