Sophie's Smile: A Novel (3 page)

My thoughts were racing.
Always racing.
Sometimes I could only wish that there was an “off” button to silence my mind so I wouldn’t have to think…to worry…to self-destruct. So many nights I would cry myself to sleep when I simply couldn’t handle it anymore. So many nights I lay awake tossing and turning as I replayed that day and the previous days in my head. So many nights just dreading the next day…that would surely come.
Pondering my normal, yet excruciatingly painful, existence.

School was the basis of my nightmare; the students were its players, and puberty, its cause. I started to see myself through their eyes and hated myself for it.

Cautiously walking one foot in front of the other, I was suddenly aware of the eyes that were on me, watching me, judging me. Looking down, I sighed in disgust at what the others must see when they looked in my direction…
bland, nervous—an easy target
.

Wearing the same white
tennies
every day (now scuffed and yellowed around the grommets), plain faded jeans, and a solid gray t-shirt.
No name brands in sight.
Knock-off, clearance rack all the way.
My hair was tied halfway up with a black scrunchie and white hairclips tried hopelessly to tame my nappy, black hair. My round, greasy face was losing the nice tan I acquired from hours under the hot summer sun, which was replaced with an array of pimples and acne scars; my mom always scolded me for squeezing them, but I couldn’t ignore the hideous, tiny red and white protrusions on my face (my fidgeting hands were magnets to them). My face was framed with tiny purple glasses and metal braces protruded from my small full, lips—luckily, my mom talked the Orthodontist out of fitting me in a matching headgear set.

According to my parents, I was beautiful; but I wasn’t born yesterday, and I doubted the truthfulness of their superlative comments. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t ugly. However, I was not turning any heads, nor was I ever going to be in the running for “best dressed” in the class yearbook. Seventh graders at this school didn’t shop at discount stores. They shopped at the mall. Avoided clearance racks like the plague.
Wore designer clothes and shoes.
I never considered my family to be poor—no, let me rephrase—my family was
not
poor, but I often worried that people might think that when they looked at me.

My eyes locked on Karen. She was standing within her circle of friends: all wearing designer clothes, sunglasses, shoes, and bags. She stood out from the others, not because she was the prettiest…she was definitely not the prettiest, but she held some kind of invisible control over the group. She was their leader, and as such, was the most dangerous.

She wore a white Guess jean skirt and jacket. The skirt was short enough to be suggestive; that is, if she were blessed with a curvy figure. The jacket stayed unbuttoned, showing a sliver of the satin black tank top she was wearing underneath. My eyes locked on her shoes. I cringed in jealousy. On her feet was a pair of the most perfect black half-inch Marc Jacobs heels—I was obsessed with shoes, mainly because my feet were the only part of my body I found to be worth admiring. She also carried a black Jansport backpack that held her colorful gel pens, patent leather purse, and well-used pager.

She caught my glance and held it, her lips curved into a slow smirk.
My heart pounding too fast, the hole becoming evident.

I was born with two tiny holes in my heart…literally…one closed on its own, so I was left with the one in the otherwise thick, sinewy septum between my left and right ventricles—fittingly called Ventricular Septum Defect (VSD).

My throat caught on the thick air that I was trying so desperately to inhale. Her eyes diverted back to the group and she rejoined the conversation flawlessly, which looked to be centered on the upcoming Winter Dance.

I wasn’t liberated to freely immerse myself in the fantasy that surrounded the Winter Dance—my first real dance—because I was too worried about the idea of being a target.

Again, I helplessly realized:
yes, I am an easy target. I am plain looking with the usual teen handicaps (glasses, braces, and zits) and I am too eager to be popular.

It was unfortunate that I was not good at anything except academics. Not good at anything that mattered socially. I wished I could be good at something that would grant me a free pass in this school. If only I were beautiful, funny, or charismatic…if only…but no, I was plain, smart, shy, and boring…in short, an easy target.

What I could not understand was why I so desperately wanted to belong to Karen’s group.
To be one of the Popular Girls.
I longed to be accepted and be thought of as popular. I wished so hard, but of course I didn’t have luck on my side. Sometimes I wondered if in my past life I had a rotten soul, fouled by a black heart and cruel demeanor, cursing me in this life to be antagonized in the same way I used to shun others.

As I walked by, I heard snickers. “Look at her shoes!” Karen exclaimed, loudly enough so I could hear.

I flinched. Karen’s laugh was as glorious as a lioness tearing into her prey. I rushed by, pretending I didn’t notice the sideway glares, the smirks, and the pity in the eyes of a few who actually felt bad but were too weak to say anything. I understood. They didn’t want to get on Karen’s bad side on the off chance that they would have to join my fate.

Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.
I recited in my head over and over again as I tried to focus on my balance and speed. I rushed as fast and as carefully as I could, straight to homeroom. Once I found my seat, my breath and heartbeat slowed and my shoulders curved inward as I slouched in my seat; my nerves tamed.
I was safe.

7

“Here,” I whispered as I raised my hand. Mr.
Chazkowski
, known simply as “Mr. C,” nodded once, checking the box next to my name on the attendance list, as my eyes quickly looked back down to the floor, to the tiny tear in the matted gray-and-brown, institutional carpet.

Mr. C rambled on for thirty minutes, discussing the upcoming standardized tests and how we’d be expected to score no less than 70 percent. He passed out practice tests and “encouraged” us to “Practice! Practice! Practice!” while timing ourselves during our “free” time at home.

Once again the time flew by. As the bell rang, and each period ended, I rushed to my next class. I dreaded feeling alone and helpless. Being in class, I tried to immerse myself in the lectures, projects, and discussions. Giving my brain something to fixate on, instead of my social qualms and anxiety, seemed to help some. It was being in close proximity to teachers, who provided the illusion of protection and comfort, which ultimately became my safety net. At least during class, I was accepted. I could pretend for my own sanity.

Before I became aware, the lunch bell pierced through me. I sighed as those around me—those who had a corner of the lunch area in which to relax, friends to laugh with, and activities to be a part of—scurried to collect their belongings and rush out the door. Above the clamor, two of the popular boys began to shout across the room to one another.

“I’ll race you to the courts,” Conner exclaimed as his boyish excitement overtook his handsome face.

Brandon moaned, “Aren’t we going to eat first? I’m starving.” He looked down at his stomach, which was obviously grumbling.

“You’re always starving. Just grab something at the cafeteria and come find us.”

“All right.
I’ll meet up with you guys once I hit the cafeteria.”

Brandon suddenly zoned out. The sliver of saliva that escaped from his slightly parted lips gave his thoughts away too easily…he was dreaming about the hamburger they served every Tuesday for lunch.

Conner chuckled. “All right, man.”

As the boys were discussing their lunchtime basketball game, Karen brushed past me as she tried to get Conner’s attention. The bell, which indicated she was no longer my friend, made me freeze with caution and observe.

Karen had an obvious crush on Conner, a.k.a. “4074” in Popular-Girl-Pager-Code. All the popular girls had bejeweled pagers clipped to their name-brand waistbands or to the straps of their designer handbags, looking both like posh accessories and exclusive, “members only” passes. They often communicated back and forth through this medium, so it naturally followed for their oft-used pager codes to carry into day-to-day conversation.

Conner was the cutest boy in our grade (being in the background all my life, I learned to be an excellent observer and noticed the tiny minute details, although this was an easy read).

She tried flaunting her flat chest and frail figure, batting her long, heavily-darkened eyelashes as she cooed, “
Oooo
, maybe I’ll come and watch.”

Conner turned to see where the squeal came from and shrugged, indifferent.
“Uh.
Sure, I guess.”

Conner motioned to the guys, Brandon and Paul, to follow him to the courts. He could not care less if Karen was flirting with him. At this stage, he cared more about basketball than girls. But he also couldn’t deny the thrill he felt by being wanted. He seemed to love attention, and the power it brought.

He puffed out his chest as he turned toward Karen and flashed a heart-stopping smile. Sigh…I too, longed for a guy to look at me that way. My discouraged heart told me nobody ever would.

Karen beamed, with Britney and Tessa giggling behind her, as they followed the boys out the door. I was relieved that I was left forgotten and wasn’t their main focus for entertainment. Maybe lunch wouldn’t be so bad after all. Of course, I was wrong.

8

I took my time in the cafeteria line. I used to bring a sack lunch, but I stopped once I realized that waiting in line passed the time more effectively.
Feeling invisible.
Laughter, giggles, whispers, yelling…there was so much noise around me, but I felt like a tiny fly on the wall overlooking the chaos. Everyone seemed so happy to escape the boring confines of the classroom. Well, everyone except me.

Then, all too fast, I emerged from the line with a flattened, greasy burger, potato chips, and a soda on a rectangular plastic tray. My tummy made a little noise as I felt it constrict.
Sigh.
I wished food were not the highlight of my day, and that I could be strong enough to just push it away (or at least go for something healthier). I was slightly disgusted with myself. Stress tended to trigger my appetite.

I squinted as the sunlight hit my face, momentarily blinding me as I stepped out to the lunch area. Anxiety started to creep inside me as I scanned the tables, trying desperately to find a place to enjoy my lunch without being noticed.

Usually in the movies, the ostracized character would hide in the bathroom stall to eat lunch. I would consider that, except the thought of eating in the girls’ bathroom absolutely disgusted me.

I noticed a few eyes glancing my way and then dismissing me.
No longer feeling invisible.

“Sophie!
Sophie, over here!”
Karen was motioning me over from one of the few tables blessed with shade.

My heartbeat quickened. I knew I shouldn’t move toward her but a part of me longed to belong. I was hopeless, trying to be hopeful.

As I approached, she was smiling innocently. “Come eat with us.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly.

I eyed the empty seat and was about to sit down when Tessa glared and said, “Oh, not there. That seat is taken.” Tessa slammed her backpack on the empty seat.

Karen smirked.

Ellen, Britney, Ann, and Paige quickly looked down.

I froze. There weren’t any other open seats.
Who’s that seat for?
Everyone in Karen’s group seemed to be there already. I panicked. I couldn’t escape. It was too late. I had already fallen into Karen’s trap. I looked at Karen questioningly…pleadingly. The lunch tray wavered slightly in my trembling hands, and the plate holding the greasy burger slid to rest awkwardly against my right hand. Karen shrugged, turned to Ellen, and started chatting nonstop about Conner like nothing happened.