What My Mother Doesn't Know

by Sonya Sones

  OPERATION “ALONE AT LAST”

  I’m standing

  near the children

  watching them swarm

  over the jungle gym,

  remembering vaguely

  what it was like to be six.

  I’m stealing a glance at Dylan

  as he ducks through the hole

  in the chainlink fence

  and disappears

  into the sheltering darkness

  of the woods.

  I’m waiting,

  just as we planned,

  for my slow motion watch to tick off

  three

  full

  minutes.

  I’m sidling over

  and sneaking through the same hole

  into the shadows,

  into the warm flanneled arms

  of my partner

  in delicious crime.

  ALSO BY

  SONYA SONES

  One of Those Hideous Books

  Where the Mother Dies

  What My Girlfriend

  Doesn’t Know

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should

  be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as

  “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author

  nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,

  real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination,

  and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Sonya Sones

  All rights reserved, including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949

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  Also available in a hardcover edition.

  Book design by Jennifer Reyes

  The text for this book is set in Tekton.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First paperback edition February 2003

  21

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Sones, Sonya

  What my mother doesn’t know / by Sonya Sones.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Sophie describes her relationships with a series of boys as she searches for Mr. Right.

  ISBN 978-0-689-84114-9 (hc)

  [1. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 2. Love—Fiction.] 1. Title.

  PZ7.S6978 Wh 2001

  [Fic]—dc21

  00-052634

  ISBN 978-0-689-85553-5 (pbk)

  eISBN 978-1-4391-1518-3

  For Ava and Jeremy—

  I know all

  NICKNAMES

  Most people just call me Sophie

  (which is the name

  on my birth certificate),

  or Sof,

  or sometimes Sofa.

  Zak and Danny think it’s cute

  to call me Couch,

  as in:

  “How’re your cushions doing today, Couch?”

  Or sometimes they call me Syphilis,

  which I don’t find one bit funny.

  My parents usually call me

  Sophie Dophie or Soso.

  And Rachel and Grace call me Fifi,

  or sometimes just Fee.

  But Dylan calls me Sapphire.

  He says it’s because of my eyes.

  I love the way his voice sounds

  when he says it.

  Sapphire.

  I like whispering it to myself.

  His name for me.

  Sapphire.

  It’s like the secret password

  to my heart.

  SIXTH SENSE

  Sometimes I just know things.

  Like when Lou asked me to go on that walk

  down by the reservoir last year

  on the last day of eighth grade.

  I knew he was going to say

  he wanted to break up with me.

  And I knew my heart

  would shatter

  when he did.

  I just know things.

  I can feel them coming.

  Like a couple of weeks ago

  when I went to the Labor Day party at Zak’s.

  Something perfect was going to happen.

  I just knew it.

  That was the night I met Dylan.

  HOW IT HAPPENED

  After Zak’s party,

  Rachel’s big sister

  came to drive a bunch of us home,

  with her friend

  and her friend’s younger brother.

  I was the last one to get in the car

  and it turned out

  all the other laps were taken,

  so I had to sit on

  Rachel’s sister’s friend’s brother’s lap.

  It was

  Dylan’s lap,

  but even though he goes to my school

  I’d never seen him before.

  And he had such smoldery dark eyes

  that I felt like I’d been zapped

  smack into the middle

  of some R-rated movie

  and everyone else in the car

  was just going to fade away

  and this guy and I

  were going to start making out,

  right then and there,

  without ever having said

  one word to each other.

  But what really happened

  was that he blushed and said,

  “Hi. I’m Dylan.”

  And I blushed back and said,

  “I’m Sophie.”

  And he said, “Nice name.”

  And I said, “Thanks.”

  After that we didn’t say anything else

  but our bodies seemed to be

  carrying on a conversation of their own,

  leaning together

  into every curve of the road,

  sharing skin secrets.

  And just before we got to my house,

  I thought I felt him

  give my waist an almost squeeze.

  Then the car rolled to a stop

  and I climbed out

  with my whole body buzzing.

  I said good night,

  headed up the front walk,

  and when I heard the car pulling away,

  I looked back over my shoulder

  and saw Dylan looking over his shoulder

  at me.

  When our eyes connected,

  this miracle smile lit up his face

  and I practically had

  a religious experience.

  Then I went upstairs to bed

  and tried to fall asleep,

  but I felt permanently wide awake.

  And I kept on seeing that smile of his

  and feeling that almost squeeze.

  DISTRACTED IN MATH CLASS

  All I have to do
>
  is close my eyes

  and I can feel his lips,

  the way they felt

  that very first time.

  I can feel the heat of them,

  parting just slightly,

  brushing across my cheek,

  moving closer

  and closer still

  to my mouth,

  till I can hardly breathe,

  hardly bear to wait

  for them to press onto mine.

  All I have to do

  is close my eyes.

  BETWEEN CLASSES WITH DYLAN

  We fall into step

  in the crowded hall

  without even glancing

  at each other,

  but his little finger

  finds mine,

  hooking us

  together,

  and all the clatter

  of the corridor fades away

  till the only sound I can hear

  is the whispering of our fingers.

  IN THE CAFETERIA

  Sitting alone

  with Dylan.

  Eating my sandwich,

  but not

  tasting it.

  I’m only aware of

  the sparks in his eyes,

  the sun in his hair

  and the spot where his knee’s

  touching mine.

  Then, over his shoulder,

  I see Rachel and Grace waving at me,

  grinning like pumpkins,

  holding up this little sign

  with “Remember us?” written on it.

  IN THE GIRLS’ BATHROOM

  “Is he a good kisser?”

  Rachel asks.

  “Unbelievable,” I say.

  And it’s true.

  Dylan’s kisses

  seem like something

  much better than kissing.

  It’s like

  I can feel them

  with my whole body.

  That never used to happen

  when Lou kissed me.

  And he’s the only other boy

  I’ve ever made out with.

  “Has he tried to get to second base?”

  Grace wants to know.

  But the bell rings just in time.

  IT’S BEEN RACHEL, GRACE AND ME EVER SINCE

  That September afternoon,

  when third grade had barely begun

  and we were just getting

  to know each other,

  we skipped through

  the first fallen leaves,

  weaving our way through

  the quiet neighborhood

  to Sage Market for Häagen-Dazs bars.

  That September afternoon,

  when we saw the four older girls

  pedaling towards us,

  we didn’t expect them to stop

  or to leap off their bikes

  and suddenly surround us.

  But they did.

  And we had no idea that the biggest one,

  Mary Beth Butler,

  who had these glinting slits for eyes,

  would ask Rachel

  what church she belonged to.

  That September afternoon,

  after Rachel mumbled, “Saint James’s,”

  we didn’t know that Mary Beth

  would ask Grace the same question,

  or that Grace would squeak out,

  “North-Prospect.

  And it’s none of your business.”

  But she did.

  And when Mary Beth asked me the question

  and I said I didn’t go to church

  because I was Jewish,

  I didn’t think she’d start shouting

  at Rachel and Grace,

  “Don’t you know you aren’t supposed

  to play with anyone

  who doesn’t go to church?”

  while her friends glared

  and tightened their circle around us.

  That September afternoon,

  when Rachel kicked Mary Beth in the shin

  and the three of us

  crashed through the cage of bikes,

  racing off together

  across the nearest lawn,

  scrambling through the hedge

  and into the alley,

  not stopping till we

  were locked safely behind

  the heavy oak of Rachel’s front door,

  we didn’t know that we’d just become

  best friends.

  But we had.

  WHY I DON’T MIND BEING AN ONLY CHILD

  In fourth grade,

  when Rachel had to put her dog to sleep,

  we held a funeral for him

  like the one Grace had seen

  in Chinatown in San Francisco.

  We marched down the middle of Meadow Way,

  Rachel holding up a photo of Waggy,

  Grace pounding solemnly on her snare drum,

  me blasting out “The Dead Dog Blues”

  on my clarinet.

  In sixth grade,

  when Grace’s parents got divorced

  during spring break,

  we had a sleepover

  that lasted three nights.

  We painted Grace’s nails Revenge Red,

  covered her with henna tattoos,

  watched a Saved by the Bell marathon,

  and obliterated six pounds

  of Oreo cookies.

  Last June, when Lou dumped me

  for that awful Alison Creely,

  Rachel and Grace

  helped me make a voodoo doll

  that looked almost as stupid as him.

  We poked it with a hundred pins

  and wrote him a letter

  which included all the swear words

  we had ever heard,

  as well as a few that we just made up.

  But we didn’t mail it.

  We burned it in the fireplace instead,

  along with the voodoo doll.

  Then they dragged me off

  to see a movie.

  WATCHING MURPHY DURING ART CLASS

  He is so homely,

  so downright ugly

  that none of the girls

  even think about him.

  He’s too lowly,

  too pitiful

  to even bother

  making fun of.

  So something must be

  very wrong with me,

  because I want to kiss him.

  I want to kiss him real bad,

  even though his nose is crooked

  and his ears are huge,

  even though his hair’s a mess

  and his lips are tight and scared.

  I want to kiss away

  those circles under his eyes

  that make him look like

  he’s never slept a second in his life.

  And those arms of his

  seem like they’re just aching

  to hold on to someone.

  I wish I could let them hold on to me.

  When no one was looking,

  I’d walk up to him

  and say, “Hey, Murph.

  Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

  And he’d look hurt

  because he’d think I was joking

  and he’d turn away

  to hide his face,

  but I’d touch his shoulder and

  look at him with gentle misty movie eyes

  and say, “Come on. I mean it.

  I really want to.”

  And he’d look dumbstruck,

  and all the gray

  would fade out of his eyes

  and this light would come into them

  and his lips would look like

  they were getting ready to smile and then,

  before I had a chance to change my mind,

  I’d kiss him.

  And he’d wrap his skinniness around me

  and his arms would be shaking,

  and suddenly
I’d feel all this love,

  all this need pouring into me

  right through his lips

  into me

  and it would feel great,

  and I’d close my eyes to feel it better.

  (Whoa.

  I can’t believe

  I’m having this fantasy about Murphy,

  when I’m so totally in love with Dylan!)

  DURING HISTORY CLASS

  How can I study

  when my blood is pumping so loud

  that I can’t hear my own thoughts?

  How can I read

  when all the words

  keep swirling around on the page?

  How can I concentrate

  on Ancient Babylonia

  when Dylan’s note is burning in my pocket?

  HIS NOTE

  I stand by my locker

  waiting,

  till the hall

  is practically empty.

  Then I slip his note

  out of my pocket,

  carefully unfold each crease,

  and read:

  “You are the coolest girl

  in the whole world.

  (And probably even on Mars, too.)

  Meet me near the hole in the fence

  after school.”

  I fold it back up,

  press it to my heart,

  then slip it into my pocket

  and sprint to French class.

  I’ll be late,

  but it was

  très

  worth it.

  OPERATION “ALONE AT LAST”

  I’m standing

  near the children

  watching them swarm

  over the jungle gym,

  remembering vaguely

  what it was like to be six.

  I’m stealing a glance at Dylan

  as he ducks through the hole

  in the chainlink fence

  and disappears

  into the sheltering darkness

  of the woods.

  I’m waiting,

  just as we planned,