Queen Sophie Hartley (3 page)

He leaned toward her with both elbows on the table and his sleeves rolled up showing his strong arms, and winked. Sophie sat up a little taller.

It was the first thing he had said the whole meal. She knew it was only because his plate was empty and he wanted them all to stop talking and get to the dessert, but Sophie smiled back at him gratefully. Her father didn't single her out very often, and certainly not to say something complimentary. He was a man of few words, as their mother always said. To
which Mr. Hartley always replied, “It's a good thing, too, the way people in this family carry on.”

“Well, she'd better find out pretty soon,” Nora said ungraciously. “She can't do
anything
right now.”

Sophie felt a sudden rush of confidence, thinking about no one being able to stop her. And she was suddenly sick and tired of Nora acting so superior all the time. There
was
one thing she could do that no one else in the family could. She was going to do it now, even though it usually ended badly.

“What about this?” she said brashly. “None of you can do this.” Sophie wiggled the muscles in the tip of her nose and felt her nostrils move in and out.

Thad and Mr. Hartley could bend their thumbs back to touch their wrists, and John could fold his eyelids up so that the pale insides showed. But no one else in the family could flare their nostrils.

Mrs. Hartley said, “Oh, Sophie,” in an impatient voice, but everyone else started to
laugh. It was very nice being the center of attention for a change, so Sophie did it some more. Thad and John started shouting “Ole!” as though she were a bull pawing the ground and blowing hot air out of its huge nose. Her father laughed and said, “She didn't get it from
my
side of the family.”

Even Maura clapped her hands because everyone else was having such a good time.

But when Nora put her fingers on her own thin nose and said, “I'd die if
my
nose looked like that,” Sophie started to feel a little less pleased. And when Thad held out his napkin as if it was a cape for the bull to charge, her whole mood changed. It suddenly felt as if they weren't laughing
with
her, they were laughing
at
her.

Before she knew it, she was crying.

“You're making fun of me,” she wailed, pushing back her chair.

She ran up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her. They were mean, she thought as she flung herself on her bed. She made loud sobbing noises for a bit,
and tried to make the tears flow while waiting to hear the footsteps of someone coming up the stairs to console her. No one did, though, and her sobs were starting to sound just the tiniest bit forced, so she stopped. Two times in one day had dried her up inside.

It was really very insulting, she thought as she sat up. The sounds of life were going on downstairs as usual. She heard chairs being pushed back and dishes clinking together as they were stacked. Then the phone ringing and Nora's voice. When she finally heard the television spring into life and realized that her father was sitting in front of it with Maura on his lap, Sophie gave up.

Here she'd had her heart nearly broken, and nobody even cared.

She went and stood in front of the mirror. In all the times she had flared her nostrils to get attention and then ended up running up to her room, no one
ever
came to see how she was, she thought tragically. It would serve them right if she stopped doing it. She creased her forehead and bent her mouth into several
different shapes to see how sad she could look, but she soon got tired of it. Being upset wasn't very satisfying if nobody was around to feel sorry for you.

Sophie pressed her lips together and puffed out her cheeks as far as they would go, then tried to flare her nostrils again. They didn't flare nearly as much that way, she always noticed. She let out a little puff of air to deflate her cheeks and tried again. Her nose
did
rather look like a bull's, but it was mean of Thad to say so.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall caught her off guard. Sophie barely had time to leap back onto her bed and put on what she hoped was a pitiful expression before the door opened. It was her mother.

“Don't bother pulling a long face with me,” Mrs. Hartley said briskly as she dumped an armful of clean clothes onto Nora's bed. She looked at Sophie with a combination of sympathy and exasperation. “How many times have I told you? Every time you do that thing with your nose, you end up crying. If you
don't have sense enough to stop, you won't get any sympathy from me.

“Come on and help me,” she said as she started sorting out the laundry. “I didn't want to come up the stairs empty-handed.” Her mother held up a pair of socks. “These are yours, I believe.”

Sophie jumped up, took the socks, and stuffed them into her drawer. Then she took Nora's T-shirt from her mother and put it into Nora's middle drawer. Next came Sophie's jeans and Nora's sweatshirt. Before she knew it, helping her mother had made Sophie feel much better.

When they were finished, Mrs. Hartley sagged onto Nora's bed and fastened her curly hair on the top of her head with a clip she pulled from the pocket of her blouse. “This is the first time I've had a chance to sit down all day,” she said in her good-natured way. “Now, what's this Nora tells me about you worrying you're not good at anything?”

Sophie sat down next to her mother and leaned against her generous side. “Mrs. Ogilvy
said I was clumsy,” she said. “I heard her.” But it had already lost its sting. Having her mother to herself made Sophie feel contented.

“She said no such thing,” said Mrs. Hartley. “And it was your own fault for wearing those shoes.”

“I wish everybody would stop saying that,” said Sophie.

“Well, it's true.” Her mother tousled Sophie's mass of curly hair. “You're good at putting away clean clothes,” she said.

“I don't want to be good at that.”

“And you're very good at making mashed potatoes,” said Mrs. Hartley. “That's a big help.”

“You only say that so I'll make them.”

“True, I tricked you into it at first,” her mother admitted. “But look what happened. You became good at it.”

“Who wants to be good at making mashed potatoes?” said Sophie indignantly.

“I'm sure your Uncle Ralph wishes Aunt Helen was,” Mrs. Hartley said with a laugh. “He swears he broke a tooth on the lumps in hers.”

“I still don't like it.”

“All right, then . . . how about being kind? You're very good at that.”

“I am?” said Sophie doubtfully.

“Yes, you are,” her mother said firmly. “I can always count on you to help me with Maura. And you're very kind to John.” She looked at Sophie and sighed. “Sometimes a bit
too
kind,” she said.

“But that's just how I
am,
” grumbled Sophie, “not what I'm good at. Anyway, what's so good about being kind?” It didn't feel like something she could brag about. She'd never heard of people giving kind recitals. Or winning kindness trophies.

It didn't feel like anything.

“Take it from me,” her mother said in the voice of someone who knew what she was talking about. “It's a highly underrated skill. If more people practiced being kind, the world would be a better place.”

“Is Nora kind?” asked Sophie.

“When it suits her.”

Good. That meant she wasn't. Being kind was beginning to sound more attractive. Sophie
liked the idea of being better at something than Nora was. And it was nice getting compliments from her mother. Sophie tried to drag it out a bit longer.

“It doesn't
feel
like a skill,” she insisted.

“I'm afraid it will have to do.” Her mother put her hands on her knees and pushed herself into a standing position with a small groan that told Sophie their time alone was up. “I've got tons more to do before I put Maura to bed.”

“Nora won't think being kind is being
good
at something,” Sophie said.

“Well, it is.” Mrs. Hartley gathered up what was left of the clean clothes and started out of the room. “And just like any other skill, the more you practice it, the better you'll become. You can start tomorrow with Dr. Holt.”

“A doctor?” Sophie said. “I'm not sick.”

“No, but Dr. Holt is. She's the one I told you about. She's Mr. Spencer's mother, over on Broad Street. She's come to stay with them for a bit. I'm going to be seeing her three times a week. You can come with me tomorrow.”

“I thought you said she was a grouchy old lady,” said Sophie.

“It's only because she's lonely,” said Mrs. Hartley. “If you're kind to her, it will cheer her up. She wants to plant a flower garden, but she can't get around anymore. Her sight's beginning to go as well. I'm sure she'll be very grateful for the help. Get ready for bed now.”

“Oh, all right.” Sophie gave a resigned sigh as her mother moved away down the hall. For a minute she thought about getting out a new piece of paper and starting a third list, “Things I Don't Want to Be Good At.” But three lists were too many, even for Sophie.

Being kind might not be so bad, she thought as she pulled her nightgown on over her clothes. Her mother had told her that was how English people got into their bathing suits at the beach so other people wouldn't see them bare. Last summer when Nora got her bra and started making Sophie turn around while she got undressed, Sophie had decided
she
was going to be modest, too. She had
quickly discovered how convenient it was to dress and undress this way. Now if her clothes weren't dirty, she didn't bother to take them off. It made getting dressed in the morning a simple matter of whipping off her nightgown.

Sophie went into the bathroom, ran a washcloth over her face, and then rubbed a bit of toothpaste on her teeth in case her mother said “Did you brush your teeth?” and made Sophie breathe into her face. By the time she finally slipped under the covers with her horse book, she was feeling very cheerful.

Helping Dr. Holt with her garden would be fun, she decided. She liked dirt and she liked worms. Last summer Dad had paid her five cents per worm to use as bait when he went fishing. This year she might be able to charge more.

Besides, she thought, growing more and more enthusiastic about the idea, lots of times old people gave children candy and good things to eat when they were grateful. If being kind meant getting food, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to be, after all. Maybe she would
start being kind to strangers on the street so presents would start arriving in the mail.

Nicest of all, she thought as she snuggled down under the covers, was that since she was good at it already, she wouldn't have to practice very hard. Not like the painful stretching she'd had to do every week at that horrible ballet. Or the way she'd had to grip so tightly with her knees when she rode a horse that her legs were left feeling sore.

Sophie sighed happily. It was lovely being so good at something that came naturally to her. She could hardly wait to start being kind.

“Who's that girl?” Mrs. Hartley asked as she pulled the car into line behind the others dropping children off at school. Mrs. Hartley was a bit of an authority on the children at Sophie's school, having sent Thad and Nora there and now Sophie and John. She used to be on the PTSA and had run the spring fair four years in a row. She didn't do much of that now that she was working, but she still seemed to know who everyone was.

John scooted over Sophie as soon as she opened her door, and ran up the path with a quick wave over his shoulder for his mother. Sophie looked at the tall girl with the long
dark braid standing by herself next to the fence. The girl was pinching her nose again and again as if she were about to sneeze.

“Her name's Heather,” Sophie said. “She's new.”

“She looks lonely, standing off to the side like that,” said Mrs. Hartley.

“No one likes her,” said Sophie as she struggled with the straps of her backpack. “She says we all smell.”

“What a strange thing to say,” her mother said. “I imagine it's because she's homesick.”

“She says Mrs. Hackle's class smells like a farmyard.”

“Oh, Sophie, really. The things you say,” her mother said impatiently. “Hurry up or you'll be late.” Sophie kissed her mother over the back of the seat and got out. “You be kind to her, do you hear me?” Mrs. Hartley called after her.

“Oh, no,” wailed Sophie. “Do I have to?”

“Ask her if she wants to walk into the school with you,” her mother instructed. “Look at her, poor child, waiting for someone to talk to
her.” She pulled away from the curb, leaving Sophie on the sidewalk with a heavy heart.

Sophie looked at Heather. Heather's nose was pointed into the air as she stared out over the heads of the children rushing past her. If she was looking around, it was only because she was hoping something better would come along, Sophie thought sourly. Something that didn't smell bad.

Sophie sighed as she trudged across the sidewalk. She wished her mother would believe her. Heather
had
told them they all smelled. She was from California. She told them all that everyone in her family was a vegetarian and that people who ate meat smelled. She claimed she could tell what anyone had eaten for dinner by the way they smelled the next morning.

The first week she was in their class, Heather had kept inching her desk to get as far away from the others as she could until she was sitting at the edge of the room by herself. She shouldn't have bothered; by the end of the week no one wanted to sit next to her, anyway.
Sophie was thinking about all of this as she slowly walked up to her. She could hear Heather's high voice as she got closer. “Chicken . . . hamburger...”