Sophie Steps Up

by Nancy N. Rue

  “Why?” said Fiona.

  “Because you just picked your nose!”

  Suddenly a shaft of light shot straight back to them from the front of the stage, and an all-too-familiar voice said, “Oh, sick!”

  The light got wider as the curtains opened and B.J. came toward them, followed by Anne-Stuart, who was already sneezing from the curtain dust.

  “You’re picking your nose, Kitty?” Anne-Stuart said.

  “No,” Fiona said. “I’m picking it for her.”

  Somebody else shrieked. Sophie recognized that as Willoughby, who was obviously hauling the curtains open in the wing.

  “I should have known,” said Queen Julia as she sailed through the opening. She stopped in front of Kitty and Fiona, who were now in the act of eating an invisible banana that was going everywhere but into Kitty’s wide-open mouth.

  “Tell me this isn’t your showcase presentation,” she said.

  B.J. shook her butter-blonde bob. “If it is, don’t count on a prize.”

  “Did you ask if you could use the stage to practice?” AnneStuart said. She gave a juicy sniff. “We have permission to practice our dance — ”

  “Every day before school,” B.J. put in.

  “Oh, yes?” Fiona said. “Well, we — ”

  “We’re just leaving!” Sophie grabbed her backpack and stared hard at the other Corn Flakes.

  Fiona’s eyes turned into dashes, but she said, “Right — only because we’re fair — which is more than I can say for — ”

  “Let’s get our stuff!” Sophie said.

  Kitty giggled. “Get ours, Fiona.”

  Fiona’s arms flailed around Kitty until Maggie put a backpack in each of her hands and Fiona and Kitty shuffled out still attached. Sophie was sure Kitty was going to need CPR, she was giggling so hard.

  Whew, that was close, Sophie thought as she followed Fiona and Kitty to the steps. If Fiona had kept at it, it would’ve gotten way ugly.

  That was another Corn Flake rule — no being evil to the Corn Pops, no matter how nasty they were being.

  “Hey, Maggie,” Julia called across the stage.

  Maggie turned slowly around, peach gel pen behind her ear. “Me?” she said.

  Sophie watched Julia select the I-want-something-from-you smile and paste it on.

  “Did you think about what I asked you yesterday?” she said.

  “Yeah,” Maggie said. Her voice was heavy.

  “So — are you going to make our costumes?”

  “We really want you to, Miss Maggie,” Anne-Stuart said. She was smiling too and nodding her head like that would automatically get Maggie to nod hers.

  B.J. bobbed her bob. “You’ll get a good grade if you work with us.”

  “Maggie’s with us,” Fiona said.

  “We stick together,” Kitty said. “We’re the Cor — ”

  “Let’s get to class!” Sophie heard her voice squeak, which it usually did when she was trying to save her friends from disaster. If the Pops ever knew they called themselves the Corn Flakes, they would practically have to move out of town.

  “Can you believe they even had the nerve to ask Maggie that?” Fiona said to the Flakes as they hurried down the hall to language arts class.

  Kitty looped her arm through Maggie’s. “I would never let them take you away from us,” she said.

  Sophie was just forming a picture in her mind of Kitty hurling herself in front of Maggie like she was shielding her from an oncoming train, when Maggie said, “We’re not really going to do that arm thing for our performance, are we?”

  They all stopped in front of the classroom door and Kitty, Maggie, and Fiona looked at Sophie.

  “Well,” Sophie said carefully. “It was a good idea — but it wasn’t a brilliant one. I know the Corn Flakes are capable of doing something really fabulous!”

  She didn’t have a chance to see how Kitty and Fiona were taking that because Mr. Denton called to them as he came toward them down the hall, leading a tall girl with reddish hair cut short and splashy.

  “This is Darbie,” Mr. Denton said. “She’s joining our class.”

  The girl, who Sophie now saw from close up had dark eyes and smooth milky-white skin, didn’t look to Sophie like she was “joining” anything. The way she seemed to be smelling at the air, it was more like she was starting her first day in a garbage dump.

  I know how you feel, Sophie thought. I despised being the new girl too. Hardly anybody even knew I was here until Fiona came.

  “Hi,” Fiona said. “Where’d you move from?”

  “Northern Ireland,” Darbie said.

  Sophie felt her eyes widen. “Ireland!”

  “The real Ireland?” Kitty said.

  “No, silly, the fake one,” Fiona said. She smiled at Darbie again. “She doesn’t get out that much.”

  “What’s it like there?” Maggie said.

  “Are there really leprechauns?” Kitty said.

  Darbie didn’t answer.

  “Ladies — you sound like a bevy of reporters.” Mr. Denton gave them his dial-tone-dry look. “Let’s get Darbie settled in before we start interrogating her.”

  “I’m Kitty!” Kitty said as Mr. Denton led Darbie into the classroom.

  “I’m Fiona — she’s Maggie,” Fiona said.

  Even after they got into the classroom, Sophie didn’t introduce herself because Darbie didn’t appear to be listening, not the way she took herself to the other side of the room and stood with her back to them, straight and stiff-looking. Besides, an image was forming in Sophie’s mind — of being from a foreign country and coming to an American school — so proud of her homeland and yet so eager to belong. She was wearing a dress with green shamrocks on it, and a green derby — and carried a lunch box full of corned beef and cabbage —

  Okay, so she’d have to get Fiona to do some research on Ireland.

  She tossed her hair in an Irish way — whatever that was —

  “Hey, you — Soapy.”

  Sophie blinked into the face of Julia.

  Just when she was getting to the good part. “What?” Sophie said.

  “Who’s the new girl?” Julia was wearing her we-really-are-friends- sometimes expression.

  “Her name’s Darbie,” Sophie said. “She’s from Ireland.”

  Julia looked almost impressed. “She dresses cute for being from a foreign country,” she said. “Sometimes they dress funny.”

  “Those are all new clothes,” Anne-Stuart said, sniffing as though she could smell their just-boughtness.

  “Old Navy,” B.J. said.

  Sophie edged away from the Corn Pops. It felt germy to be so close to them while they were sizing up Darbie from across the room.

  “Go ask her if she wants to sit with us,” Julia said to Willoughby.

  Willoughby nodded her head of pecan-colored wavy hair and headed for the back of the room where Fiona was showing Darbie how to unlock her locker.

  “I think she’s sitting with us,” Sophie said.

  “She doesn’t look weird at all,” B.J. said. “She’s more like us.”

  “Tell that Harley girl to move so Darbie can sit next to me,” Julia said to B.J.

  Sophie moved away, sure she had Corn-Popitis crawling all over her.

  The Corn Flakes watched, mouths open, as Willoughby ushered Darbie to the seat B.J. had cleared for her, and Julia scooted her desk close to Darbie’s, and Anne-Stuart provided her with gel pens, paper, and a container of lip gloss.

  By lunch, Darbie was sitting at the Pops’ table with a buffet in front of her that Julia had sent Willoughby through the line for with a wad of dollar bills.

  At after-lunch free time, Julia and Anne-Stuart hustled Darbie off to a corner of the school yard, each with an arm around her. B.J. was walking backward in front of them and Willoughby trailed along behind, shrieking for no reason that Sophie could figure out.

  “I guess she’s going to be a Corn Pop,” Kitty said as the Flakes lined up
against the fence.

  “Whether she wants to or not,” Fiona said. “They haven’t even given her a chance to talk to anybody else. That’s so ‘them.’ ”

  “Hey,” Maggie said, pointing a squared-off finger. “Look what they’re doing.”

  Kitty squinted. “What ARE they doing?”

  Sophie brushed away the hair the March wind tousled into her face. The Pops were now standing on the cement walkway along the fence, all in a row with Darbie in the middle. Everyone was watching Julia, who was moving like she was putting on an invisible pair of pantyhose.

  “I know,” Fiona said. “They’re teaching her their dance.”

  “She’s auditioning!” Kitty said.

  Sure enough, as Sophie and the Flakes watched, Darbie imitated Julia — looking more like she was putting on overalls than nylons. The other Pops joined in, exaggerating their motions with Julia clapping her hands in rhythm and calling out, “One, two, three.”

  Suddenly, Darbie stopped and put up her hands.

  “She hates it,” Fiona whispered.

  Julia and the other three stepped off the sidewalk and stood back. Darbie was still for a few seconds, and then she moved her feet, faster and faster, in little kicks and stomps while the rest of her body stayed straight and she kept her head faced forward.

  “How cool is that?” Fiona said.

  Maggie nodded. “I’ve seen that on TV.”

  “It must be Irish,” Kitty said.

  Sophie could almost feel her own Irish character — who so far had no name — holding her shamrock-dotted skirt up to her knees and moving her feet so fast the crowd could hardly see them. When the music stopped, they all rushed to her —

  “You don’t do it as good as Darbie does, Sophie,” Maggie said.

  “Come on,” Fiona said as the bell rang. She linked her arm through Sophie’s as they followed the crowd toward the door. “You were thinking Irish, weren’t you?”

  “We have to make an Irish film,” Sophie said.

  “Oh, definitely,” Fiona said. “I’ll find out stuff on the Internet.”

  Maggie looked over her shoulder at them as they shuffled their way into the hall. “We have to think of something for our showcase first.”

  “Shhh . . .” Kitty said. “Don’t let the Pops hear we don’t have our idea yet.”

  The Corn Pops were just ahead of them, but Sophie could see that they were way too focused on Darbie to give them a second thought.

  “Can you teach us how to do that?” she heard Willoughby say to her.

  “But we’re not doing that for the showcase,” Julia said — eyes flashing at Willoughby.

  Anne-Stuart put her arm around Darbie’s shoulder with a sniff. “We can teach you how to really dance. You’re coordinated enough. It won’t take that long.”

  Darbie stopped just inside the arts classroom and flung Anne-Stuart’s arm away from her.

  “I know how to ‘really dance,’ so I do,” she said. “Would you ever lay off? Scram!”

  Miss Blythe glided over to where the Flakes and Pops were now standing in two clumps with Darbie between them.

  “Artistic differences?” Miss Blythe said. She made it sound like that was a good thing.

  “Darbie’s going to be in our group,” Anne-Stuart said. “And we were just telling her — ”

  “ — that I don’t know how to dance.”

  “It’s just not the right dance for us,” Anne-Stuart said.

  “ — then cop on and find someone else,” Darbie said.

  The Corn Pops stared at her, probably because nobody ever said no to them. In the silence, Maggie spoke up.

  “I’m doing costumes for you,” she said to Julia.

  Sophie could feel her eyes popping at Maggie. “You’re doing costumes for them?”

  “I don’t WANT to,” Maggie said, “but I HAVE to.” She frowned. “It’s my mom.”

  “Oh,” Sophie said. She knew about parents and “have to’s.”

  “My mom said if we didn’t get an idea by today, I have to do costumes for the Po — for them.”

  “What?” Fiona said.

  “That works out just perfectly then,” Miss Blythe said. “Without Maggie, your group needs another person, Fiona. And since — what was your name, love?” She glanced at Darbie’s NEW STUDENT slip.

  Darbie’s eyes turned to stones. “Darbie O’Grady,” she said. “Not ‘love.’ ”

  Miss Blythe clasped her hands under her chin. Sophie wasn’t sure what punctuation mark that was.

  “Fabulous,” Miss Blythe said. “Darbie O’Grady, you will work with Fiona and Kitty and Sophie. Maggie, you’ll transfer to the Julia, B.J., Willoughby, and Anne-Stuart group.”

  When the Corn Flakes got to their table, Kitty was already whining like a cocker spaniel.

  “Why did they have to steal Maggie? Who’s going to make our costumes?”

  “What costumes?” Fiona said. “We don’t even have an idea yet.”

  “Now isn’t that just brilliant.” Darbie folded her arms across the front of her sweater. “I’ve gone from one set of eejits to another, so I have.”

  “I love how you talk,” Kitty said to her. “Say something else.”

  Darbie didn’t cooperate. She seemed to be chewing at the inside of her mouth.

  “Do you miss being in Ireland?” Kitty said.

  “That depends on whether she’s from Ireland or Northern Ireland,” Fiona said. She turned to Sophie. “They’re two different countries.”

  “I told you Northern Ireland before,” Darbie said, and then she clamped her teeth together.

  “Oh — too bad,” Fiona said.

  “Why is it too bad?” Kitty said.

  “It is not bad!” Darbie glared at each one of them in turn. “It’s my home and I’ll be thanking you not to be slagging it.”

  It wasn’t hard to figure out what “slagging” meant. “We don’t mean to,” Sophie said. “We’re just curious.”

  “Insatiably,” Fiona said.

  “It’s because we love to make films about fascinating things,” Sophie said. “Even though Miss Blythe won’t let us do one for the showcase, we still want to make an Irish film for Corn Flakes Productions — that’s what we’re called.”

  “So you’re only chatting me up so you can use me.” Darbie’s eyes were like flickers of heat lightning. “I wouldn’t be part of one of your childish little pictures. You see . . .” she lowered her voice so that the Corn Flakes had to tilt themselves toward her to hear. “I am not a child.”

  Four

  It was a long-faced group that met at Fiona’s house the next morning, Saturday, to try to make a decision about the showcase.

  Fiona was annoyed because her little brother and sister, Rory and Isabella, were being even more heinous than usual, breaking in the new nanny, Ethel, who stood in the middle of the yard and yelled because she was the biggest human being in the world and couldn’t run after them.

  Kitty was all whimpery because Maggie wasn’t there.

  Sophie was still smoldering over the fact that the Corn Pops got to do what they were good at for the showcase, but the Corn Flakes couldn’t.

  And as for Darbie — it seemed to Sophie that she was sullen and annoyed and smoldering no matter what was going on.

  It was a warm day for March. They were sprawled at the picnic table on Fiona’s back deck with their juice boxes, sighing and staring, when Darbie gave her wristwatch a pointy look and said, “It’s half eleven. We’ve sat here foostering about for an hour now.”

  Kitty giggled. “Half eleven? Does that mean eleven thirty?”

  “It means we need to be getting on with it,” Darbie said.

  “You come up with something then,” Fiona said.

  Darbie shrugged. Fiona broke rule number one and rolled her eyes. Kitty giggled again, although as far as Sophie could see there was absolutely nothing funny. She could almost hear the poem Miss Blythe was going to assign them.

  The
door to the deck opened and Boppa, Fiona’s grandfather, strolled toward them, a picnic basket in each hand. “How’s the showcase coming along?” he said.

  “It’s not,” Fiona said. “Let’s face it — we’re clueless.”

  “Sounds like you lasses need a break.”

  Boppa was wiggling his dark caterpillar eyebrows, but today not even Boppa and his comical faces could cheer up the Corn Flakes.

  “Lasses?” Kitty said.

  Boppa stopped next to Darbie and gave her his soft smile. “Do they still call young ladies ‘lasses’ in Ireland these days? It’s been a while since I’ve been there. I don’t want to be uncool.”

  “No,” Darbie said between her teeth. “Not in NORTHERN Ireland.”

  “So you don’t say ‘wee’ and ‘bonnie’ either?” Sophie said.

  “Only American tourists who think they know everything talk that way in my country.” Darbie’s words came out tightly, as if she were constantly trying to swallow them back. “And I thought I told you I wasn’t a specimen under a microscope.”

  “Doesn’t anybody want to know where we’re going to eat this lunch?” Boppa said.

  “Uh, let me think,” Fiona said. “Here at the table?”

  “How does Gull Island sound?”

  “Really?” Kitty said.

  “That would be great, Boppa,” Fiona said, “if we actually had a boat.” She was just short of rolling her eyes. Fiona got a little cranky when she was frustrated.

  “We do today. I rented a couple of rowboats so you could get out to the island for a picnic lunch.”

  Sophie jolted, knocking over her grape juice box. “A real boat? Does it have paddles?”

  “It would be murder to row without them,” Darbie said. She glared and set the box upright just before purple juice dripped out onto her sleeve.

  But Sophie barely heard her. All through stuffing themselves into the black SUV — with Boppa, Ethel, Rory, and Izzy, and riding to Messick Point, Sophie could only think about Colleen O’Bravo, who was headed for adventure.

  That’s my Irish character’s name, Sophie thought. And Colleen isn’t going to call people eejits, which I guess is a word for stupid people, but I’m sure not going to ask Darbie. Darbie’s mean — Colleen isn’t.

  While Boppa parked the car, Ethel led the group down a pier that stretched over the water, barking down at Izzy and Rory who she had clamped firmly by their forearms. She sounded like a jail warden, but Sophie tried to imagine her with an accent. Maybe she was an Irish jail warden, and the Corn Flakes were trying to break Darbie out of prison, where she had been unjustly sent. She wasn’t sure how Rory and Izzy were going to fit in. Maybe they were rats . . .