"Depends by what you mean when you say palm," she said, frowning. She gestured to her own hand. "There's a bunch of little ones right here," she pointed to her wrist, "but only a couple phalanges up here."
He observed his own hand, before taking a piece of clay and beginning. "Like this?" he asked, tilting his head. He had never used clay before, and seemed a bit unsure.
She watched his fingers for a moment before reaching over and working on the piece of clay with him. "Almost. Remember that the bones taper in the middle, though. Also, here." She slid a small cup of water over to him. "Use this when it gets too dry. See?" She dipped her fingers into the water and then smoothed the cracks on the clay, her movements deliberate and precise.
Poppy returned to her work without another word, continuing to shape the clay into a somewhat recognizable shape. Her phone rang after about ten minutes, and she looked down at it, quickly scanning the caller ID. Evan. She wiped her hands on a towel and stood up, taking her phone with her. "I'll be right back, okay?"
Poppy went into the hallway, and Francis would be able to make out some of her words. "Hello? Hey Ev. What's up? ...Oh.... Tonight? Babe, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can. I gotta work on this project. I'm sorry. What? Yeah, it's a group project...Yeah, it's with him...Oh, come on, Evan. Don't be like this. Evan? Hello?" There was silence and then a small, melancholy sigh. Poppy returned to the room, a slight frown on her face.
She looked up at him, obviously a little surprised he'd asked. "Hm? Oh, yeah, I'm good," she said, sitting back down in her chair. "Thanks for asking."
She looked up at him, frowning. "I don't think we need to discuss this," she said sternly, her reaction clearly pointing to 'yes'.
They worked in silence for a little while longer until there would be three knocks at the door. Poppy frowned as the front door opened, and her father's voice floated through the hall. "Oh. Hi, Evan. She's in the dining room."
"Yeah," Poppy agreed, her voice having a nervous strain to it. "Back door. Come on." She tugged at his arm, glancing at the door nervously.
He stood up, setting the clay down. He followed her to the back door, before looking up and relaxing something. "My car keys," he said quietly. "They're on your table."
