by N. K. Smith
After getting my blood sugar reading, I took small bites of the apple and thought about how this happened. I’d thrown up last night, barely ate any dinner, skipped breakfast, forgot lunch, and hadn’t made any adjustments to my insulin.
We must have been sitting outside for a long time because students began filing out of the building. “S-S-S-SSSo-SSSSophie!”
I looked up quickly at Elliott, but he hadn’t been the one calling me. To my left, Anderson was smirking at me. I quickly glanced at Elliott again. He was looking down, his hands clenched in his lap.
“I-I’ll sssssee you t-tomorrow, S-S-Sophie.”
I sighed, but he got up and walked away quickly, leaving me there with Anderson.
“You are such a humanitarian, spending your time with the friendless.” He sat down next to me, the smirk still on his insipid face. Just the sight of his vapid, intentionally-messy hair ticked me off.
He leaned in closer, “What? Does a guy have to be a total loser to get your attention? You’re so giving to the less fortunate. I find that sexy.”
“Chris,” I began slowly, “I feel like shit right now, so could we maybe continue this conversation, oh, like, never?”
He laughed and shook his head. “I know your game, you know.”
“My game?” This was going to be good.
“Yeah, your—”
“Need something, Anderson?”
I looked up to see Jason, who was at least a foot taller than Anderson, scowling down at him.
“Just talking to my girl Sophia, Fox. Don’t you have some pot to sell to ten-year-olds or something?”
Jason smiled, but crossed his arms over his chest.
I rolled my eyes. Boys and their pissing matches and dick measuring. I shook my head and stood up. “Actually, Chris, Jason’s my ride so…”
“I can give you a ride home, Sophia.” I wish he’d stop calling me Sophia. He knew I preferred to be called Sophie. He did it just to be a prick. “At some point you’ll want something classier than—”
Feeling another insult coming, I leaned in closer and his smile widened. “Chris,” I said, saying his name all low and seductive, “not only is he going to give me a ride home, but he’s going to give me a ride. And that will never be you.”
For a moment he was quiet, his eyes flashing something dark, but after a moment, he said, “You say that now, Sophia,” before walking away.
After dinner, I signed on and found that Elliott had written me back. I loved his e-mails. He was so smart and wordy. I liked it. The feeling was a bit scary, but I tried to push past it. It made me feel good that someone could be so interested in me for some reason.
Sophie,
Your five:
When I was twelve, Stephen bought me a guitar as something to focus on. He would say that I have a “natural talent for music.” I’m not sure why. I remember just picking it up for the first time, strumming it and then being able to pick out a simple tune within minutes and play a song that first night.
I guess in my head I curse, but they’re just such throwaway words that I don’t waste my time trying to say them. Typically the cursing in my internal dialog is limited to “hell” or “damn,” I think. I was brought up not to do it at all, so I just haven’t really done it much.
Yes, I do believe in God.
I can’t help but write music. Sometimes music wakes me up in the middle of the night and I can’t sleep until I get it out.
I don’t call Stephen “Dad” like David does, because he’s not my father. I’m not like David. I’m not looking for a “dad” to replace anything in my life.
Bonus: I have not been to a concert and don’t see myself being able to go to any time in the future. Although I’d love to say otherwise, I don’t think I could be around that many people, no.
Now my five:
Why don’t you call your father “dad?”
Do you believe in God?
You said that you write. What do you write?
What’s the meaning of life?
Why were you really high today?
Bonus: When do you want to get started on the project? We’ll have to start soon in order to have something in a month. Since we have to produce a plant, I thought of Brussels sprouts since you like them so much, and they’re a hardy late fall/early winter harvest vegetable. Then we’ll do the written essay.
Elliott.
I wasn’t shocked that Elliott had reciprocated my question about fathers, adopted or not, but his fifth question threw me for a loop. How should I answer that? Should I even answer that? Did I even know why I got so high today?
Obviously not eating was a mistake, and that aided in how the pills and weed affected me, but I knew that breaking the pills up would make them stronger and work faster. Still, I took all four halves within the span of three hours or so.
It didn’t matter why I got high today, because it was the same reason I got high every day. I liked it. I liked the numb buzz, the smooth edges, and the slight hum inside my head. It made it easier to ignore all the things I hated to think about.
I didn’t feel bad about it.
I decided I would answer his question and try to be sensitive to his past while not revealing too much about myself. There was only so much that I wanted anyone to know about me.
There were also things I never wanted anyone to know, but it was becoming more difficult to keep them from the surface. I could feel Elliott slowly wearing my resistance down.
Sophie was just…strange on Monday. She was clearly high, but there was no way for me to know if it had to do with her blood sugar, or if she was using that as a cover for whatever she was on.
I still couldn’t help but wonder why she would want to feel like that. I had the overwhelming urge to get her to stop; to force her to figure out why she did the things she did. Like I needed her to tell me explicitly that her mother had abused her and that she used drugs to cope. I wanted her to tell me those things. I wanted her to know those things about herself. I wanted her to acknowledge them. If she told me, it would be a kind of validation of our friendship.
Although I knew she had agreed to do something with me this weekend, and that most likely she and her father would be here on Saturday, no definite plans had been made.
It would be a lie to say that I didn’t lock myself away in my room for the sole purpose of reading my email. It was rapidly becoming the best part of my day. It was like having a little snippet of Sophie’s life; a little secret we shared that no one else knew.
It was clichéd, but her last response made my heart skip a beat. While she didn’t outright say that she’d rather spend a day with me than anyone else, she alluded to it, and although she called my questions “random,” she’d still answered them all.
Elliott,
Sorry about what happened today. Didn’t mean to nearly faint on you or anything. Not how I originally planned my day.
Here are the answers to your five:
Biologically, I share DNA with Tom. Apart from that, I have no evidence that he’s my “father” or my “dad.” So he is “Tom.” To be fair, Helen is just “Helen,” so it’s not like I singled the man out or anything.
Do I believe in “God?” Which one? Honestly, it doesn’t matter, because the answer is no. And since you said yes to the question, I’m sure you want to know why, and here it is: god is like a parent, right? We’re all “children” of god or whatever? Here’s the thing: I think your god is a shitty fucking parent and I want nothing to do with him.
And yes, I know you’re supposed to capitalize the “g” and all, but that’s out of respect and clearly I don’t have any for “god/God.”
Sorry if you’re offended. I hope you aren’t, but there it is.
As of late, I d
on’t write much of anything. I used to write emo poetry and short stories, but I’ve learned that if I want to be creative, taking a picture is just better.
The hell if I know the meaning of life. Is there a meaning behind it?
I was high because yesterday sucked and I like being high. I also forgot to eat and still took my insulin, so I went a little hypoglycemic and it wasn’t what I wanted. Thank you for your help and I’m sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable.
Bonus: We can start the project whenever. If you want, I can come over tomorrow or Wednesday after school, whatever’s good for you. Wallace won’t be there, will she?
Now my five:
Why don’t you have a class after Horticulture?
When were you adopted by Dalton?
Why do you believe in god/God?
Do you have any real brothers or sisters? You know, biological?
I imagine everyone’s going to the football game on Friday. Are you going or do you want to do something else? I don’t know what yet, but it’ll be better than a high school football game.
Bonus: Would you increase your IQ by fifty points if it meant having a huge visible scar on your face?
See you tomorrow,
Sophie.
I quickly wrote her back, not wanting to lose my immediate reactions and responses.
Sophie,
You don’t need to thank me for helping you. I was worried about you. Why did yesterday suck? Did getting high help in some way? Because it seemed like it just made today horrible too.
In response to your answers:
Why is taking a picture better than writing? Could I see some of your photographs?
You should come over tomorrow. Can you stay for dinner? As far as I know, Stephen will be home, so Robin will probably not be here.
If you don’t mind, I am going to change the format a little. I’ll respond to all of your questions as usual, but perhaps out of order.
First, I believe in God, even though God cannot be proven through scientific means. There are certain things in this world that cannot be adequately explained, but it doesn’t mean that they are untrue or invalid.
While I wouldn’t consider myself “religious” at this stage of my life, I am spiritual in my own way. There was a time when religion dominated my life, but now I feel spirituality has a balanced place within me.
Your assessment is accurate if you truly believe that we are “Children” of God. I can see where He would seem neglectful, cruel, and only capable of conditional love. However, if you shift the paradigm and theorize that we aren’t children of God, but a piece of Him/Her/It, then it becomes a different story. In that case, we are creators and not victims forced to suffer through the whims of a fickle God.
This is a new concept for me, since I was taught something vastly different when I was a child. I’ve thought a lot about this, and there are some days I forget I no longer believe that old dogma, but most of the time I remember that God loves me because I’m a piece of Him.
At least I hope I am.
I grew up with a biological brother and I was adopted by Stephen when I was twelve. We moved to Damascus when I was thirteen and Kate divorced him when I was fourteen. I know you didn’t ask about all of that, but in case you’re building a timeline of important events in the miserable life of Elliott Dalton, you now have more information.
I don’t have class after Reese’s because on Tuesdays and Thursdays I have speech therapy. Since I’m apparently the only one in Damascus with a speech impediment, Ms. Rice comes from D.C. Stephen gives her quite a lot of money to drive all that way, but she has to do it during business/school hours. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I’m an aide for Ms. Peters.
I am not going to the football game on Friday. I know David wants me to see him play, but I don’t think I could handle that many people in such a small area. I would love to do something with you on Friday. I don’t know what though.
As for the bonus question, I would take the points. With a stutter like mine, I don’t think a scar on my face would hurt anything.
So now my questions (returning to old format):
1) When you were very little, what did you want to be when you grew up?
2) You indicated that other than DNA, you have no evidence that Tom’s your father. Did you get to spend much time with him when you were growing up?
3) When did you start getting high?
4) Do you have any brothers or sisters?
5) Why didn’t you make fun of me, or at least treat me like a freak like everyone else does, when you first met me and heard me talk?
Bonus: If you could undo one thing in the past, what would it be? It could be something personal (something you did or experienced) or not.
Are you staying for dinner tomorrow? If you do, I’ll have to let Stephen know. I’m not sure how much you know about Jane, but I’m pretty sure she’s going to try to commandeer you at some point. She collects friends like David collects sports paraphernalia. Just be prepared.
Bring your camera, please.
Have a good night, Sophie.
Elliott
I knew my constant questions about drugs were blatant, and if someone else read it, like her father or Stephen, she would get in trouble, but I still wanted to know.
I set about doing my normal after-school routine of homework, music, dinner, and then reading a few children’s books out loud. I would have to see Ms. Rice tomorrow and it always seemed to go just a little better when I practiced a lot the night before.
It was hard for me to focus. I kept thinking about Sophie and then about me. Then I just plain thought about “Sophie and Me.” I didn’t understand it. Despite popular belief, I was a smart person, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around whatever was happening between us.
It was confusing. I’d never really had a friend in my life, beyond Jane. I supposed that Trent, Rebecca and David were my friends, but they had to be. This was the first time that someone besides Jane was choosing to spend time with me.
I knew we were opposites in a lot of different ways, but it didn’t seem to matter. There was something instinctual about my wanting to be closer to Sophie. It wasn’t because Robin and Stephen forced a connection. Honestly, all that had done was put me on edge and made me dread having to speak with her in the first place.
But now that we had some solid history of spending time with each other, it seemed much more natural and right, which was confusing and it scared me. Not that I thought it would happen, but it was entirely possible that at any moment, Sophie could turn into the female version of Chris. She could realize I wasn’t worth her time and not be my friend anymore. There were a number of ways she could destroy me.
I didn’t understand it, but it felt right to open up and be vulnerable. That is what I could not grasp. Why, at this point in my life did I feel like I needed someone like Sophie? No, not like Sophie. Sophie herself.
I waited until bed to check my e-mail once more, convinced that she had more important things to do than answer my questions, but desperately needing to see if she had.
I was probably more excited than I should’ve been when I saw her reply waiting in my Inbox.
Elliott,
Tomorrow’s fine. I’ll stay for dinner. Are you aware that with your first three questions, you actually asked a total of nine? Do you think you’re sneaky with that shit? But, like you, I will do my best to answer all of them.
Taking pictures is easier than writing because it’s harder to interpret. If someone finds a picture, typically it’s just a picture to them. Words get you in trouble. Yes, of course, you can see my portfolio sometime. It’s only fair after all; I’ve heard you play your instruments.
I have no siblings and spent about a month each summer with Tom, but just because I was i
n Damascus, staying at his house, didn’t mean I spent time with him. The month usually consisted of me at his house while he worked. On his days off he dragged me to climb rocks or hike with his friend (Jason’s dad).
When I was very little, and still thought that I could do anything and be anything, I wanted to be a firefighter like Tom. Pretty stupid kid, huh?
I started drinking when I was eleven, smoked pot for the first time at twelve, ate mushrooms on my thirteenth birthday, dropped acid on Christmas that same year, rolled on E when I was fifteen, did my first line of coke also at fifteen, and banged meth once last year. I know you didn’t ask about any of that, but in case you’re building a timeline of Sophie Young’s history of drugs, you have all the info you need.
If I could undo one thing from the past…I would undo the night Tom and Helen met.
I wasn’t an asshole to you because 1) I’m not mean and 2) your stutter doesn’t define you, Elliott.
I’ll send you my five, but I probably won’t read your responses until tomorrow.
1) You said that smoking pot doesn’t help your anxiety, but how do you know that?
2) How long have you been in speech therapy? Does it help?
3) Do you like chocolate?
4) Do you think that people are inherently good or bad? And why?
5) Anderson’s smaller than you, so why do you let him get away with that shit?
Bonus: If you were famous, what would you want to be famous for?
See you tomorrow,
Sophie.
School went by quickly on Tuesday. I had intended for Sophie to just ride home with us, but she said she’d meet me in a half-hour or so. She left the school property with Jason Fox, as usual, and when she rang the doorbell around four-thirty, I could tell she was high.
I didn’t ask her about it as I led her through the yard to the greenhouse out back. I’d gathered all of the supplies and sat down on an overturned bucket, letting her sit on the bench.
