Sophie's Smile: A Novel

by Harper, Sheena

  Part three

  Paradise is but a dream

  To keep the hungry sated, the

  Runner running, the fighter fighting,

  The doubtful hoping.

  Chase the Dream, and never look back.

  ~Kyle Harper, Tick

  ~ Sophie ~

  1

  The lecture hall echoed, my flip-flops snapping beneath me, as I walked down the looming staircase toward an empty seat. York Hall was dimly lit, except for a buzzing, fluorescent band of light descending from the top of the blackboards, which stretched across the entire breadth of the front wall. The air in here was hazy, seeming to be filled with outgassing from the murky browns and yellows of the walls and seats. The periodic table of elements loomed large above the blackboard, near the ceiling; it seemed to peer down from on-high, mocking, contemptuous.

  I decided on the middle section of the room, the seat closest to the left aisle, next to no one—just in case I needed a quick escape. Over the past two years at this institution, I developed a hatred for being seated in close quarters with strangers—specifically, those prone to sneezing, wheezing, coughing, fidgeting, being nosy or loud, and especially, those with repulsive odors and lack of hygiene.

  Across from me, a boy with a bowl haircut and white tennies leaned forward, and with repetitive, inane urgency, scratched his head with his overgrown nails—dandruff flakes floated down, creating a light snow bed on his dark shirt.

  Cringing, my eyes diverted to my Fall Quarter schedule, waiting for lecture to start, and I sighed. This quarter will definitely be challenging and time consuming. I smirked. Not like I have anything else filling up my schedule. My social life was lackluster at best…not like it had ever been stimulating in my twenty-one years. I mulled over the schedule—P-Chem, Econ 1A, P-Chem lab, and Mam Phys—until my thoughts were no longer drowned by the loud murmurs that echoed through the cold, air conditioned building. P-Chem lecture was starting.

  The first week was easy enough. Introductions only, but I was beginning to worry if I would be able to handle my strenuous schedule. I quickly decided to drop out of P-Chem lab since it wasn’t a graduation requirement, and the workload became slightly more manageable. Lab reports were time consuming and complex. Exams were intricate and creative, and the grading was harsh: As were untouchable, Bs hard to come by, Cs were accepted graciously, and anything else was feared. All in all, college was not what I expected. It was cold, difficult and lonely.

  Now in my third year at UC San Diego, I began to analyze myself and my future—my strengths, weaknesses, likes, dislikes, where I saw myself in two years and then ten. Most of all, I analyzed the reason behind my unfailing depression.

  First off, I hated school. My depression seemed to stem from this institution—and I hated science. I just wasn’t good at it. My brain could only handle so much when it came to scientific theories and formulas.

  General Chemistry, Biochemistry, Organic Chemistry, Inorganic Chemistry, Physical Chemistry…I took enough chemistry courses to know for sure: I disliked chemistry.

  This led to my second realization—I didn’t want to continue my education beyond getting my undergraduate degree from UC San Diego. I wasn’t going to apply to pharmacy school, a goal my parents had instilled in me since the eighth grade. My parents seemed to accept this willingly enough, although they were unsure if my head was clear and my choice was well thought out. I think they clung to the hope I would change my mind after I took a year off.

  Third, I realized I would enjoy working. Getting a job, any job. I wanted to support myself.

  My parents were always there to support me, especially financially. They wanted to do everything they could to ensure I would have an easy life. They paid my way through college, insisting that I use my time to study and get good grades…that was my job, and would be my only job until I graduated.

  I accepted this. My goals were always shortsighted, always looking forward to the following year, as I graduated past elementary school, middle school, high school, and now I eagerly waited to complete my undergraduate degree.

  I yearned for that moment. Seemingly close enough to see the light, teasing me with its warmth. The end was near and once I walked across that stage in my cap and gown, diploma in hand, I would be free. Free of this glorified institution and hopefully also free of my own personal hell. I would be left to my own devices, free to do as I wish…to live out the rest of my life in solitude, peacefully.

  2

  Hormones…endocrine function and the hypothalamic-hypophyseal axis…pages 205-232.

  “Ugh…” sighing, I picked up my yellow highlighter, getting ready to do some serious damage, when my roommate, Tiffany bounced in.

  “Watcha do’n?”

  Tiff planted herself on my bed, riffling through the recent copy of Cosmo magazine. Her long legs stretched out and her crystal blue eyes gazed at the glossy pages in sheer boredom.

  “Tiff, what does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Mmmm…not sure. Something boring as usual.”

  Her glossed-over eyes flickered in disgust.

  “Why are you studying anyways, it’s Friday night. You have like all next week to study. Let’s do something fun.”

  Tiffany Preston was strikingly beautiful with her slender frame, beach blond hair, and bright blue eyes. She also was lucky enough to be blessed with buckets of free time—she was taking one online class each semester and working part time, filling the rest of her schedule with dates, parties, shopping, movies, and all the other things people my age loved to do.

  “Why don’t you call Rachel or your boyfriend over to hang out?” I suggested.

  Tiff pursed her thin, red-stained lips, “Rachel has a date with Justin and Ethan is having a guy’s night at his place.”

  Tiff’s doe-eyes turned hard as ice as she suddenly became lost in thought over all the things Ethan might be doing at this very moment—unbeknownst to her, he and his friends were down the street ogling half-naked school-girls, chugging down jugs of frosty beer, and enjoying a belching contest between gorging on “wings” slathered in “secret” sauce. She was contemplating what excuse she should use to sneak over there later when I interrupted her.

  “Sorry, Tiff. I have two midterms next week that I have to study for. I promise, after the midterms I’ll hang out. Okay?”

  I was pleading now. I really needed to get back to studying.

  Tiff seemed to be contemplating something before answering, “Alrighty.”

  “That’s it? You’re not going to whine or beg?”

  “No, silly. This weekend you need your quiet time to study. I understand.” She smirked. “But next weekend you’re mine and we’re going to celebrate my twenty-first birthday in style! I’m going to go start on the invites right now!” She squealed, extremely happy with herself for finding something to do, and left my room.

  Sigh…her twenty-first birthday party…drinking…dancing… strangers…ugh…I think I’d rather be studying. I decided years ago that a social life wasn’t for me. I was content with the facts: I would probably never find the love of my life, and I would be a virgin for eternity. Of course, that’s not what I really wanted, but I just didn’t think it was in the cards for me.

  I regained my focus for a few more hours until I started drifting off to sleep, dreaming of Prince Charming:

  I was walking through a field of sunflowers…golden rays of the sun washed over his handsome face as he brushed his lips on my cheek…I felt happy…but then he was gone…it was nighttime and I was alone…where was he?…I had to find him, be with him…I ran…I felt like I was running knee deep in sand…I needed to run faster but I couldn’t…and then I woke up.

  My face was damp with sweat. I shivered. I was puzzled by this recurring nightmare. It always started off so perfectly and then ended so abruptly, so horribly. Then I realized the lights were still on and I was still at my desk, drool smudging my notes. I closed my book, turned off the lights, and went to bed.


  3

  “Yay! It’s party time!”

  Tiff was in her baby-blue terry cotton robe—face fresh and flawless—sprawled out on the couch with a box of Cheese Crisps, lazily watching Oprah. I envied her. I probably looked like shit. My eyes felt sunken in and bloodshot, my hair was greased and pulled into a tight ponytail. I had on my gray UCSD sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops. I was exhausted.

  “Maybe later. I just finished my midterms and I need a long, restful nap.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to be around her fresh-faced, relaxed, and idle presence at the moment. I wasn’t in the mood for anything except sleeping.

  “Soph. But you promised,” Tiff whined, pushing her bottom lip forward.

  “Tiff, please. Just give me a day to recover and I’ll be all yours tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll hold you to that.” Tiff was up and about now, ready to start her day, looking like she had been waiting all morning and afternoon just for me to get home. She’s the Queen of Milking It.

  “Thanks,” I said as I headed straight for my warm bed to pass out for the rest of the day, revisiting the confusing nightmare of Prince Charming lost into the night:

  The field of sunflowers turned a desiccated brown…fading into the desert, and I could feel the heat…the rays pounded into my flesh and I could feel my blood boiling. I felt his presence but he was nowhere in sight. I panicked. My ears tickled and when I scratched, thick blood flowed down my arms and dripped onto the rusty sand below. Drip. Drip. The wind blew and I could hear him calling…sounds like my name…Soph…Soph…

  The next day, I woke feeling agitated yet refreshed. I took a long, hot shower, which I thoroughly enjoyed, and got ready for whatever Tiff had in store for her birthday. But first I needed to eat. I was famished.

  I decided on making myself some scrambled eggs with a side of toast. I was salivating just thinking about it. As I was removing the eggs from the fridge, I saw a note Tiff left for me on the whiteboard:

  Soph. Get pumped up for a fun-filled night!

  Stepped out for some last minute shop’n.

  Be back in a few.

  Invitation and agenda is on the table.

  ethe Bday girl (finally 21!!!)

  I immediately spotted the black envelope on the table and decided to read it over breakfast, as if it were the morning paper. I didn’t read the newspaper; who did these days, when the Internet was easily available and didn’t leave black smudges on your fingers?

  The invitation was printed on plain white cardstock:

  The occasion: Tiff’s 21st Birthday

  The date: (today) November 11, 2005

  The time: 7:00 P.M – tomorrow morning (I cringed.)

  The attire: Black and White

  The plan: Potluck and Drinks, Limo and Drinks, Clubs, Bars, Dancing, and many Drinks, etc., Pass out on floor. (I cringed again.)

  Although I just had a satisfying breakfast, there was a large pit starting to form in my stomach. This was going to be a long night and I wasn’t sure how much I would be enjoying it. I just hope I don’t have to take care of anyone tonight—being sober at a party when everyone is tossed and half unconscious was never a good idea. Well, I could always just pretend to be drunk and take a taxi home once everyone seemed hazy enough to not pay attention. Yes, that’ll be the plan.

  I washed the dishes and started cleaning up the rest of the apartment. If we’re going to have a party here, it needs to be somewhat clean and presentable. I was in the middle of vacuuming the entryway when Tiff came back with bags full of food and booze, and of course, a new outfit and perfectly manicured hands and feet.

  “Hello, hello, hello-o,” Tiff sang happily as she brushed past me, quickly unloading the bags onto the floor and rushing out to grab more. After three trips, each time returning with armloads of adult beverages, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes with a victorious grin. I shut the vacuum off.

  “Happy Birthday, Tiff!”

  “Finally, I’m twenty-one! Yay! I can finally go out with everyone to bars and clubs and experience the joys of getting carded!”

  Her smile immediately turned downward into a hard-pressed line. “Humph. I didn’t even get carded when I bought all of these.”

  Tiff pointed to all the booze as she lifted the glass bottles out of the many rumpled brown paper bags and began positioning each one carefully on the countertop. There was so much booze: Jack, Jose, Absolut, Grey Goose, Smirnoff, Captain; cases of beer (Blue Moon, Coors, and Heineken); and, of course, you couldn’t forget the mixers.

  “Can you help me with the rest?”

  “There’s more?”

  “Just bags of ice for the ice chest.”

  Relieved, “Sure.”

  Outside, the bags of ice were cast aside onto the baking cement, ice melting prematurely. I shook my head in disbelief. This was so like Tiff. Common sense would have been to bring the ice bags in first, but no, Tiff went straight for the booze.

  As we lugged in what remained of the ice, Tiff casually asked, “What are you gonna wear tonight?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure.”

  Tiff was eying me now. I could see the excitement building. She loved makeover shows and she loved making me over, especially.

  Shuddering, I flashed back to last summer when she got the urge to make me over. I ended up looking like a mix between one of Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku girls and Jane in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. It took three shampoo and conditioner washings to get the kinks out of my damaged hair, and four towels doused with make-up remover to get all the gunk off my face.

  Quickly, I added, “I’m sure I’ll find something to wear.”

  “I could help.”

  “No. I should be fine.” Tiff’s bubbly anticipation was crushed, so I added, “If I have any trouble, I’ll definitely ask you.”

  She seemed satisfied with this.

  Tiff helped me finish cleaning the kitchen and living room—she straightened the pillows, decorated, and arranged the utensils while I scrubbed, washed, and vacuumed. Music from her birthday playlist, graciously supplied by Ethan, was blasting from the entertainment center: songs from The Pussycat Dolls, The Black Eyed Peas, Gwen Stefani, Sean Paul, and Rihanna. After two grueling hours, the dishes were dried and put away, the carpet was devoid of lint and hair, the tile floor was scrubbed clean, and the counters and table tops were wiped down.

  Washing off the sweat and grime I accumulated during the past few hours was a pleasant respite to what lay ahead. Wrapped in a towel, I trudged toward my closet, hair dripping onto the clean beige carpet. I had no idea what I was going to wear, and after reviewing my meager wardrobe, I found my choices to be limiting. After much debate, I decided to go with my spaghetti strap black camisole top and white linen pants.

  Next was the hair and makeup. Opting for a simple up-do, I twisted my hair into a loose bun. I nodded to myself in the mirror, That should tame my frizzy hair and help with the impending heat of the suffocating clubs.

  Usually, my face is kept clean with a single layer of mineral makeup, a brush of mascara, and clear lip gloss, but today I dusted on a few more layers, played up my eyes with a few additional coats of black mascara and liner, added a rosy blush to the temples of my cheeks, and finished with a shiny layer of Siren red lip gloss.

  After I applied the finishing touches, silver bangles and black strappy heels, I was ready. With a love for fashion I knew how to put a nice outfit together—a gift from my mom—and I felt pleased with my makeshift ensemble. The reason my wardrobe selection was at best satisfactory was my dislike for spending money—specifically, money I hadn’t earned—on nonessential items that I could easily do without. More reason for me to graduate and get a job. Glancing one more time into the mirror, I went upstairs to see how Tiff was doing.

  Walking into her room, I was stunned. There were clothes and shoes strewn all over the carpet, on her bed, off the hangers, and even in the bathroom. Her bathroom countertop was hidden
under a sea of makeup, jewelry, hair products, and hairpins. Tiff was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, setting her hair into soft curls that landed at the middle of her back. She was still wearing her baby-blue robe—that knowingly brought out the blue in her eyes—and her face was a blank slate.

  “What have you been doing this entire time?” I asked quizzically, while looking around at what seemed to be a warzone rather than a bedroom.

  “Oh, you know. This and that. I couldn’t find the right shoes for my new outfit so I tried looking for something else to wear.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No, not yet. Will you help?”

  At this rate, it would take her all night to get ready. “Sure. Where’s your new outfit?”

  “Over there. On the hanger.”

  I turned to her closet, and sure enough there was one item left hanging on the bar. Letting out a silent breath of relief, I relaxed. At least I didn’t have to dig around her room painstakingly searching for a needle in a haystack.

  The black dress was simple enough, with a plunging neckline and a very short hemline—a dangerous twist to the well-known expression of the little black dress.

  After a few minutes of rummaging through her piles of clothes and accessories, I quickly found the perfect shoes to go with her outfit—white platforms with a stripper heel. Tiff squealed in delight.