Sophie's Smile: A Novel (5 page)

Before I got to the sink, Karen yelled out in a sing-
songy
voice, “Oh Sophie, remember to wash your hands, you don’t want to infect anyone at the dance!”

“Ha. That’ll only happen if anyone asks her to dance.”

“Oh…right. That’s true. Never mind. You don’t need to worry about it, then.”

Karen and Tessa started doubling over in laughter. They started shrieking like Hyenas do before consuming leftover scraps.

My face flushed, burning a perpetual shade of red. I rushed to wash my hands. I didn’t even bother getting a paper towel and just wiped them on my jeans, leaving behind the dark, rumpled stains I so often wore on my upper thighs. Turning, I made a dash for the exit. My foot caught a lip in the floor tiles, causing me to stumble forward, triggering even more laughter as Ellen and Britney entered the bathroom. I could not get to the dance fast enough.

The gymnasium was decked out with blue and silver balloons, glitter, ribbon, and gossamer fabric to cover the tables. The lights were dimmed and a DJ was stationed on the stage with boxes of records. He was rushing to get set up but looked bored just the same. I couldn’t blame him. Think about it: if you were a DJ, why would you be excited to play for a bunch of hormonal pre-teens who had never done anything worse than kiss for five seconds on the lips? Chairs were lined up against the back wall and I zeroed in on the one in the corner. I sat there patiently, waiting for the room to fill.

As the gymnasium began to fill, I noticed the boys had the same idea as me and were crowding in with their backs turned. Standing in circles that coalesced and divided like oil droplets, they boisterously yipped and yapped about macho topics. A hacky sack emerged in the all-male droplet nearest me, and my mind sparked visions of a black eye, bruised shin, or worse, being jeered for ruining an otherwise “epic” volley.
No thanks.

I got out of my seat and hurried to the dance floor were the girls were circling each other and dancing to Britney Spears,
Baby One More Time
. I tried my best to blend in. Listening to the deafening music as my body flowed to the beat. I was actually having a great time. Then the music slowed. Savage Garden’s,
Truly, Madly, Deeply
came on.

The boys scurried toward the refreshments, distracting themselves by getting a cup of fruit punch and some cookies. The girls started zeroing in on the boy they wanted their friend to dance with. It was a madhouse. Groups of three to five girls would run up to a boy, try to convince him by pleading and dragging him to the dance floor toward their friend who was acting coy and equally resistant (but obviously elated).

She probably dreamed of this very moment, except in her dream, the boy would have walked up to her willingly and asked her to dance in some fairytale manor; the moment would have been so perfect like in
She’s All That
. A few seconds more of coercion and the two, soon-to-be item, were dancing to the slow song…moving side to side at arms-length. The Pope would have been proud.

Scanning the room, I saw Ellen dancing with Brandon, Britney dancing with Paul, and of course, Karen dancing with Conner. The boys didn’t look nearly as thrilled as the girls were, but that was to be expected.

Most of the kids were uncomfortably, impatiently waiting for the song to end. There were a few more fast songs and a couple more slow songs. Then the dance was finally over.

I never got asked to dance.
No surprises there.
I guess I could have tried asking
…no…I couldn’t…what if they said no and laughed at me…
anyway, the boys are supposed to ask the girls
, aren’t they?
I’d just have to wait.
Yes, wait…
but for how long?

12

In the months that passed, Karen and her friends eventually moved their evil attention to another poor and hapless target and I was given the restricted freedom of living out the rest of my teen youth unscathed. I felt sickened as I watched from afar: Karen and her crew sneered unabashedly and tormented their new pet.

Stacy
Ko
seemed worse off than me. She had a round face and an upturned nose. She was a little slow in the brain and was always a full step behind the rest of us. But she seemed happy nonetheless; and, at least she was ambivalent to their open gibes and pig comments.

“Oink, Oink,” Karen would squeal as they passed her at lunch. I winced. Oh, how I wished I had the strength to befriend Stacy, become a thick shield to protect her, and if I only had the compassion to learn who she really was. Instead, I was a coward. A coward relieved, for Karen was able to find someone else to torment.

I later learned that Stacy had a mild case of autism and her interest in art was strong enough to send her to New York City with a full scholarship.

As for Karen, well, she got her fair share of comeuppance. Her friends turned on her; she had a scarlet letter branded on her chest like Hester Prynne and was run out of town before she could be burned at the stake.

I was not sure how it started, but petitions circulated with fifty to a hundred signatures from students who hated Karen Chu. Nasty lists were also created, such as the top ten reasons to hate Karen—number one being the hideous burn marks covering her body.

I didn’t take part in any of it. It was immature and cruel. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her in a way, but I also felt no real sympathy.

When I heard her family had moved to another city and she was now being homeschooled, I was relieved. A part of me hoped that she was the reason for my depression and social shortcomings. That maybe I wasn’t the wilted sunflower after all. That maybe Karen was just the thorny rose pressed into my side for so long, keeping me down.
That with her plucked out of the picture, I would be able to let go and free myself from the struggles of adolescence.
And just be carelessly happy.

The relief was short-lived.

13

As the years passed, not much changed; I was still the same shy, plain looking girl, with no boyfriend, who said little during lunch, and cried
herself
to sleep. I learned to feel nothing.
To be numb.

I was going through the motions of a teenager: laughing when a joke was made, crying when I saw someone in pain, angered when my mom provoked me, and saddened when hope felt lost. But below the surface, deep inside, I had no feeling.

I always heard that teenagers felt too much. Felt everything hit them at once. That it would take years to decipher those feelings and separate them, to compartmentalize them, to control them. I wasn’t sure if this was just a false hypothesis, or if I was categorically unique.

I lived in the comforts of my parents’ four-bedroom, three thousand square foot house, surrounded by my loving parents, attending one of the best public schools in Southern California, and heading toward a life full of wealth and success. I lived in a bubble where parents actually loved each other and their families, where wealth was an afterthought, crimes were unheard of, and drugs and alcohol stayed hidden underground.
So, why am I not happy?

To an outsider, I was living the perfect life. To me, I was crippled, a vegetable, anxiously waiting for my death. Please don’t get me wrong—I loved my parents, but I hated my existence. I would never contemplate suicide but I constantly dreamed of death.

As my mom drove me to school and back I secretly hoped that a car would crash into us and I would die instantly while my mom was left unscathed. I would be sitting in the classroom, dreaming of an earthquake to envelop me in its chaos. I would instantly feel guilty for having these thoughts and tried brushing them off, but they always sneaked back into the forefront of my brain.

I never felt like I belonged. I couldn’t relate to anyone my age. I looked toward my mom and her friends and I wished I could be them.
To skip through my teens and twenties and start fresh in my thirties.
I dreamed of being thirty. I dreamed of being an adult.

14

A few years later, after trying to hurt myself, and thus hurting my parents, I wrote a letter:

Dearest S,

I will love myself above all else. I will take care of myself and do whatever is best for me. I will never hurt myself in any way.

I won’t be weak or lazy. I will succeed. I will study hard and if I don’t understand something I will seek help. I won’t be afraid to ask for help. I will be able to look at myself in the mirror and smile.

I deserve to be happy. I am a good person. I know right from wrong and come from wonderful parents who love me above all else. I am fortunate, but I also deserve to be fortunate. I am a good person.

And even though I am overweight, I won’t be for long. I will exercise and control my diet because I love my body and myself. I will not judge others just to judge myself. I shall accept all consequences and will learn from all mistakes. I won’t give up on myself.

I am only 18 years old. I have my whole life to be happy and watch myself succeed. The only person I can disappoint is
myself
and I won’t do that any longer.

Any free time I have will be out doing something that makes me happy, that I enjoy, or that is good for me. I am the only one who can make me happy or feel beautiful, and I intend to follow this through. I won’t give up on myself. I mean too much just to give up.

I am beautiful…I am smart…I am wonderful. And I will be happy. Mark my words. I will succeed. I won’t give up. I will love myself! Thanks for giving me a second chance. I will not fail.

-Sophie 12/21/02

I could not understand that the unhappiness I felt was an illusion I created. I was the only person who could make myself happy and steer toward a great life.
My perfect life.
I did not understand, could not understand—my naivety always the key factor—that is, until my
Junior
year of college, when I met the man who would change all that.

Part two

Wandering through hell,

Flames licking at my boot heels;

I should have gone right.

~Kyle Harper, Wrong Turn

~ Liam ~

1

I jolted up from my rumpled sheets.
My head pounding.
My eyes hazed. The music was deafening.
What the fuck?
The clock read 2:00 A.M. Noise was blazing from…what seemed like was just outside my bedroom door. I looked like a mess with my muddled, mousy-brown hair and boxers that resembled Swiss cheese. I grabbed my gold-rimmed eyeglasses, pulled my jeans on and headed toward the door.

I winced. The cold floor stung my feet. It was Christmas morning and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would crank the stereo. I felt sorry for the Christian family next door who was probably resting in anticipation of a busy day ahead of them. I just hoped, for the parents’ sake, that Santa already came to visit. I opened the door.