Sophie's Smile: A Novel (2 page)

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.

Days would go by while Karen would happily sit next to me in class, chattering nonstop as she included me in the conversations she had with Britney, Ellen, or one of the other girls, who for whatever reason was allowed into their clique that day, letting me borrow her new pastel pens, or toying with the possibilities of hanging out after school but always having an excuse in her back pocket. Then the minute the lunch bell rang, she would act like I wasn’t even there. She would not hear me, would not look at me,
would
never acknowledge me.

I was always quiet, standing by her side like a loyal pet, absorbing their actions, faces, and subjects of conversation. I noticed their sharp jabs and snide comments toward other students in the school, always careful of using code names so outsiders wouldn’t be able to identify their target. They had code names for boys they liked and girls they hated, teachers, friends, and…targets.

They started using the name
Horns
.

For a few days they mentioned
Horns
in their conversations.
Snickering a little louder than normal.
Sometimes I would laugh in response and their snickering would escalate. It wasn’t until later that I understood.

I sank as the realization hit me like a ton of bricks:
I am being used.
Not only was I being used, but also I was becoming the target of their amusement. I was the main circus act. Being primped and prodded just for the crowd’s tantalizing enjoyment.
I am Horns
.

5

Nights would go by as I just lay there, awake and haunted, pillow drenched with my hot, salty tears, tossing and turning, trying to make sense of it all. Even then, knowing that Karen and her friends were using me, that I was
Horns
, why would I still join them for lunch? Why would I torment myself and allow them their fun? Why did I keep following her? Why did I let her pretend to be nice to me during class and “help” her ace exams and projects?
Why?

My mind racked through all the reasons why she would seek me out from all the others. How
could this frail looking, somewhat disfigured girl
have acquired so much power and hate? I guess if I really thought about it, I was able to comprehend the reason, but I just couldn’t understand how that hatred could be directed to those less fortunate; not just in wealth but in looks and personality. Especially, how could that hatred
be
directed toward me?

Each night I would begrudgingly fall asleep and wake up as clueless and helpless as the previous night. Was I that hard-pressed for friends?
Cruel friends?
Popular friends?
Yes, that had to be it. I was a victim for the desire to be popular, to fit in, to be envied like I envied them.

 
Jealousy was definitely more powerful than ego. From here on out, I would always come back to this realization; I would submit to the decisions that followed this understanding and would respond to them willingly. I continued to live beneath the shackles that chained me to my self-created jail, silently writhing in purgatory.

6

My mom wished me a great day at school, as she did every day. I leaned in to kiss her goodbye, forcing my quivering lips into a smile.
Pretend, Sophie…just pretend…

Somehow I was standing on the cold concrete sidewalk, waving goodbye to the back of the golden-hued Lexus with only my thoughts to keep me company.