Sophie’s
Smile
Sheena Harper
Edited by Kyle Harper
Copyright © 2011 Sheena Harper
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover and artwork designed and illustrated by Sheena Harper.
ISBN: 1466266031
ISBN-13: 978-1466266032
To my loving and sweet Husband.
I will love you forever…
Part One
We awkwardly stride,
just ready for Yesterday,
not quite owning Now.
~Kyle Harper, Never Ready
~ Sophie ~
1
Sigh…anxious excitement flooded through my veins as I prepared myself for this new beginning. It was September 11, 1997—the heat was dry and deprecating, the trees a dusty green, the hills lush with a blanket of weeds, and the sky clear as polished glass—my very first day at Sweetwater Middle School.
I was entering the seventh grade—a place feared by some, hated by most; here, the occupant was no longer a child untainted and pure, not yet a teen preparing for the future, but somewhere stuck in between (the dreaded onion in a turkey sandwich). Excited for freedom and more independence. Unsure and misplaced in this world filled with puzzles and mazes. Insecure with wavering confidence, constantly testing and being tested. And for the first time given a mirror to criticize, critique, and understand the person looking back.
If I was wiser, that fact should have made me wary. But I was young. Naïve.
Last April, my family moved all but five miles from our previous house—quaint and fitting for a young family of three—so I could attend the prestigious Sweetwater School District. Education was everything in this upper-middle class community, consisting mainly of hard-working, first- and second-generation Asian-Americans. From a very early age, we tacitly understood that we must attend the best to become the best.
A few months ago, my naivety clouded my better sense of judgment into believing that I would have a fresh start. A new school. Have new friends. Be a new person, a better person.
The night before, I laid out my new clothes, shoes, and backpack neatly by the foot of my bed. I stepped back a moment to survey the parallel stacks and ensure I wasn’t forgetting anything—all was crisp and creased, still holding the shape of its original packaging, even after the rolled up papers, plastic shields, and silica packets were removed and discarded. Excitement building. I do not remember falling asleep, but it didn’t seem long before I lay here, awake in bed, sun creeping through the slits of the fabric-covered blinds, eyes gleaming wide and round, anxiously waiting for the alarm to buzz, signaling the start of a brand new life.
I jumped out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth and hair, changed into my new set of clothes, and took a few minutes to compose myself before heading downstairs. Examining myself in front of the full-length closet mirror, I saw a cute girl full of possibilities—her body small and frail, her face young and innocent.
I forced myself to relax, focusing on my breath—my shoulders lifted as I gulped in as much air as my lungs could hold and then slowly exhaled, releasing all the anxiety and tension. That helped a little. Knots were forming in my stomach as butterflies started to invade, filling the empty space.
Submitting to the butterflies, I gave up and ran down the stairs. Poured myself a bowl of crunchy O’s with skim milk and scarfed it down, as if trying to douse them into submission with each bite. It seemed to knock them down a bit.
“Okay, I’m ready to go to school!” I exclaimed as I hurriedly put on my stark white sneakers, grabbed my backpack, and headed for the garage.
My dad grinned as he held up his hand, “Whoa, hold on there, Princess.”
I halted and turned toward him, hands on my hips, confused. “What?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I contemplated in silence—I was clothed, fed, and had my backpack hooked contently over my left shoulder. What else was there—“Ummm?” With a pleading expression, I looked up at my dad for a clue.
My dad let out a laugh and just shook his head. “You have to wait for your mom to get ready so she could drive you to school.”
“Oh yea,” I answered, feeling dejected.
Now I glanced at the clock; I was about half an hour early. I came over to sit next to my dad on the couch, trying to focus on the morning news. They always looked too happy, too energetic, and much too perfect. There never seemed to be a strand of hair out of place.
I contemplated this until my mom finally came down to join us. My feet and hands twisting, restlessly waiting for my mom to finish her second cup of coffee—one is good but two is better, she always told me. I often fidgeted, much to my mom’s angst. I shrugged. Shrugging was my natural reflex in uncomfortable situations.
Finally, my mom was ready. My excitement was slightly unsettling…I had never been more excited for the first day of school than I was today. I hoped I wasn’t jinxing myself.
In the car, I fiddled with the radio trying to find the perfect song to fit my mood. I gave up and settled for the KISS station. I didn’t understand why there was so much talking and not enough singing on the morning radio. Before I actually heard a complete song, we arrived.
We lived so close to the school I probably could have walked, but the idea of walking never crossed my parents’ minds. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the proposition, either—sweating is very unbecoming and I detested the fact that I got my dad’s genes in that area—so it was never brought up.
A heavy sigh escaped from my chapped lips as I tried to compose myself before exiting my mom’s Lexus. A Lexus might seem excessive to some, but to those attending Sweetwater Middle School it was an average and ordinary family car.
I turned to give my mom a hug and a kiss goodbye and noticed that her eyes were already misting with emotion. Oh geez, she was about to start crying.
“Mom, please,” I said as I rolled my eyes, slightly irritated.
“Sorry, it’s just you’re growing up so fast.” She sighed.
I gave up; after all, it is a Mother’s right to fuss over her child.
“I know.” I kissed her on the cheek one more time and got out of the car.
2
Gasp. Unable to move, I took in…everything. The size of the school was larger than I imagined. There were thousands of kids scurrying every which way, meeting up with friends whom they haven’t seen since June, some whom they haven’t seen since yesterday, and others just searching for the location of their first period. Luckily, I scoped out the locations of my classes a day in advance so I wouldn’t have to use the map.
Maps were a clear giveaway, signaling to everyone that you were either a 6th grader or new to the school. I didn’t want to be singled out just yet.
The eighth graders were also easy to spot. They were the ones who wore smug faces; they were either excited to rule the school, or couldn’t care less about anyone and anything. They also looked more mature. After all, they had the entire summer for puberty to hit—generating a type of complex as they got used to their newfound bodies—and had two years to secure their place amongst their peers.
“Buzzz…” I jumped. I panicked. Am I late for my first class? I started running before stopping to think. By the time I realized it was only the warning bell, I already stood out. A few people turned my way and snickered. My cover had been blown. I’m a newbie, and everybody knows it
. I hung my head as I slowed somewhat, but still kept a fast pace toward my class. My cheeks flushed. I wanted to get inside as soon as possible to shield myself from utter embarrassment.
A handful of kids were already in my first period class, excitedly waiting to see if any of their friends or crushes would join. I zeroed in on the back corner desk and took it. I wanted to get a grip on my new surroundings before others became aware of my presence. I could feel the curiosity directed my way as I sat down. I took out my notebook and pencil and began idly doodling to pass the time until class started. The room began to fill up and after ten minutes went by, the official bell rang. There were a few stragglers, but the teacher did not seem to mind. I guessed they were more lenient, being the first day and all.
As the day went on, my excitement dwindled and sadness crept in. I found myself hanging my head a little lower, slumping in my chair a little further, and being quiet as a mouse.
Nothing will change, I thought glumly. I will not be a different person at this school, but much the same. I’ll be lonely and alone.
I didn’t know what I expected. I was never able to draw a crowd. Popularity was never my specialty. Everyone already seemed to belong to a clique, and it appeared by their turned backs and tightly closed groups they were not looking for new recruits. Everyone seemed to know everybody already. Nobody seemed to care about who I was.
3
Days passed. Weeks. Then months went by without much change. I was still alone and forgotten…that was, until today.
Mrs. Whittle had a spunky personality that fit her fiery red hair and grayish-blue eyes. Her outfits popped with color, fabric breathable and light, like a wandering gypsy roaming the streets of Italy. She was in her early forties, married, no children unless you count her two German Shepherds, and she absolutely loved history. When she was in the seventh grade she probably had no problem making friends, which was why she was clueless as to the impact her little stunt was going to have on me.
Generally, she would be whisking about, humoring herself over some anecdote or another, chalk flying from her hands as she scribbled an identification word here and there. Today, she was standing in front of the class beside a stack of papers.
“Last night I finished grading all the exams,” she paused, her lined face stern, “I was disappointed. The majority of you did poorly and will need to step it up on the next exam.”
Groans were cast around the room. My body started shaking uncontrollably at the sheer thought that I could have received anything other than an A. I drooped in my seat—color draining from my pallor-stricken face, cold sweat prickling my forehead—awaiting my fate.
As the groans died down, she continued, “But there was one person who got a perfect score.”
Her smile widened as her eyes met mine. My heart lifted…that is, until she announced who that person was in front of the entire class.
“Sophie was the only one who got every question correct.” She pulled the test from the top of the stack and held it out for everyone to see the large 100% marked at the top of the page. She turned my way and flapped the papers coaxingly, waiting for me to get out of my seat and retrieve it.
My face flushed as embarrassment took hold over my stoic body. I couldn’t have been ostracized more. At least before, I was left to my own devices. I was starting to get used to the fact that I was ignored and unnoticed. Now, all eyes were on me. I stood out like a wilted sunflower stuck into a bouquet of fresh roses.
Some were curious, others indifferent, but most were filled with annoyance—like everything would be better if only I were plucked away and tossed out of the picture. I should have felt thrilled and proud, but at that moment I felt sick.
Reality set in; I was now the competition; I was now the eyesore.
Being left alone for the past few months, I was able to observe the dynamic of this school and the people in it. Competition, money, and academic excellence ruled this school. Students were competitive by nature for the teachers’ praises and top grades.
It was a vicious cycle. Teachers competed for the best students to boost their rankings, and parents flaunted their money to compete for the best-ranked teachers. An Ivy League University was the main goal for the parents, and the best teachers were fought over to get them there.
Money was well acknowledged and appreciated; shown by the “generous donation” plaques that lined the entrance of the marble library floor, the mahogany desks, the two-story glass amphitheater, indoor swimming pool, and award-winning music and education programs.
As a blue-ribbon school, high test scores and grades were demanded, stressed, and expected. Everyone, from the parents, students, teachers, principal, and even the superintendent, felt pressure. Excellence was definitely in the forefront of everyone’s mind.
I focused on my note taking as Mrs. Whittle continued her lecture, in order to divert my attention from the glares and noisy whispers tossed my way.
Class was almost over when she introduced our first project. “This will be a group project that will be worth 30 percent of your grade,” she announced smugly as if she were a dictator ruling a communist nation.
More groans. All I could hear was “group” and “30 percent.”
“You are allowed to make your own groups of three and will need to pick a time period within the Renaissance to represent.” I listened intently as she provided all the rules and stipulations. I didn’t want to think about the “group” part yet.
To my surprise, Karen Chu came up to me and said hello. Karen was also in some of my other classes, but she never acknowledged my presence until this moment. I was confused and thrilled.
Karen was head of her clique. A group ranging from three to six girls, who were well dressed, wealthy, and clung to a group of equally popular guys like fleas attaching themselves to a dirty dog. I was in awe as she continued.
“Congratulations for getting the top grade on the exam,” she noted, innocently enough. I was sure I heard her snicker when my name was called. I shrugged it off. Maybe I was imagining things.
“Thanks,” I replied sheepishly.
“Are you already in a group for this project?”
Karen must have already known I wasn’t part of any group, but I guess she never paid much attention to me before. So how would she know that I haven’t made any friends since I came to this school?
“No, not yet.” I held my breath.
“Well you can join our group if you want.” Karen motioned toward her friend Britney Dawns.
I gasped. “Sure. That would be great.” I smiled too trustingly, like I was giving something away.
“Great.” She flashed her perfect smile and glided out the door.
I didn’t even notice that the bell rang. Nor did I notice the harsh glint in Britney’s eye once Karen caught up to her. I was mystified and happy. Finally, it seemed like I had a friend, and a popular one at that.
Karen was not conventionally beautiful, but Britney and her other friends were. Karen’s parents were very wealthy, both were doctors of some sort, and they gave her a few hundred dollars a week just for spending money. I never understood why she needed an allowance; I was positive she got everything and anything she wanted. She was an only child and her parents must have felt guilty for never being around. If not for the designer clothes, shoes, and overpriced makeup she was covered in, her features were somewhat plain and frail. She had burn scars peppered along her arms, legs, and part of her face. Caked-on makeup could not hide them. Nobody ever talked about it and I wasn’t nosy enough to ask.
Her friends, on the other hand, were pretty…no, breathtaking. You couldn’t help but look at them when they walked by—especially if they were all together—which they usually were.
Britney had wavy brown hair with hints of gold that glittered in the sunlight. Puberty seemed to set in nicely for her. She looked like a girl that just stepped out from the glossy pages of Teen Vogue.
Ellen was definitely the prettiest among Karen’s
group, but she was also the shyest. She had a small, angelic face with large brown doe eyes that were held down by thick, feathery lashes. Her slim features and long legs were accentuated by her naturally glowing skin. Her soft brown hair flowed carelessly with the wind but always seemed perfect somehow. I envied them, but I surely was not alone.
4
My happiness continued as Karen started sitting next to me in History, Math, and P.E. She started including me in her conversations with her circle of friends. She always partnered up with me for school assignments and projects; naturally, we always aced them. Her friends didn’t seem to care for me much. They talked to me as little as possible. But Karen made sure I was included…except…well, naturally, I started following her out to the snack and lunch area between classes to continue our fast-forming friendship—strangely, outside the classroom, she always seemed to ignore me.
No. I shook my head. That’s ludicrous. Why would she “pretend” to be friends with me during class and not be friends with me outside of class? Friendship is supposed to be limitless, right? Unless…No…I tried desperately to shake the gnawing memory—returning to me like déjà vu—but it was becoming obviously apparent…she could be using me.
I flashed back to second grade when I used to think I was popular. I thought the reason all the kids were calling me after school was because they liked me and they wanted to be my friend. Then one day—I hadn’t started on my homework by the time the calls started rolling in—I realized the reason behind my so-called popularity. When I told them I hadn’t yet started the basic multiplication assignment, they quickly ended the conversation…every single one of them. They were all using me for answers.
At that moment, when I realized my popularity was solely based on gullibility and being blessed with parents who drilled me religiously with multiplication flashcards a year before my peers, I became jaded and alone. Could the same thing be happening again in the seventh grade? I tried ignoring that nagging thought, but I couldn’t shake it.
Sophie's Smile: A Novel Page 1
