Sophie’s World (5 page)

Fiona groaned, “Must you be so imperious, Julia?”

“What?” B.J. said. Kitty hovered around B.J. like a moth, echoing “What?” and sending the giggly girl into poodle shrieks.

“Willoughby—Kitty—shut
up
,” Julia said.

“We’re playing a game,” Fiona said.

“I
know
that,” Julia said.

Fiona blinked her gray eyes. “Then why did you ask?”

“Well,” Julia said, “because you’re lying on the ground and Soapy is patting your head like you’re a cocker spaniel.”

That sent Willoughby into a fresh batch of giggles.

“Willoughby!” Julia said, snapping her red braid like a whip. “I told you to shut
up
!”

“I can’t help it,” Willoughby said. “Her voice makes me laugh.”

“Yours doesn’t make
me
laugh,” Julia said.

Willoughby whimpered and hid behind the shoulder of the skinny blonde.

“You should get up off the ground, Fiona,” the skinny girl said. Her voice was thick, as if she still had nose problems.

“Tell me why, Anne-Stuart,” Fiona said to the skinny girl. “Is there a
rule
against lying down outside?”

“There ought to be,” Julia said. “There ought to be a rule against being weird, period.”

“But who says what’s weird and what’s not?” Fiona said.

Sophie gaped at her friend. Fiona sure enjoyed an argument. Sophie usually just shrugged and went back into her daydreams when stuff like this happened. They only had about five more minutes of free time to bring Henriette back to health, and she didn’t want to waste it on the Pops.

“Everybody knows it’s weird to still be playing make believe in the
sixth grade
,” B.J. said. “That’s like a rule itself.”

“Everybody knows it,” Kitty chimed in. “I even know it.”

“That’s why everybody thinks you’re strange, Sophie,” Anne-Stuart said. “If you acted, you know, like normal, you’d have more friends.”

Fiona propped herself up on her elbows. “Would
you
be our friend, Anne-Stuart?”

“I am so over this,” Julia said, and led her train of Pops away.

Fiona lifted her face closer to Sophie’s. “I didn’t
think
she wanted us in her little group.”

“Whatever,” Sophie said. She flopped back onto her elbows. She could feel herself scowling.

“Are you mad at me?” Fiona said.

“No,” Sophie said. “I just wish I didn’t have to go where I have to go this afternoon.”

“Orthodontist?”

“No.” Sophie pulled a strand of her hair under her nose like a moustache. “Do you promise you won’t tell another single solitary person about this? Not now or ever.”

Fiona’s eyes went round. “I promise on Henriette’s soul,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I have to go see a psychiatrist,” Sophie whispered.

Fiona sat straight up. “No way! My parents tried that on me too.”

“Then—what do you think he’s going to be like? I can’t even imagine it—and I can imagine just about anything!”

Fiona rolled onto her belly and rested her chin in her hands. “He’ll be old and bald and definitely crazier than you, but don’t worry. Even though it’s heinous at first, it won’t last long.”

“It won’t?” Sophie said.

“No.” Fiona looked wise. “See, the thing with psychiatrists is that if they’re going to change you, you have to
want
to change. Both my therapists told me that first thing. When I told them I didn’t want to change, they told my parents they couldn’t do anything for me.”

Sophie sagged. “I can’t do that. I promised my father that I would try to do everything the counselor told me.”

Fiona gave an elaborate sigh and fell back into Henriette’s deathbed.

“Then I suppose our fun is over,” she said. She flung her arm across her forehead.

“No, Henriette!” Antoinette cried. “Nothing will ever come between us. Not the British! Not that evil doctor! Nothing!”

Nothing except the bell.

“Don’t let them change you,” Fiona said as they jogged toward the building. “Don’t let them.”

That afternoon, Sophie trudged toward the old Suburban with her sadness cloak so heavy that she could barely lift herself into the front seat.

From the back, Zeke shouted, “Hey, Mama!” Her little brother always yelled as though he stood at the opposite end of a soccer field.

Sophie turned to look at him. His dark, thick hair stood in spikes, and his eyebrows wobbled up and down.

“You know what about Spider-Man?”

While Mama cooed over something Zeke had told her about a hundred and three times, Sophie stared glumly out the window.

I don’t get it
, she thought.
Zeke thinks Spider-Man is
real.
He thinks he IS Spider-Man or Peter Parker or whoever and nobody sends
him
off to a psychiatrist. I know Antoinette is only in my mind, but everybody thinks I’m a nut case. And now I have to go try to explain that to some stranger.

She sighed all the way from the hollow in her stomach. This was heinous. Absolutely heinous.

Five

T
he counselor was waiting when Mama, Zeke, and Sophie arrived. He wasn’t what Sophie and Fiona had dreamed up—at
all
—with his short, gelled hair and his twinkly blue eyes behind rimless glasses. He didn’t look even a little bit crazy.

“Hey, Sophie,” he said, reaching to shake her hand. “I’m Peter Topping, but you can call me Dr. Peter if you want.”

Zeke was obviously impressed, because he immediately launched into babble about the ice cream he was about to get if Sophie didn’t cry while she was at the doctor.
Too bad
he
wasn’t the one who had to stay,
Sophie thought.

“It’s okay if she cries in
this
office,” Dr. Peter said. “But I’ll do my best not to
make
her cry.”

But after Mama assured Sophie that she
and
Daddy would be back to get her, Sophie was sure she
would
start to cry the minute she followed Dr. Peter into a bright room.

“How about we sit over here?” Dr. Peter pointed to a long window seat in the corner.

“Yes, sir,” Sophie said. She hiked herself up onto some plump cushions shaped like faces and folded her hands in her lap. Dr. Peter sat on the other end.

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!”