Page 78 of Poison Pen

“What’s ridiculous is that you called me down here over a fucking plant, Maria,” my father boomed, and my mother’s face froze. “What is the big fucking deal? I thought it was drugs, or that she was fucking pregnant or something.”

I reared back in shock; I was thirteen years old. What the hell did they think I was doing with my life. If anyone was having an illegitimate child, it was Dom. I may have been nine years younger than him, but that didn’t stop the rumors from flying around our school and friend circle. If it had a working vagina and a decent rack, Dom was on it.

Or, in it, I guessed.

I shuddered with the thought as my father went on.

“Why the hell are you such a bitch all the time, Maria? If the girl wants a stupid plant, give her a plant. What the fuck am I wasting my time for with this childish bullshit?”

“I—I didn’t want the mess in the house,” my mother tried to reason, but my father was having none of it.

“As if you are the one who cleans up around here, right?” he scoffed, and my mother’s face reddened in embarrassment. Her eyes were down, not wanting to look at her husband, but that only left her a clear path to look at me, and I could see her anger brewing. She’d thought she’d had the upper hand when she brought my dad into the argument, but he’d surprised us both when he’d sided with me. “Enrica,” he went on, and I looked back up at him. “Go downstairs and talk to the building manager. Tell him I said you had permission to access the roof. You can grow your little plants up there.” My father was already striding for the door, ready to forget the whole thing. “Waste of my goddamn time,” he muttered again as he disappeared back into his office.

“Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” my mother hissed, straightening her dress as she glared at me. “Once again, you’ve managed to get your way, haven’t you?” I shook my head, wondering what the hell she was talking about. I literallynevergot my way. “Fine, but don’t come to me for anything else, Enrica. I mean it.”

With that, she turned and headed away, leaving me and Dom staring at each other while he shook his head.

“Nothing but trouble,” Dom tossed out casually, pulling his phone out of his pocket now that the entertainment was over. “You’re such an embarrassment, Enrica.”

“And you’re an ass-kisser,” I retorted, but he was already gone.

So now, here I stood, queen of my own little garden patch that currently consisted of one tomato plant, two African violets, and one sunflower that was very quickly outgrowing its pot.

“You guys like my makeup, right?” I asked, picking up the little watering can I’d acquired and pouring some in each of their containers. “You’d never call me garish.”

“Careful, girl,” came a sharp voice from behind me. Startled, I dropped the can, water spilling out over my boots as I spun to see who was there. “Over-watering is as bad as under-watering, you know?”

Standing at the door to the roof was Agatha Albright, a woman I had seen around the building for years, but had never spoken to. She was old—like, Queen of England old—but you could tell she was still sharp by the way she glared at everyone around her. I’d always been polite, offering a tight smile as we passed the way my mother had taught me to do, but this woman had never so much as acknowledged me.

So to see her now, standing in the sun with a deep scowl on her face, one hand resting on her ever-present cane, was surprising. Having her address me personally even more so.

“I didn’t know that,” I answered. “I just got them, but this one keeps looking like it’s going to die.” I indicated the sunflower that was currently about eighteen inches tall. I’d purchased it from some girl scouts when it was only three inches tall and living in a plastic cup. They’d been on the street selling their cookies but had been more than happy to unload the plant on me for cash, too. I’d moved it from the cup to a small bucket, the kind kids take to the beach, but now it was so big the bucket couldn’t contain it. The whole thing kept falling over in the wind, and I was scared the stem was going to break.

“It’s root bound,” Agatha went on, moving over to me and inspecting the sunflower closely.

“What’s that mean?” I asked, ravenous for any more plant-related information I could get from her.

“It means that the pot is too damn small,” she snapped, pointing at the offending bucket with her cane, and I nodded. “I have one in my house, if you’d like.”

“A flowerpot?”

“No, girl, an elephant.” She sighed like I was trying her patience. “Yes, a flowerpot. Come along.” With that, she turned and marched for the door, leaving me staring after her like an idiot. “I said come on, girl.”

I went.

Walking into her apartment was like walking into a museum. Our place was empty, my mother preferring what she called ‘clean lines’, whatever that meant. I thought it just meant nowhere comfortable to sit. But this house, it was filled withstuff. There was a massive statue of a giraffe the second we walked in the door, followed by a glass table balanced on what looked like a giant blue marble. As she led me through the huge entryway and into the living space, it just got better, with a painting on the wall that was as big as my bed, filled with laughing girls chasing a litter of fluffy puppies. There was a massive, comfortable looking couch, an actual bar against one wall, and books. So many books I wondered how she’d even had time to read them all.

As I stood gawking, Agatha made her way to the balcony, her cane thumping against the dark hardwood floor as she did. Throwing open the double doors and marching out into the hot sun, I scrambled to follow her, careful not to actually touch any of the many things I passed on the way.

My mother had always resented the fact that Mrs. Albright had the Penthouse in our building, because not only did that mean that she was the most prestigious, the most important person in the building, it also meant she had the best outdoor space as well. Looking around me now, I could understand her jealousy.

The terrace was massive, spanning the entire length of the building and then wrapping around one corner, giving a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline and Central Park below. It had several distinct sections, including a covered dining area with a table for twelve, a seating space with even more comfortable-looking couches, and at the far end, something that made my heart soar.

Because Mrs. Agatha Albright had a garden. Not a pathetic attempt at one like mine, either, but a full-fledged green space with planter boxes, shrubs, dozens of flowers and a freaking tree!

There was a tree growing on the rooftop terrace of this penthouse apartment.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, forgetting myself for a moment. “Uh, I mean...”