Page 1 of Enemy Daddy Next Door

1

AMY

This is my favorite part of my job, hands down. Being able to read my books to groups of children nestled in the laps of their parents. After all, that’s the point of writing a kids’ book in the first place. Sure, I enjoy tailoring the stories and perfecting the art. But that all pales in comparison to being able to see children’s faces lighting up with curiosity and excitement as they listen to the words leaping off the page and watch pictures coming to life.

That’s what I’m doing today at the local library, the one I grew up going to just a short drive from my childhood home in Burbank. Who’d have thought that the little girl sitting on the reading rug with brown pigtails listening to stories would be the one telling them twenty years later?

Today is a book launch, which means I really have to sell it. It’s the latest addition to my Petunia Porcupine series, my bread and butter. My publisher has made a buttload from selling these books. Finally, with this one, I really got to write what I wanted to.

“’Just because I’m not living here with you doesn’t mean I won’t think about you all the time’,” I read aloud from the picture of Petunia’s mother, Pansy, wiping a tear from her daughter’s cheek. “’When I see a patch of wildflowers or feel a breeze come from the north, I’ll think of you. And you know this isn’t a goodbye. It’s a…’”

I turn the page. An image of Petunia hugging her mother tightly (which is funny to think about since they’re porcupines). “’…See you later.’”

I let the kids linger on the last page and then I close the book. “The end.”

The kids applaud excitedly; the reactions from the parents are a bit more mixed. A few of them are bewildered that it ended on such a heavy note while others are truly gripped by the ending.

If they only knew how the first draft ended with Petunia never seeing her mother again. My editor, Fiona, said, “Don’t you think that’s a little too autobiographical?”

What’s the point of being an artist if you can’t work out your own trauma in your work? My mother left our family when I was still super young; unlike Petunia, I didn’t see my mother again until ten years later when she pretended to want to reconnect with us. Talk about reopening the wound.

However, Fiona’s assessment was fair. These are children’s books. They might need to know about reality, but they don’t need to know about how awful it can really be. I stuck to writing about Petunia’s parents’ divorce instead and gave it a bittersweet ending.

“Thank you so much for coming and hearing Amy Solace’s newest book, Petunia’s Parental Predicament,” Fiona announces, swooping in front of me. “Did you all like it?”

There is a chorus of yeses from the kids although one of them cries out, “It was too sad.” Their parents shush them.

I hold back a smile. Kids always speak their mind, regardless of if they should.

“It was sad, wasn’t it?” Fiona says and glances back at me. “But I can assure you that Petunia has many adventures with both her mama and papa in the future.”

The children celebrate.

“Now, for the parents, you have the unique opportunity of receiving a personally signed book from the author. Please, if you’re interested, line up at the table of books. We take Venmo, cash, and card,” Fiona continues, gesturing toward the back.

I take a deep breath and get to my feet. Alright. Showtime. Part two.

* * *

Despite the mixed response, most everyone has been dragged by their child to buy a signed book. I have a great time learning all their names and writing funny messages on the inside of the book covers.

“To Jemimah – I’ll think of you when a duck quacks!” I write.

The little girl, Jemimah, grins, showing off her missing teeth. She pulls down on her shirt which has a big duck on it and laughs.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, holding the book out to her father.

The man takes it and thanks me, but I can tell he was one of the parents who gave me a cooler reception.

I just have to remind myself you can be the sweetest peach in the world and some people don’t like peaches.

Jemimah and her father walk off; the last person in the line isn’t a child, though. It’s a grown woman accompanied by Fiona. I raise an eyebrow and smile.

“Amy, this is Gina Hendrix from the Burbank Chronicle. She wanted to ask you a couple questions about the book for –”

“The arts and culture section,” Gina finishes and then shoves her hand so close to me it nearly knocks me in the nose. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Solace.”

I lean back and take her hand. “You as well, Ms. Hendrix.”