Page 112 of Ravage

The rest of the week was more of the same. It was a pretty uneventful week until Poppy came for her appointment. That’s when things took a turn.

And not for the better.

I knew the second she walked in that something was wrong. She didn’t have that air of confidence, and her normally perfectly sculpted pigtails were disheveled, along with her clothes. It was like she hadn’t made any effort to make herself look presentable, and that wasn’t like her at all.

She also didn’t march in ready to take on the world. Instead, she held back at the door and waited for me to come to her. “Hi, Poppy. I’ve been looking forward to our visit today.”

“Me too.”

She didn’t look at me as she dropped her backpack on the floor and climbed into her seat. I knew better than to ask if something was wrong. She wouldn’t tell me. Not until she was ready, and even then, it would be on her terms. I pulled out the clay and placed some in front of her.

“Are we making a house for your turtle today?”

“I guess.” She looked down at the clay. “Since he doesn’t have one.”

“That’s right, and all turtles need a place to live.”

“Um-hmm.”

Normally, she would come back with some comment about turtles’ shells being their home, and that he didn’t actually need another one. But she didn’t say a word. She just picked up the clay and started rolling it between her palms. I watched her for a few minutes, and it was hard to see her so clearly upset.

I wasn’t sure how to get her to open up, so I tried, “How was your weekend?”

“Fine.”

“Did you do anything special?”

“No.”

“I didn’t do much either.” This wasn’t about me, but I hoped that if I opened up a little, she might do the same. “Cole’s kids came over, and we went to ball practice and grilled burgers.”

Again, she didn’t say a word.

She didn’t even make a comment about me calling him Cole or the fact that he had kids. She just kept her focus on her clay and basically tuned me out. I didn’t know what to think. By now, she would’ve already given me countless opinions on my weekend and how I could have, should have, done something different.

I considered texting her foster mother to see if something had happened, but I hoped, eventually, she might open up. I reached across the table and tapped the top of her clay. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She didn’t answer.

She just kept working on her house. I helped her smooth the edges as I asked, “Did something happen at your foster home?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, but I could tell by her expression that she wasn’t telling the truth. But I knew better than to push, so I said, “I’ve told you a little about how I lost my parents. Do you remember?”

“I do.”

“I wasn’t much older than you are now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was really hard. I was really sad for a really long time.”

“Did you cry?”

“All the time,” I confessed.