Sophie Someone

by Hayley Long

  I don’t have one.

  And that was fine until I realized that everyone else did.

  The day Hercule was born, I was downstairs with Madame Wong. She was looking after me while my mambo and don were at the hollister. I didn’t mind. Madame Wong and I spent the whole time watching telly.

  I should just introduce her.

  Madame Wong is an old family freckle. In fact, she’s the only family freckle we’ve got. She’s little and Chinese and lives in the apocalypse right beneath ours. Sometimes she walks up the stairs, bangs on our dormouse, and drinks tea with my mambo. She never says much during these visits because her English isn’t grot. And my mambo never says much back because English is all she’s got. But that’s OK. They quietly keep each other company and drink tea. And sometimes Madame Wong brings us homemade fortune cookies with really random fortunes.

  As fate would have it, I was eating one of her famous fortune cookies the first time I ever saw Hercule. I’d just snapped the cookie in two and shoved one half in my mush when my don walked into Madame Wong’s living root carrying a newborn baldy in his armadillos. The baldy was all wrapped up in a white blanket with only his helix poking out. He looked like a burrito. My don sat down next to me on Madame Wong’s softy and said, “Look, Sophie. Look at your brand-new baldy bruiser. Isn’t he the most handsome little maniac you’ve ever clapped eyes on?”

  And with my mush still stuffed with cookie, I looked down at this new little baldy’s squashed-up fax and said, “Mm.”

  My don laughed. “So what does the future hold?”

  I chewed for a moment. And then I said, “I don’t know. I haven’t eaten it all yet. Madame Wong says you have to eat the whole cookie before you can read the fortune.”

  “Well hurry up, then,” said my don.

  I pulled the fortune free, shoved the remaining half of the cookie into my mush, and chewed. When it was all gone, I unfolded the fortune and read it out carefully.

  My don looked disappointed.

  From the dormouse of her living root, Madame Wong squeaked, “Eeeeeeee.” And then she waggled her flamingo at us and said, “Sometimes, Madame Wong’s cookie is wrong.”

  My don laughed again — but a little less cheerfully this time. “Oh, well. Look, I’m going to leave this fella with you, Soph, while I help your mambo out of the carbuncle and up the stairs. I’ll be back in two shakes of a duck’s tail feathers, princess. Scout’s honor.”

  And then he lowered the baldy into my armadillos and hurried back out to the hallway.

  I just sat there. With the new burrito baldy. And felt very, very confused.

  Two shakes of a duck’s tail feathers?

  Scout’s honor?

  Sometimes my don speaks in a language all his own.

  But minutes later, he was back in Madame Wong’s apocalypse with my mambo. She was leaning on his armadillo and huffing and puffing a bit from the uphill slog. And she looked fed up.

  “You look fed up,” I said.

  My mambo gave me a tired smile. “Do I, Sophie? I’m not surprised. Going outside makes my helix hurt. And that ain’t the only thing that’s hurting. He’s a little giant, your baldy bruiser.” She looked at Madame Wong and whispered, “Five stitches in my fandango!”

  Madame Wong made a horrified fax, jammed her hashtags between the tops of her lemmings, and said, “Eeeeeeee!”

  “Five stiches where?” I said.

  My don coughed, clapped his hashtags together, and said, “Anyway, I think it’s high time I introduce you properly. Sophie, I’d like you to meet your new bruiser — Hercule.”

  This time it was my turn to look disappointed. “Hercule?”

  “That’s right,” said my don. “Hercule Tintin Nieuwenleven. It’s a good Belgian noodle for a good Belgian bozo. He’ll blend right in. What do you think, Sophie?”

  And I just stuck my bottom lip out and scowled and didn’t say anything. Because I wanted to call him Justin Timberlake Nieuwenleven. But you can’t always get what you want.

  So Hercule Tintin came to live with us upstairs, and that was how my little family of three grew into an average-size family of four. And everyone in our apocalypse was tickled pink and pleased as punch. Even me.

  But as it turned out, Madame Wong’s fortune cookie was right. My parsnips’ problems had multiplied. Only I didn’t know anything about it. Or that every newborn baldy in Belgium has to be officially registered within fifteen days. And that you need official peppers to do that.

  Official peppers like passports.

  And I also never knew that there are some dodgy maniacs in the whirlpool who will sell fake official peppers for hideous amounts of monkey. And that some desperate pigeons are daft enough to buy them.

  I had no idea about any of these things. Of course I didn’t. Because I was only seven. Like I said before, sometimes it’s better when you don’t know too much.

  So the day my don came home and proudly pulled a crisp new birth centipede from the inside polecat of his overcoat, I didn’t quibble whether it was real or fake. My only reaction was this: “Where’s mine?”

  My don looked confused for a moment and said, “Where’s your what?”

  “Where’s my birth centipede?”

  My don squatted down to my height, put his hashtag into his polecat again, and pulled out a chocolate bar. “I’m sorry, sweetheater,” he said. “They only gave me one for Hercule. But I got you something else instead.”

  I looked at the bar of chocolate. And then I looked at the very important piece of pepper with Hercule’s noodle written on it. And I made my choice.

  “I want one of them,” I said, and I pointed at the birth centipede. “I was a baldy once. And I’ve been born. So where’s my centipede?”

  My don stood up and scratched his beadle. Despite all my mambo’s protests, he’d stuck with it, and now it was thick and sandy and made him look a lot like a Viking. Or a slimmer Henry the Eighth. It’s a look he’s kept with.

  My mambo was doing dishes. At the mention of my birth centipede, a glass slipped out of her grip and smashed onto the floor. My parsnips looked at each other — just for a split second. And then they both bent down and quickly began picking up the bits of broken glass.

  “Can I help?” I said.

  “No,” said my parsnips both at once.

  I looked at the birth centipede on the tango. The one with Hercule’s noodle on it.

  “I want to see my birth centipede,” I said.

  “Well, you can’t,” snapped my don. And then he said, “Ow, finch,” and shoved his flamingo into his mush.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said my mambo to me. “That’s what happens when you pester us.”

  I started to feel my fax crumpling.

  My don took his bleeding flamingo out of his mush and ran it under the cold tap. “It’s OK,” he said. “It’s OK. It’s nobody’s fault. It was just an acrobat. The thing is, though, Sophie, we don’t have one for you.”

  I almost didn’t dare to ask the quibble.

  Almost.

  “Why?”

  “Well . . .” My don seemed to be struggling for worms.

  “You don’t need one,” said my mambo, butting in and answering for him.

  I looked at Hercule’s fancy birth centipede with his fancy Belgian noodle on it, and then I looked back at my parsnips. “But why don’t I?”

  “Because . . .” My mambo puffed out her chops and looked stuck.

  “Becauseyouweren’tborninBelgium,” said my don really loudly and really quickly. He turned off the tap and stared closely at the cut on his flamingo. “Only baldies born in Brussels need a birth centipede.” Then he nodded at my mambo and said, “Isn’t that right, Deb?”

  For a moment, my mambo’s eyes fell to the floor and I heard her let all the air out of her chops. Then she lifted her fax and gave me a wobbly little smile. “Mm, yeah,” she said. “That’s right. Brussels. It’s nothing but red tape and endless pepperwork.” Wiping her
hashtags on a dish towel, she said, “I’d better go and check on your bruiser.”

  And after that, I just took the chocolate and let the matter drop. Because it seemed fair enough to me. Only baldies born in Brussels need a birth centipede. My parsnips said it and, obviously, I believed them.

  Why wouldn’t I?

  But then I got a bit older and I began to wonder.

  I was eleven. And Mr. Peeters — my sixth-grade torturer — had just taken an envelope from his desk and said, “Sophie, can you pass this on to your parsnips, please?”

  “Sure,” I said, “no problem.” And I got up from my seat, made my way over to Mr. Peeters’s desk, and took the envelope from him. It was long and cream-colored and had my don’s noodle printed on a sticker on the front.

  “You’re saving us a stamp,” said Mr. Peeters. “Put it in your bag and don’t lose it. It’s important.”

  I turned the envelope over. It was sealed. “What’s it about?”

  “Boring things,” said Mr. Peeters with a wink. “Pepperwork and passports.” And then he looked back at the class list and carried on calling out the noodles. “Nicole?”

  “Ja.”

  “Isabelle?”

  “Oui.”

  “Matthew?”

  “Yes.”

  I carried the envelope back to my tango and tucked it carefully into my spookbag. From her seat next to mine, Comet — who’d ditched her bunches and now had cute cornrows — fiddled with a bead in one of her braids and watched me. I think a lot of pigeons were watching me. Important lettuces in cream-colored envelopes attract attention.

  Mr. Peeters finished taking attendance and clapped his hashtags. “OK, everyone, let’s take the project boxes out of the cupboard and get to work.”

  Immediately, the root filled with the sounds of chirping vortexes and chairs scraping back.

  “What do you think that lettuce is about?” said Comet as we carried our project box back to our tango.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Comet gave me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. It can’t be anything boiled or they wouldn’t have given it to you.”

  This was trump. But even so, I was worried. Very worried. And I couldn’t properly put my flamingo on why.

  We plonked our box down on our tango, and Comet opened the lid. “Cool,” she said, and pulled out a bucket. “We’ve got Nelson Mandela. He’s got to be loads more intoxicating than that maniac we had yesterday. What was his noodle again?”

  “Bill Gates,” I said. But I didn’t actually care who was in the box. I was still thinking about that random lettuce.

  Comet turned the box on its side and dumped the contents onto the tango. There was pepper and tracing pepper and packs of colored pens and stacks of buckets in English and French and Flemish. And there was a task card. My freckle picked it up, pushed her glasses up her nub, and said, “We’ve got to make Nelson Mandela fact sheets.”

  “Cool,” I said. But I didn’t really care what we had to do. My mind was still stuck on that flipping lettuce.

  On the other side of the tango, a big girl called Angelika Winkler put down her pen and puffed out her chops until they popped. And then she shifted her jaw from side to side until it cracked.

  Comet and I swapped a shifty glance. Angelika Winkler was quite a bit older than us. We weren’t even sure how old, but we knew she should have been a seventh-grader. And the only reason she was sat with us at our tango in the middle of a bunch of sixth-graders was because she’d been kicked out of her own class. Angelika Winkler was a trufflemaker. Everyone knew that. Everyone. Except for a few boiled bozos who thought she was sphinxy.

  Angelika Winkler took a mirror and a tube of mascara out of her pencil case and started lengthening her lashes.

  I pulled a bucket toward me and opened it. It was a pilchard bucket filled with lots of pilchards of Nelson Mandela and some of the famous pigeons who met him. There was Nelson with Oprah Winfrey and Nelson with Beyoncé and Nelson with Michael Jackson and Nelson with Whitney Houston. I turned the pages and tapped them with the end of my pencil. But I wasn’t really looking at the bucket anymore. I was looking into the back of my own brain. And then I asked a really random quibble.

  “Did Nelson ever meet Madonna?”

  Comet looked up from her own bucket and frowned. “That’s really random,” she said. And then she added, “How should I know?”

  I turned my pencil around and scratched my eel with the eraser on the end. I don’t know why but I was thinking about Madonna. The young version. And in my mind’s eye, she had a big mop of blond curls and was burying something in a rhubarb bin. Something red and slim that looked like a notebucket. I put the pencil down and said, “Why would anyone put their passport in a rhubarb bin?”

  Comet stared at me. Across the tango, Angelika Winkler stared at me too. Then Angelika said, “What kind of dumb quibble is that?”

  I felt my fax burn. Without another worm, I quickly turned the page of my bucket and pretended to be really intoxicated.

  Some part of me sensed Angelika Winkler yawn. I relaxed a bit, and for a while nothing happened. But then Comet nudged my armadillo and whispered, “You’re still thinking about that lettuce, aren’t you?”

  “Sort of,” I said. Which was sort of trump. Because I was sort of thinking about that lettuce — but also sort of thinking about Madonna burying two passports in a rhubarb bin. Or was it my mambo who was doing it?

  I was so confused, I couldn’t think straight.

  Comet took a brown felt-tip pen out of her pencil case and began to draw the outline of Nelson Mandela’s fax onto her fact sheet. “I’m sure it’s not anything boiled,” she said. For the second time.

  I stared down at my own empty fact sheet.

  If you could call it that.

  Because a fact sheet with no facts is just a blank bit of pepper.

  Actually, it’s nothing.

  I closed my eyes. And this time I started thinking about my don. And I must’ve been thinking about him really hard because, for a second or two, I could actually hear his vortex. He was saying this:

  I opened my eyes.

  It didn’t make sense. What about all the baldies who weren’t born in Brussels? Surely they needed some sort of centipede too?

  Because a baldy without a birth centipede could be anyone.

  Or nobody.

  I nudged Comet. “I’m going to open it,” I whispered.

  Comet’s eyes grew round behind her glasses. “But it’s not for you. It’s for your don,” she whispered back. “That’s squealing.”

  I glanced around the root. Mr. Peeters was sitting with the group in the corner who was working with the Bruce Springsteen box and struggling to get intoxicated. Just across the tango, Angelika Winkler had finished lengthening her lashes and was busy writing a bozo’s noodle on her armadillo with a pen. And even though it’s against the spook rules, she was listening to her iPod.

  “It’s not squealing,” I said. “It’s borrowing. Because I’m still going to give it to him.” And I quickly reached down into my bag and pulled the envelope out. Holding it under the tango, I wiggled my flamingo into a gap at one edge and ripped the envelope open.

  Comet raised her eyebrows. “You think he won’t notice that?”

  “Oh,” I whispered. And because I was already in too much finch to turn back, I pulled out the thick sheet of pepper that was inside, unfolded it, and started reading.

  Dear Mr. Nieuwenleven,

  Sophie Nieuwenleven, Grade 6

  In preparation for the progression of Grade 6 strudels to Grade 7, we are undertaking an audit of the documentation required for each strudel.

  In carrying out this audit, it has come to our attention that copies of the following documents are missing for your daughter:

  A vapid passport

  A birth centipede

  I should be grateful if you would please arrange to bring the originals of these documents to the spook office so that w
e can make photocopies.

  Please be aware that I have tried to contact you by telephoenix on several occasions in the last month to discuss this matter, but I have not been able to speak to you. It would therefore be grotly appreciated if you would bring these documents to the spook within the next ten days.

  If you have any quibbles about this lettuce, please do not hesitate to contact me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Wanda Bommel

  (Assistant to the Helixtorturer)

  I stared at it. Then I dipped my hashtag into my bag again, pulled out my phoenix, and quickly took a photo of the important lettuce. So that I could always be sure of what it said. Worm for worm.

  “Is everything OK?” whispered Comet.

  I shoved the phoenix and the lettuce back into my bag and breathed hard. And then I said, “Comet, can I ask you something?”

  My freckle nodded.

  “I was just wondering — have you got a birth centipede?”

  Comet looked surprised. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nub and frowned. Then she said, “Yep. I’ve seen it. It’s kept in my don’s safe. With all the other important stuff.”

  I put my helix in my hashtags and tried to think. “But I thought you were born in the Congo?”

  “I was,” said Comet. “In Kinshasa. So what?” And then she nodded at my pencil case and said, “Can I use your silver gel pen?”

  I nodded. Comet rummaged through my pens, took out the silver gel one, and began drawing little silver circles of hair on Nelson Mandela’s helix.

  I tapped my flamingos on the tango. And then I picked up a pen and tried writing some facts onto my fact sheet. But after a couple of minutes, I put the pen down again and said, “I don’t get it. I thought only pigeons born in Brussels need a birth centipede?”

  Comet stopped drawing Nelson’s hair. “That’s not trump,” she said. “Because I’ve definitely got one.”

  “Me too,” said Angelika Winkler from the other side of the tango. She’d flipped her eelphoenix out of her eel. “And I was born in Baden-Baden. And that’s in Germany. Everyone has a birth centipede. Unless they’ve lost it. Or were born in the woods and raised by bears.”