Sophie’s World Page 4

  Just as he started to open his mouth, Sophie said, “Could I go first?”

  “O—kay,” he said, dragging out the O. “Sure—go for it.”

  She took in a huge breath. “I don’t really want to change, so I don’t know if you can help me. I told my dad that I would try to do whatever you told me, so I’m going to—but I don’t want to. I just thought you should know that.”

  Dr. Peter didn’t laugh. Nor did he throw up his hands and say, “Then there’s nothing I can do for you.” He just nodded and said, “I appreciate your being so honest with me. My turn?”

  Sophie just nodded.

  “I’m not going to try to change you,” Dr. Peter said. “I couldn’t if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

  Sophie could feel her eyes widening. “Does my dad know that?”

  “He will when I talk to your parents later this afternoon.”

  “So—then—what are you going to do to me?”

  “I’m not going to do anything to you,” Dr. Peter said. “I’m just going to help you discover how you can live the best life possible. Fair enough?”

  Sophie wasn’t sure. She pulled a strand of hair under her nose.

  “That doesn’t sound good to you?” he said.

  “Not if I have to give up dreaming up stories and pretending I’m in them.”

  Dr. Peter snatched up a pillow, one with a huge, hooked nose protruding from it, and looked into its puffy eyes. “Would I try to make her do that?” he said.

  The pillow shook its head no.

  “No way,” Dr. Peter said. “In fact—” He turned the pillow to face Sophie. “We want to hear these stories of yours.”

  Sophie let the strand of hair drop. “You do?” she said.

  “I do.”

  “Are you going to laugh at them?”

  “Are they funny?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Then I won’t laugh.”

  “Are you going to tell me my stories aren’t real?” she said. “Because I already know that.”

  “Of course you do. Anything else?”

  Sophie reached for her hair again. “I guess there’s one more thing.”

  “Bring it on.”

  “Are you going to tell me I’m too old to play?”

  Dr. Peter gave the hook-nosed pillow a befuddled look. “When is a person ever too old to play?”

  “For real?” Sophie said.

  “Let me tell you a secret,” Dr. Peter said. He lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “One of the main reasons grown-ups have so many problems is because they’ve forgotten how to play.”

  Sophie nodded soberly. “I see your point.”

  “Good,” Dr. Peter said. “Now, let’s hear about these dreams of yours.”

  He settled back into the pillows, hugging the hook-nosed one to his chest. Sophie crossed her legs in front of her and told Dr. Peter all about Antoinette and Henriette, and through it all, Dr. Peter nodded and sometimes even asked a question—like “Is Antoinette tall?”

  “Oh, no,” Sophie told him. “She’s very small for her age, kind of like me. That comes in handy sometimes, when she has to hide herself—you know—for a mission.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Peter said. “And where do you and Fiona act out your stories?”

  “Well, mostly on the old playground nobody uses anymore. But when it’s raining in the mornings, sometimes we sneak behind the stage curtain in the cafeteria. It’s dusty and dark and huge.”

  “Very appropriate. So tell me, how do Antoinette’s parents feel about her mission?”

  “They worry about the dangerous things she does, but they’re secretly very proud of her—especially her father.”

  “As well he should be,” Dr. Peter said. He glanced at the clock. “I wish we had more time—this is fascinating. But I need to ask you one more question.”

  “Bring it on,” Sophie said. She snuggled into the face pillows behind her. A nose peeked out from under her arm.

  “Why do you think your parents are so concerned about your having these wonderful dreams and acting them out?”

  Sophie whipped out a piece of hair and dragged it under her nose again. “They—mostly my dad—think I’m too old for pretend. They want me to be like Lacie—that’s my sister—and play sports and join clubs and make straight A’s. Mostly it’s about school.”

  “What about school?”

  “I don’t get my work done. And I don’t always hear what the teachers are saying because I’m daydreaming.”

  “You sure are an honest client.”

  “I’m a client?” Sophie said. She liked the sound of that.

  “You’re my client, and I’m your advisor.” He grinned at her. “And right now I’m only going to advise you to do one thing.”

  Here it comes, Sophie thought. She tried not to let her eyes glaze over.

  “I don’t want you to stop making up stories and acting them out. I’m going to talk to your parents about a different way for you to do that. But I want to wait to tell you until after I talk to them.”

  “They’ll say no,” Sophie said. “Daddy will, anyway.”

  “I think the only reason he’ll say no is if he can’t afford it, which is why I need to talk to him first. Do you trust me?”

  “I guess I have to,” she said.

  Dr. Peter adjusted his glasses. “You don’t have to do anything I advise you to do. You can make the choice.”

  “No, I can’t. I promised my father I would try to do everything you told me to do.”

  “Tell you what,” Dr. Peter said. “Since your father asked you to try, then you should. But you still have a choice; if it doesn’t work for you, you can stop.”

  Sophie could feel her eyes narrowing. “Are you going to tell him that?”

  “Definitely,” Dr. Peter said.

  She considered that for a moment, and then she pulled her hair under her nose again.

  “Does the mustache mean you’re not convinced?” Dr. Peter said.

  “It means I don’t think my dad is going to buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he doesn’t get me—not like he gets everybody else in the whole entire galaxy.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  Sophie didn’t even have to think about it. “My little brother—you met him—Zeke?”

  “Right.”

  “He’s all into Spider-Man—he actually believes Spider-Man is real. My dad thinks that’s hilarious—he even plays Spider-Man with him sometimes. But I know Antoinette isn’t real, and my father sends me to a psychiatrist. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Dr. Peter said, “because I’m not a psychiatrist—I’m a psychologist, which is very different. Just think of me as somebody you can talk to.”

  Sophie nodded.

  “How about another example?”

  Sophie resituated herself. “Okay—Mama. She’s the most creative person in the world. She has her Loom Room over our garage, and she weaves fabric all by herself.”

  “So that’s where you’ve inherited your creativity.”

  “But that’s what I don’t get !” Sophie said. “She uses her imagination—and Daddy is all proud of her. I use my imagination, and he thinks I’m too old for it!”

  “You know what, Sophie?” Dr. Peter said. “There are probably some reasons for that—some of them good, some of them maybe not so good. I’m going to get right on that, though, okay?”

  Sophie sat in the waiting room while Dr. Peter talked to her parents. She swung her legs and wished she knew what they were saying in there.

  Madame LaCroix nodded gracefully as the great Dr. Pierre LaTopp described Antoinette’s rare creative abilities. But Monsieur LaCroix sat in the corner with his arms folded across his chest and scowled. Antoinette knew what he was thinking. “Ridiculous!” But Antoinette did not despair. She knew the great doctor would make him understand. After all, Papa was proud of her. Secretly so proud.

  Sophie let the dream-ai
r puff from her lips. I just want to be understood, she thought. Why can’t I have that?

  Suddenly Sophie remembered thinking those words before. She had prayed the same thing in Bruton Parish Church. Wow!she thought with a jerk. It happened! I have Fiona. That must be because of God!

  But what if Daddy and Mama won’t let me keep Fiona after they talk to Dr. Peter because she’s a dreamer like me? Sophie swung her legs harder. What if they won’t even let me keep Dr. Peter after he says he won’t make me change?

  That would be heinous, she thought. Because I think he might understand me too.

  Madame LaCroix came to her, holding out both hands, tears glistening in her eyes.

  “I am so sorry, my precious daughter. How could I ever have asked you to give up your dreams?” Antoinette closed her eyes, fighting back her own sobs. Now—could she even dare to hope that Papa would feel the same way?

  “You catching a nap, Soph?” her father asked.

  Sophie opened her eyes to see Daddy standing over her.

  “Do I get to keep Fiona as my friend?”

  He looked completely confused. “Who’s Fiona?”

  Sophie took a deep breath. “I know Dr. Peter told you I can keep doing my stories, and you hate that, and you’re going to make me stop, and Fiona won’t play with me anymore, and she’s the only friend I have, and if I have to give her up I’ll curl up and die a miserable death.”

  Her dad stared. “Soph, that is the most bizarre train of logic I’ve ever heard. Does that actually make sense to you?”

  “Darlin’,” Mama said. “I’m so happy you have a friend and that she’s somebody you feel comfortable with.” She looked at Daddy. “We never said you couldn’t play with your friends.”

  “As long as you don’t—” But Daddy stopped when Mama nudged him with her elbow. Sophie felt her hands going clammy. She had never seen them disagree about one of the kids.

  “We want to make a deal with you.” Daddy put on what Sophie knew was his game face. “Dr. Topping thinks it would be a good idea for you to record your stories with a video camera. You can act them out and record them—instead of dreaming them up during class. At least that way, you’re getting something practical out of it. It won’t hurt to learn how to use a camera.”

  “You mean like a movie director?” Sophie said.

  “Sure,” Mama said. “I think it sounds fun.”

  Sophie’s thoughts swirled toward her like stars in hyper-space. She put her hand up to her forehead to slow them down.

  “We don’t have a video camera,” she said. “I don’t even know how to turn one on.”

  “That’s where the deal comes in,” Daddy said. He rubbed his hands together. “I will get you a camera—and I’ll show you how to use it. Then you and Viola—”

  “I think it’s ‘Fiona,’” Mama said.

  “You two can create films with it if—and this is where your part of the deal comes in—”

  I knew it, Sophie thought. She held her breath.

  “If, starting with your next progress report, you have at least a C for the week in every subject. I know that you can do a lot better than that—”

  “But it’s a start,” Mama said.

  “That’s our offer,” he said. “What do you say, Soph?”

  Daddy stood there then, arms folded, while Sophie fended off the shooting stars. The video camera had huge possibilities. But all C’s? In less than two weeks? She felt so far behind already, there was no way she could catch up. Besides—she wasn’t sure she knew how to make good grades.

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” she said. “I’ll try—”

  “You’re not stupid, Soph,” Daddy said. “Anybody who can remember whole scenes of dialogue from a movie can retain enough facts to pass a sixth-grade history test.”

  “We’ll help you any way we can,” Mama said.

  “That’s a no-brainer.” Daddy chuckled. “You have a scientist living right in your house. Science and math should be a snap for you with me around.”

  I hate science and math, Sophie wanted to say. I hate school, period. And it hates me!

  “I guess I can try,” she said.

  “You’re going to have to do more than try,” Daddy said. “We’ll have to see all C’s on the next progress report.” He pretended he was hitting a golf ball.

  Antoinette moaned. There was yet another obstacle. But with a tilt of her brave French chin, she stiffened her lips and spoke aloud —

  “Okay. It’s a deal.”

  Six

  It was raining the next morning—Tuesday—so Sophie went straight to the secret backstage place. She—and Antoinette—were wailing inside themselves.

  “Antoinette! You look vexed.”

  Sophie squinted through the dusty dimness to find Fiona perched on top of a pile of old stage curtains.

  “Does ‘vexed’ mean depressed?” Sophie said, climbing up beside her.

  “More like distressed beyond words.”

  “Then I am.”

  “Uh-oh. Your psychiatrist was a total weirdo, right?”

  Sophie shook her head so hard she stirred up dust in little gray clouds. “No! He was brilliant. He even said I shouldn’t give up making up stories and pretending them.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “So what’s the problem?”

  “It’s totally heinous,” Sophie said. And then she told Fiona all about the “deal.”

  “We could make amazing films—brilliant films,” Fiona said.

  “If I can pull a C in everything by seven days from now, which isn’t going to happen.”

  “Why not? It’s not like you’re in classes for slow kids.”

  “I should be!” Sophie could feel tears threatening, but Fiona had a gleam in her gray eyes.

  “What?” Sophie said.

  “I’m an experienced tutor. Did it all the time in my old school.”

  “You could help me?” Sophie said.

  “Hello?” Fiona’s heart-shaped mouth formed a pink grin. “I’m your best friend, right?”

  “But the teachers aren’t going to let you sit next to me and help me the whole time. Especially Ms. Quelling.”

  “You mean Ms. Cruelling,” Fiona said. “We’ll just have to figure it out.”

  Fiona slid down from the pile of curtains, dug around in her backpack, and climbed back up with a spiral notebook with purple sparkles on the cover.

  “This is my Idea Book,” she said. She pulled a matching purple gel pen out of the spirals and folded the cover back with a professional air. “You miss stuff because you daydream in class, right?”

  “Right,” Sophie said, sagging again.

  “So when you start drifting off, I’ll make a signal—like smacking the desk.”

  Fiona demonstrated, raising dust from the pile of curtains. Sophie coughed.

  “That’s it!” Fiona said. “Coughing!”

  “You mean, if you see me going off, you could just, like, clear your throat—”

  “Brilliant!” Fiona said. “And then if that didn’t get your attention, I could go on to a dry cough, like I had something in my throat.”

  “And if that didn’t do it, you like bring up a hairball!”

  By the time the bell rang, they had formulated an entire code.

  Sophie managed to pay attention with an occasional hack from Fiona during language arts and social studies. In computer class, Ms. Yaconovich had made Sophie sit next to her desk since the first week of school, but Ms. Y wandered around the room a lot, pulling the Pops off the Internet.

  Nothing bored Sophie more than moving paragraphs around, especially with what Fiona called mundane topics, like the amount of gold there was in Fort Knox.

  But no matter how mundane, Antoinette had a job to do. And if her commanding officer wanted her to spy on the treasurer to preserve the colony’s gold, then she must. The treasurer could be a Loyalist, and their precious savings could wind up in British hands. She peered into the tiny Treasury window.
>
  A shadow fell across the beam of moonlight. Pulling her cloak around her, she ducked beneath the footbridge to avoid being seen.

  “Your friend’s got bronchitis or something,” Maggie said.

  Sophie saw Fiona doubled over, face purple and hacking from her chest in loud gasps.

  “Oh no!” Sophie cried, and flung herself past three computers to reach Fiona’s side.

  “Fiona! Are you okay?”

  “Yes!” Fiona hissed through her teeth. “I was using the code! I got all the way to Level Five!”

  “Oops.” Sophie whispered. “My bad.”

  “All right,” Ms. Y said in her dry-as-sand voice. “Back on task.”

  Sophie took in a deep breath and went back to moving paragraphs around. She managed to get the assignment done before the bell rang.

  “Could that have been any more boring?” she said to Fiona in the hall.

  “Okay, forget it,” Fiona said. “That scene is way over.” She grabbed Sophie’s arm and steered her toward the cafeteria. “I just had the most brilliant idea.”

  “For saving the militia?” Sophie said.

  “This is better. Every time a new kind of video camera comes out, my dad buys it. We have like an entire attic full of old ones that still work. I bet he would just give one to you.” Her eyes danced. “And that means you get your dad out of your face even sooner.”

  “He will totally say no,” Sophie said. “He always says no when it’s me. When it’s Lacie, he always says yes.”

  Fiona pursed her mouth into a rosebud. “Sophie, you have to stop being so pessimistic.”

  Sophie didn’t even have to ask what that meant.

  Antoinette rescued Henriette from a gold-filled pirate ship during free time after lunch. All through health, Sophie noticed Fiona’s occasional “ahem” from her side of the room, but in math, Sophie never let her get past a Level Three bronchial spasm. By science, Fiona only had to fake pneumonia twice the whole class period. Sophie actually raised her hand to answer a question.

  “That’s the first day you haven’t gone into a daze in my class,” Mrs. Utley said after the last bell rang. She smiled as she spoke in a way that made all her soft chins wiggle. “Keep it up, Sophie, and you might actually move up to a D on your next progress report.”