Taylor - Scrawny by Wallows
Age, 14
“What did you get for number three?” I ask my lab partner after circling my answer.
“B.”
“How did you get that?"
"The ball has a mass of two kilograms and travels at ten meters per second. Using the kinetic energy formula, KE = 1/2 mass times velocity squared, I determined the answer is 100 joules," Poppy answers my physics question without looking up from her trigonometry homework.
I change my answer from "A" to "B" after using my textbook to verify her choice.
Double-checking Poppy's work is more of a habit than a necessity. She breezes through all school assignments but excels at science. Our study sessions often turn into tutoring lessons. Thankfully, Poppy lives for school and finds the torture known as homework fun.
“Here, there, everywhere – that’s where I’ve been looking for you. I brought you an apple and milk. You’re a growing boy, Taylor Thomas. You need your nutrients,” My brother says teasingly as he places a bottle of milk and a Granny Smith apple on top of my notebook.
Rhys grins when I glare at him.
Our DNA is identical, but our personalities are opposite. I follow strict rules and plan ahead. Rhys is pathologically impulsive and disorganized. He craves new experiences and follows his heart. I stick to what I know and rely on research. Rhys plays while I study and interrupts when he's bored.
Poppy represses a laugh. It comes out as a snort. Her cheeks are beet red when Rhys and I look at her for an explanation.
“Sorry, I –“ She clears her throat. “JTT, uh, Jonathan Taylor Thomas was one of the sons on the show Home Improvement. He became a major 90's heartthrob. You may have been named by a big fan, or it could be a coincidence. Neither is funny. I’m sorry.” Poppy nervously rambles with her eyes downcast.
“Mom hasn't confirmed or denied it. I'll keep laughing until she does. You're welcome to join me," Rhys puts her at ease with a smile.
"Where did you get this? The cafeteria sells boxes of milk and red apples." I attempt to draw Rhys's attention away from Poppy.
Our elementary school report cards had behavior sections. The "Distraction to self/others" and "Excessive talking" boxes were checked on Rhys's every quarter. "Doesn't work well with others" and "Questions authority" were ticked on mine. Teachers' commentary didn't change our behavior.
There are very few people I can stand to be around for long stretches of time, and Poppy is on that extremely short list.
He better not mess this up for me.
“I snuck out of class last period and ran to the convenience store down the street. Kyle said he going to get gummy bears and asked if I wanted to join. I was bored. Messing with Taylor always hits the spot, so I went along for the ride. Well…walk, technically.” Rhys explains his actions to her, not so much as glancing in my direction.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get caught. Mom would’ve killed you.” I swallow the first sip of my drink.
“I didn’t, which means she won’t. The deed has been done. It was done well, and I’m a free man. ”
“We’ll see. The school has security cameras everywhere. It’s someone’s job to go through the footage. You could still get pulled out of class.”
“He could always say the one-armed man did it.” Poppy timidly contributes.
Rhys's face lights up as he redirects his attention toward her. “How many times have you seen the movie The Fugitive?”
My brother's brain is a vault filled to the brim with 80s/90s pop culture knowledge and song lyrics. He unironically slips references and quotes into conversations. Apparently, Poppy does, too.
Dammit.
“Enough to reference it. I can’t quote it. My dad’s a Harrison Ford fan; it’s understandable. Come on, He’s Indiana Jones and Han Solo. Star Wars and Indiana Jones are power-hitting franchises.”
“He’s not a real fan unless he named a kid after him. Is your middle name Harrison? Do you have a brother named Ford? Han, Indiana, or Richard David Kimble are acceptable, too.” Rhys replies, his smile growing.
“I’m an only child, and my middle name’s Elise. I feel like my entire life’s been a lie. I bought my dad the Indiana Jones box set for his birthday, and he said he loved it.” Poppy retorts with more confidence as she pushes up her glasses.
“Don’t take Rhys Witherspoon Wilde’s word for it,” I interject.
“Your middle name’s Witherspoon?!” Poppy says a little too loud. She slouches in her seat to make herself smaller when the librarian gives her a dirty look.
“It’s not. It’s Michael. Taylor Thomas is being a hater.” Rhys turns to me after setting the record straight. “This is the thanks I get for laying it all on the line for you? I’ll be sure to show up empty-handed next time,” he says playfully melodramatic.
“How about you don’t and say you did?” I wryly retort.
“What are you working on? It’s Poppy, right?” Rhys resumes ignoring me.
“Penelope, but yeah, I go by Poppy. We have a science test on Friday. My trigonometry homework is due on Thursday,” She smiles politely.
“It’s Tuesday…” Rhys says as though she’s unaware.
“Some people do their work before the class starts. Mind-blowing stuff,” I spout sarcastically.
He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “I believe you were going to answer, Poppy.”
“We’re lightening our Wednesday and Thursday workloads. It’s relaxing.”
“Doing homework is relaxing?” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Once it's completed, I no longer have to worry about it.” She pushes up her glasses.
“Hm. You might be onto something.” He thinks out loud.
“You should try it sometime,” Poppy suggests earnestly.
“Nope, that’s what I’ve got Tay for.” Rhys pats my back. “I fuel his brain to use it.”
She laughs.
“We have an arrangement. I do our schoolwork. We split the money he earns doing odd jobs,” I confirm.
Her expression goes from amused to alarmed, “What about tests?” Poppy whispers.
“We used to switch places until he started growing his hair out. He’s on his own now.”
Rhys nods solemnly. “But it’s worth it. I haven’t gotten called 'Taylor' or 'Tay-Rhys' in months.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“Only when it’s beneficial.—” I start.
“It’s hard work having matching bodies. —” Rhys continues.
“Our identity crisis occurred hella early. –“ I add.
“We’re talking preschool.—” He says.
“Distinct hair and clothing styles make it easier for people to remember we're individuals, not a matching set,” I complete our statement.
Rhys looks like the alternative rock star he aspires to be. His shoulder-length, Kurt Cobain-style hair is a significant factor. He lives in flannel, jeans, and band t-shirts.
I prefer a more tidy look.
My hair never grows past my ears. I never wear denim -- only khakis, chinos, and dress pants. My side of our closet is filled with button-up shirts and cardigans, and I regularly pair them with neckties.
“Not completing each other’s sentences would help, too.” A tiny smirk forms on Poppy's lips as she looks between the two of us.
“We’re still learning, Penelope. That’s what school’s all about, right?” Rhys jokes in response.
He surprises me by encouraging Poppy and me to resume studying. Instead of leaving, he opens his songwriting book and works alongside us. Complete silence is outside of the realm of possibility, though. Rhys occasionally looks up from his lyrics to vocalize a scatterbrained thought. Poppy doesn’t seem to mind. She seamlessly alternates between humoring him and helping me.
“What’s Poppy’s deal?” Rhys asks me over dinner.
“There’s no way you’re asking what I think you’re asking me. I’m going to need you to spell it out for me.” I spoon rice into my mouth.
“I can tell you don’t like her the way I like her. I want to know why and everything else you know about her.”
“Are you messing with me? This isn’t funny, like at all.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“I womb promise on Mom’s life that I’m genuinely interested in Poppy. She's sweet, pretty, and fun to be around.”
"No," I state flatly.
"Why not?"
“Academics are her life, and her dad is controlling. Poppy must go straight home after her extracurricular activities on weekdays -- no exceptions. Her curfew is 7:00 PM on weekends. If you manage to jump through those hoops, the final one’s going to stump you: Her father’s a cop. Our dear old dad’s a convicted felon.”
“We haven’t seen him in years,” Rhys grumbles with a scowl.
“It won't matter.”
Rhys leans back and crosses his arms. “If none of that was a factor, would you try to be more than friends?”
“No,” I answer with complete honesty.
“Why?"
"We became friends during our awkward phases. Being mutually uncomfortable with ourselves and using academic success to define ourselves is our relationship’s foundation. We’ve built a solid friendship. We’ll be categorized as friends forever.”
“Glasses are removed, and hair is shaken out of ponytails all the time.”
“You watch too many movies.”
“There's no such thing."
“Music will never swell as it dawns on me that Poppy, my one true love, has been in front of me this whole time. That’s not how life works.” I speak his language.
“It happens."
"It won't."
"Is she interested in guys in general? I’m not going to assume. You never know, you know?”
“I have no idea, and I’m not asking.” I dryly reply.
“What’s her taste in music? That could be a deal-breaker.” He perseveres.
“Indie and alternative rock, mostly, with touches of pop and R&B.”
He subtly nods his approval. “Who are her favorite artists?”
“We don’t rank them.”
“You’re failing as a friend, then. I’ll ask and report back. What do you know?”
“Plants -- she loves them and being in nature. Science is her favorite subject. Math is her second. The type of music she listens to depends on what she’s doing, and we're friends. I’ll kick your ass if you change that fact.”
“I haven’t even talked to her yet. Hold off on the death threats.” He nonchalantly replies.
“I’ll punch you in the face with zero regrets or hesitation if you hurt her.”
“You’re awful touchy for a person who isn’t interested.” He eyes me suspiciously.
“She doesn’t have a lot of friends. The few friendships she has revolve around school. I’ve tried to include her in our things; that’s how I know about her dad’s rules. If you worm your way into her life, whether it be as a friend or boyfriend, you’ll be the first of your kind. Turning it into a joke would be cruel.”
“Your lack of faith in me feels fantastic.” He spits sarcastically.
“I’m saying what I’m saying for your sake, too. You’re not built to be the bad guy. You smile too much.”
His body relaxes, and his resting smile returns. “She has to be something if you’re looking out for her. You’re selective. “
“I got stuck with you. I’m overcompensating.”
He lifts his middle finger. I pop up both of mine. Rhys laughs, and I smirk.
Mom gets home hours later. She’s a nursing home unit assistant during the day and waitresses every other night. Rhys or I stay up the nights she works late to make sure she gets home safely and keeps her company while she eats dinner.
She’s made sacrifice after sacrifice to ensure my five siblings and I have everything we need. Mom had my older brother Christopher when she was very young. Our deadbeat father, Harris, landed himself in legal trouble before Chris was born.
Harris pretended to turn over a new leaf five years later. He kept up the act for nine months. His cover was blown when he showed up to my brother Leo’s birth drunk. Soon after, he discovered his true calling – stealing cars. He went to prison for grand theft auto because he was as terrible of a car thief as he was a husband and father.
Mom had fallen too deep into his emotionally abusive trap to cut ties with him. Harris used every manipulation tactic in the book to work his way back into her life. My twin sisters, Becca and Lindsey, and Rhys and I were born during their final relationship attempt. One day, out of the blue, Harris did us all a favor and left.
He used his newfound freedom to steal cars and was quickly sent back to prison. Harris has been out for years, but he doesn’t bother with us anymore. Rhys and I were twelve the last time we saw him.
Mom changed our last names from Eriksen to Wilde after their divorce was finalized to take back her identity and cement our status as a family. We were never truly Eriksens. Harris never wanted us. We're Wildes, and I'm proud to be one.
Mom has worked tirelessly to give us everything we need and more. My music lessons and Rhys’s baseball equipment aren’t cheap. We would get jobs if we could, but child labor laws forbid it. We're the reason she still has a second job even though our siblings have moved out.
She funded their extracurricular activities, too. Chris took college courses all throughout high school; Leo played every sport under the sun; Lindsey played clarinet, and Becca was a cheerleader. Discouragement isn’t in Mom’s nature. She wants her babies -- which she still insists on calling us -- to have the same opportunities as everyone else.
Mom does it all without letting her pain or exhaustion show. I see it, and I plan to help her as soon as I can.
“Hello, honey, how was school today?” She greets me as she hangs her coat in the hall closet.
“Same old, same old,” I say from the sofa as I turn the page of my science textbook.
“What about your brother?” Mom puts an arm around me and kisses the top of my head.
“The same for him: Different.”
“What has he set his sights on?” She laughs as she opens the refrigerator.
“Who.” I correct. “My friend, Poppy.”
“Does she like him?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yes, you do.” She pulls the plate of food I set aside for her out of the fridge.
Rhys excluded, Mom knows me best.
“I suspect she does, but it's unlikely to work. She’s shy, her dad’s strict, and Rhys is Rhys,” I admit.
“Rhys is a charmer who doesn’t shy away from a challenge. If you discouraged him from doing it while giving him tips on how to succeed, which I know you did, you want him to do it. Why?”
“Poppy appears fluent in his pop culture-riddled language, which is highly rare. She spoke more during our study session with Rhys than our others combined. He listened to her, which is even more rare."
“They sound like a perfect match to me.”
“It won't last past graduation.”
“Ye' of little faith.” She presses the “start” button on the microwave.
“I prefer the term ‘realistic,’ but I’ll accept your variation.” I raise my voice to be heard.
“You have to. I gave you life.”
“Thank you? Sorry? I don’t know which is more appropriate.”
“Neither. Just do as I say," She replies lightheartedly.
“I'll see what I can do,” I crack a smile.
Poppy's gentle tone and kind smile are nowhere to be found when I join her in the library. She doesn't acknowledge my presence until I ask what we should study first. Her eyes are locked on her science textbook when she answers, "Physics," in an aggravated whisper.
“What did Rhys do?” I say through gritted teeth as I think of ways to retaliate.
“He asked me out. Am I a joke to you, too? Would you have laughed with him if I said ‘yes,’?” Her voice cracks.
I curse under my breath. “You’re not one to either of us. I consider you a good friend of mine. He’s interested in more than friendship. Rhys jokes around all the time, but he doesn’t make people the butt of them. He wants everyone to laugh with him. It pains me to use this phrase, saying it should prove my sincerity – Rhys like-likes you. He thinks you’re cool, which you are. I’ve already threatened to harm him if he hurts you.”
“Really?” Poppy looks at me, her big brown eyes shimmering with tears.
“You did hear me say ‘like-likes,’ right? I wouldn’t degrade myself by saying it if I were joking. Shamelessness is Rhys’s thing.”
Her sadness is blinked away and a soft smile appears on her face. “Would it be weird for you if I accepted his offer?”
“Opposite. I’d thank you for taking him off my hands for an hour.”
Poppy laughs. “You aren’t exactly up-selling him.”
“Honesty is the best policy. You’ll see the truth if you go out with him. Rhys’s incapable of subtlety.”
“I said, 'No.' Is it too late to change my answer?” She pushes her glasses further onto her face.
“No, Rhys’s rebound rate is slow. It’ll take him a month or two to consider someone else.”
“Should I wait until Monday? School is almost over.”
“No, he'll pout all weekend. That said, he can take 'No' for an answer. I’ll kick his ass if he doesn't.”
“Rhys is your brother. I thought you were required to side with him.”
“In our family, we call each other out on our bullshit. Punches are thrown occasionally, but there are no hard feelings. All of us are close, and there are a lot of us.”
“How many?”
“I have five siblings. Rhys and I have two older brothers and twin sisters. Mom referees and keeps us in line,” I reply.
“I’m jealous. I’ve always wanted a big family. They seem fun. It’s only my dad and me. My mom died when I was two. He’s an only child, too, and my grandparents live in Montana. My hands are, and will, always be kept to myself.” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh.
“Harming the elderly is never a good look.”
“A terrible one and it would likely result in less knitted goods. My Nana makes me all sorts of things for no reason at all. This sweater arrived in the mail last week.” She plucks her shirt.
“That’s quality craftsmanship. I don’t blame you.”
“She’s tried to teach me a million times, but my hands can never seem to cooperate. Hand-eye coordination has never been my strong suit. Woodshop class is my worst class. I currently have a B. Its potential impact on my GPA is a major stressor.”
“That’s Rhys’s favorite class. He does my take-home assignments when I'm too busy.”
“Do teachers ever ask why you do well on homework and not on tests?” She lowers her voice.
“No, many people simply don’t test well. They assume. We don’t correct them.”
She nods as she mulls it over. “Interesting. If I asked Rhys to help me, do you think he would do it regardless of our date’s outcome?”
“Yes, he’ll consider you a friend. Rhys goes above and beyond for them. Your boundaries will be respected, too. Getting away with murdering him will be a family bonding activity if he tries to use assisting you as leverage.”
Poppy laughs. “Well, alright, I’ll try to find him later.”
“I can text him if you want. Sitting and staring while you finalize plans would be as awkward for me as it would be for you, so I’ll step away until I get the ‘all clear.’”
“You would do all that for me? Our test is next period.” She tips her head to the side.
“I’ve retained as much as I’m going to at this point. I expected you to shoot Rhys down point-blank, having zero interest in dating him. I’m curious as to how this will play out.”
“You REALLY aren’t up-selling him,” Poppy giggles.
“That’s not my style. Rhys is well aware.” I withdraw my phone from my pocket and text him.
I wait for him at the library’s entrance.
Rhys walks up to me with a goofy grin on his face. “I told you I had a shot.”
“I’m thoroughly baffled. You better go finalize your date before the truths I dropped seep into her brain.”
“You love me.” He kisses my cheek.
I shove him off of me. Rhys strolls away, laughing.
Their date was set for Saturday at Vinny’s Pizza. While they share a meal, I practice guitar chords at home. Rhys has an all-too-familiar expression on his face when he walks into our bedroom.
Sighing heavily, I return my attention to my guitar. I strum chords while he removes his jacket and sets up his keyboard.
“I’m going to ask her to be my girlfriend,” He says.
I roll my eyes. “You’ve known Poppy for five days. You went on one date. It ended less than an hour ago. I shouldn’t have to say more.”
“When you know, you know, and I know. We clicked.”
“You can like her without a label.”
“Being around Poppy is – I don’t know, effortless? We didn’t run out of things to talk about. Her taste in music is –” He chef-kisses his fingers. “Her intelligence is intimidating, but I think she’s one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. And yeah, she’s easy on the eyes, but her personality is what I like the most. I swear. Character counts.”
“Are you referencing something?” I squint my eyes as I try to recall a show or film with that line.
“Yes, every elementary school assembly. Poppy would’ve known that.” He fires back with a smile.
“Once, just once, I’d like you to do something at a normal rate.”
“I'm not in love with her. Exclusivity’s all I want.”
“You can do that without making a big deal out of it.”
“Can I?” He states rhetorically.
It pains me to admit he has a point.
He’s a freshman set to play varsity baseball in the spring. Even if he weren’t, girls would still flock after him. Rhys has a magnetic personality; he's the ultimate extrovert who tries to befriend everyone he meets. He somehow manages to be the class clown, an all-star athlete, and a sensitive artist simultaneously. The way we look only adds to his appeal.
“Don’t let them hassle her,” I firmly state.
“I won’t,” He replies too quickly.
“I mean it. Poppy’s not equipped to be messed with by your groupies. She thought you were making fun of her the first time you asked her out. Her feelings were hurt, and she sorta took it out on me. She thought I was in on the joke.”
“We’d never do something like that.”
“That’s what I told her. She grew up extremely sheltered. Leaving the house to socialize is new for her. I’d hate for her to get overwhelmed and her grades suffer because of it. Her dad puts a lot of pressure on her to excel.”
“She told me. I want to keep listening to what she has to say,” His voice loses its playful air.
“You don’t have to stay with her forever. I know you’ll break up. All I ask is it’s done the right way. If it’s your decision, face her when you tell her. Don’t text her, leave a voicemail, or do anything equally dickish. Show her the respect she deserves.” I switch to a gentler tone.
“Is a phone call respectful?” He sits on the edge of his bed.
“Yes, it’s probably the best option. Poppy can hang up when she’s heard enough. Escaping in person is harder. Facing the impact of your actions is the objective.”
“Oh, okay. I can do that.”
“Can you?”
Rhys rolls his eyes. “Yes,” He says exasperatedly.
“Then you have my blessing.”
“I may not need it, but I appreciate having it. This has also taught me that I should never resist the urge to harass you for fun.” He smirks.
“I never do. It’s only fair that you do the same.” I resume playing.
“Irritating me is the only thing you’re bad at. I like it when you pop up unannounced and refuse to go away.”
“Because you’re so damn needy,” I snark.
“If you’re expecting an apology or change, you’re never going to get it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Wordless, he joins my practice session. The notes he plays on his keyboard seamlessly blend into the ones I improvise on my guitar.
A deep passion for music is one of the few things Rhys and I have in common.
We were born with perfect pitch; our ability to identify or recreate any musical note by ear makes us exceptional musicians. Singing karaoke at family events revealed our gifts at a young age. Rhys always sang on-key when it was his turn; I told people which notes they missed after they performed. He still sings; I keep my corrections to myself.
Rhys and I learned to read sheet music and play the keyboard in 5th-grade music class. We asked for guitars for our 11th birthday. Mom bought one for us to share. We taught ourselves to play it.
Rhys sings and plays the piano/keyboard, guitar, and ukulele. I can sing but rarely do it. Pressing keys, strumming strings, and pounding sticks is significantly more satisfying. Thanks to Mom, I can play six instruments.
The odds of making it as a professional musician are extraordinarily low. Solely relying on our gifts would be unwise. Millions of talented people never see success. Sharpening our skills will get us much further than wishful thinking.
Knowledge and preparation are required for success.
Dreams are achieved by following plans.
I've got our futures mapped out beautifully.
