Queen Sophie Hartley (2 page)

“You
should
be good at it,” Nora added. “You do it enough.”

It was obvious she was bored with the whole subject. Sophie was bored with it, too, because what Nora said had given her a sudden, wonderful idea. All she wanted was for Nora to leave so she could take out her list.

“Well, you're not very good at making me feel better,” said Sophie.

“I don't have to be. You've already stopped crying. You turn it on and off like a faucet, Sophie. You know you do.”

“Oh, go away and leave me alone,” Sophie said ungratefully. She threw herself down on her bed to make it look as if she was about to start crying again.

“Fine with me,” said Nora. “There's far too
much navel contemplation going on in this room for my taste.”

The minute she left, Sophie sat up; thinking about her list made her feel remarkably cheerful. As for the navel contemplation, that was what their mother always warned them about. It didn't mean they couldn't look at their belly buttons if they wanted to. Mr. and Mrs. Hartley laughed when they did that. In fact, back before Maura was born and Thad and Nora got too old and thought it was silly, they used to line up in a row and compare belly buttons from time to time. Thad and Sophie had “outies,” John had an “innie,” and Nora had what looked like a perfect circle divided into two equal halves.

There was still a photograph on the refrigerator door of the four of them standing side by side, holding up their T-shirts and grinning.

Navel contemplation was something different, Sophie knew. According to Mrs. Hartley, it meant thinking about yourself too much. Focusing on your own worries and problems.
She told her children that contemplating their navels would only make them feel sorry for themselves and that there were too many people going around feeling sorry for themselves as it was. The world would be a far better place if people went around feeling sorry for
other
people for a change, she said.

They were all used to their mother talking this way. Mrs. Hartley was a nurse. Before the children were born, she had worked in a hospital. Now she worked part-time taking care of people in their own houses. She saw so many people who were truly in bad shape that she was forever lecturing her children about the need for them to “get on with it,” as she put it.

That was fine for Nora and Thad, Sophie thought as she opened the top drawer of her dresser. They both had things they could get on with.

She felt around at the back of her underwear drawer. It was filled with clean underpants and dirty socks. Her mother would be horrified if she saw them. She never did see
them, though, because while it was her job to wash the family's clothes, it was each person's job to put them away. Mrs. Hartley left the clothes in neat little piles in the laundry room under signs with their names. Half the time, Thad and John changed right there.

Sophie, however, liked to put her own things away. That way, her mother never saw what was going on. She never knew, for instance, that Sophie wore her socks for a week at a time before putting them in the hamper. Sophie liked her socks dirty. She liked the way they held the shape of her foot so that it looked as if her feet were still in them. She liked the way they got softer and softer the more times she wore them, too. Even the smell didn't bother her.

Sophie felt the familiar crinkle of paper and pulled out her blue socks with the yellow butterflies. She sat down on her bed, took out the piece of paper she'd stuffed into the ball, and smoothed it over her knees. Then she looked at it and sighed. The list of her weaknesses seemed to be getting longer and longer.

Things I Am Bad At:
Tooth brushing
Cursive
Sitting still
Violin
Horseback riding
Gymnastics
Hair brushing

Sophie was nothing if not truthful, so she picked up a pencil and carefully added “Ballet” to the bottom. Then she turned the paper over and wrote another heading, because the wonderful idea that had come to her while she was talking to Nora was that she would start a second list.

This list would be things she was good at.

Things I Am Good At,
Sophie wrote carefully. She immediately wrote “Crying” at the top and then looked at it and frowned. Did one thing make a list? she wondered. She thought not, and chewed furiously on the end of her pencil for a few minutes while she racked her brain for something else she could add.

And then it came to her.

“Stopping crying” she wrote triumphantly. There. That looked much better. Sophie stuffed her list back into her sock and jumped up off her bed. She was glad the job was done, because so much thinking had made her hungry. Judging from the smell of onions wafting up the stairs, they were having hamburgers smothered with fried onions for dinner. Thank heavens it wasn't liver, Sophie thought; they were due for liver any night now. She knew because she kept track. Mrs. Hartley insisted they have liver on a regular basis because it was so good for them. But they all hated it.

At least tonight was going to be delicious, she thought cheerfully. Since she wasn't going to be a ballerina anymore, it didn't matter how much she ate, did it? And Nora was wrong about tears, she decided as she looked at herself in the mirror. They weren't horrible, they were interesting. Hers had left dirty tracks down her cheeks that her mother was sure to notice. Maybe she would be extra nice to Sophie at dinner.

With a tremendous sigh of satisfaction, Sophie stuffed her socks back in her drawer. Making lists was another thing she was good at. No other member of the family was as good at it as she was. In fact, there wasn't another list in any other underwear drawer in the house.

Sophie knew, because she'd looked.

Any list that wasn't worth hiding in your underwear drawer wasn't worth reading, she told herself firmly. She went down to dinner a happy girl.

But after a quick glance at Sophie's upturned face, all Mrs. Hartley said to her was, “And wash your face before you sit down.” She was busy putting steaming food into bowls and had barely looked around when Sophie came up to her. Sophie went into the bathroom, picked up the damp towel someone had left in a wad on the sink, and quickly ran it over her mouth. Then she took her place at the table. She didn't bother to sulk because she knew it wouldn't do any good. No one in her family paid any attention to heavy silences and dark looks.

Especially not at dinner. They were all too
busy spinning the lazy Susan in the middle of the kitchen table around and around, grabbing food. Sophie took a hamburger and carefully piled on a generous amount of onions, ketchup, relish, and mustard. The minute she took her first bite, a good-sized glop of it fell out onto her lap. She quickly scooped it up with her finger and put it in her mouth before anyone could notice.

Thad was telling their father about the goal he'd scored in a soccer game that afternoon. He kept jumping out of his chair and making lunging moves to show Mr. Hartley exactly how he'd saved the day. Every time he hopped up, Mrs. Hartley told him automatically to sit down. Then she'd get involved trying to keep Maura from smearing more squash all over her face and Thad would hop up again.

All the action made it possible for Sophie to sneak another handful of French fries without her mother noticing. When her belly felt as if it was about to explode, though, and she had to unbutton the top button on her shorts to make room for dessert, she started feeling sorry for
herself again. She was glad her mother hadn't nagged her, but it would have been nice if she'd showed a
tiny
bit of sympathy, knowing how cruel Mrs. Ogilvy had been to her that afternoon.

As usual, though, Mrs. Hartley was occupied with Maura.

Not for the first time, Sophie wished her mother would stop paying so much attention to Maura and pay attention to her. It wasn't that Sophie didn't love Maura—she did. She loved to play with her and watch her while she took her bath. She especially loved to be the first one into Maura's room when she woke up from her nap; Maura always looked so grateful. Sophie knew Maura was glad to see
anyone
who was going to lift her out of the prison of her crib, but deep inside she couldn't help but think that Maura was just a little happier to see
her.

Mrs. Hartley said she loved all her children the same, and Sophie believed her. But she certainly seemed to spend a lot more time fussing over Maura than she did over any of
the others. Sophie couldn't remember the last time her mother had wiped
her
chin, she thought grumpily as she watched her mother first wipe Maura's face and then kiss it. She would have hated it, of course, but still.

All her mother ever did was say, “Sophie, you look a mess. Go wash your face.” And not very nicely, either. Thinking about how unfairly she was treated, Sophie sighed heavily, and her mother gave her a sharp look.

“What, did you eat too much again?” she asked. Sophie didn't think her mother sounded at all sympathetic, so she didn't answer.

“She had two helpings of French fries,” Nora piped up.

“Nora, don't tattle,” Mrs. Hartley said automatically.

“I can eat all I want now that I'm not taking ballet,” Sophie said to Nora. She crammed two more French fries into her mouth and chewed with her mouth open, knowing it would gross her out. But Nora wasn't watching.

“Speaking of ballet,” Nora said to their mother quickly, “if Sophie's not going to be
taking it, we're going to have much more money. Can I have new ballet slippers? Mine have a hole in them.”

The Hartley children were all very aware of money. Mrs. Hartley worked part-time, and Mr. Hartley, who worked for a moving company, said that the furniture he had to carry was a lot heftier than his salary. And when you had five children, Mr. Hartley said, one of them always wanted something. “If I threw a peanut in the middle of the floor, you'd all kill one another trying to get it” is how he put it.

“What's that?” said Thad, looking at his sisters with sudden interest. “Sophie bombed out again?”

“Mrs. Ogilvy said her lessons were a waste of money,” said Nora.

“Way to go, Soph!” said Thad. He rose halfway out of his seat and leaned across the table to give her a friendly punch on the shoulder.

It didn't really hurt, and she knew he was only teasing, but Sophie said “Ouch” anyway and rubbed her arm, hoping her mother would yell at him for being mean.

She didn't. She just said, “Sit down, Thad,” again and went on taking care of Maura.

“I need some torpedoes,” John said suddenly. They all turned to look at him. He was sitting at one end of the table, next to his father. Even with the phone book on his chair, his chin barely cleared the top of the table. “And some tanks and some bombs,” he added.

“So you're the one who's been adding things to my grocery list,” said Mrs. Hartley. “Only it said ‘b-o-m-s.' I didn't know what that meant.”

“Sophie spelled it for me,” said John.

“Sophie, really,” Mrs. Hartley said irritably. “It's bombs! There's a silent
b!
B-o-m-b-s! You should be a better speller at your age.”

“Does anyone else find this conversation as strange as I do?” said Nora to no one in particular. “My six-year-old brother wants bombs and torpedoes, and all my mother cares about is spelling.”

“And tanks,” John said to her.

“Yes, really, Sophie,” Mrs. Hartley said, as if
John's recent military mania was all Sophie's fault. “I asked you not to encourage him.”

“He doesn't want to
do
anything with them,” said Sophie.

A few weeks earlier at dinner, John had announced he wanted to join the army. It had created quite a stir. Sophie hadn't understood what all the fuss was about.

“You don't want to be in the army, John,” Mrs. Hartley had said to him in the reasonable voice she used when she was confident that simple logic would change one of her children's minds. “You'd have to
shoot
people.”

“Not people,” John said. “The enemy.”

“But the enemy
is
people,” said his mother.

John had just given her a dark look that meant she didn't understand and hunched his shoulders. “I want to for the boots,” he said.

Sophie understood immediately. As soon as they went upstairs after dinner, she fished her old rubber boots out of her closet and took them into John's room, where he was getting ready for bed.

“Here,” she said, holding them out. “You can have these.”

“Army boots are black,” he protested as she forced them on over the slipper feet of his pajamas.

“You have to pretend,” Sophie told him firmly. “You make believe they're black until you get the real ones.”

John had worn them ever since. To school, to bed. He even wore them in the bathtub one night until Mrs. Hartley discovered him and pulled them off, dumping water all over the bathroom floor. Even when Thad said, “Nice ducks, John,” it didn't discourage him.

It was exactly the way Sophie was going to be when she got her tiara. She was very proud of him.

John was wearing his boots now. Bright yellow with red ducks.

“B-o-m-s,” her mother said again, shaking her head. “Really, Sophie.”

“I only write letters I can hear,” Sophie said.

“Good Lord,” said her mother, throwing her hands in the air.

“Your report card should be a real hoot,” said Nora, after which Thad snapped his fingers and said, “Darn! There goes the spelling bee championship.”

Mr. Hartley had been sitting calmly at the head of the table with his after-dinner toothpick sticking out of one side of his mouth, listening. Now he took the toothpick out and said, “Don't you worry about Sophie. One of these days she'll find out what she's all about. Then there'll be no stopping her. Right, Sophie?”