The Mistaken Masterpiece (2 page)

Not exactly encouraging.

“Sophie, we’re going to have to take you to the emergency room. She really whacked you, and you probably need to be checked out for concussion. And … um … I think your nose is broken.”

Not my nose! I
love
my nose. It’s not perky like Livvy’s; it’s kind of a miniature version of my dad’s classic French schnoz. Some people (small-nosed, small-minded people, most likely) might think it’s too big. Personally, I prefer to think of it as having a little
character
.

I reach up to touch it.
Big
mistake.

“Owwwww!” I scream.

“Man, look at her
eyes
,” says Carey Petrus, one of my teammates, who is leaning over me for a closer look.

“Wads wob wid by eyes?” I mumble. I know I’m not blind—my vision has come back enough for me to see the blood all over me and my swimsuit.

“Uh, nothing,” Carey lies.

“Midchelle! Wads wob wid by eyes?” I shout. Yet another painful mistake.

“Nothing. Your eyes are fine.
Around
them is a different story. You’re going to have a couple of good shiners for a few days.” When Livvy, looking really sheepish, shows up with one of those blue ice packs, Michelle takes it from her and gently sets it on what’s left of my nose.

“Ow, ow, ow.”

“I know, I’m so sorry, honey, but you really need to do this. Try to hold it on your face for a few minutes, and then I’ll get a taxi and take you to the hospital. We can call your parents from there.”

I nod at her, wincing at the pain. “Okay, but huddy, ’cause I dink by face is gonna ’splode.”

Michelle stands up and announces, “Okay, everybody, that’s it for today. See you all tomorrow at five-fifteen. Don’t be late!” Once a coach, always a coach, I guess. Even when your star is practically bleeding to death.

I try to sit up, but I’m dizzy and my head is wobbling around like one of those bobblehead dolls, and Michelle makes me lie back down.

“Whoa there, sport. You stay here with Carey. I’ll get the taxi and come right back for you. Don’t move.”

I don’t argue with her, because moving really hurts. I close my eyes for a few seconds and imagine that I’m curled up in my bed on a snowy Saturday morning with a favorite book, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on Dad’s freshly baked madeleines.

A very familiar voice cuts this little voyage to my happy place short.

“Sophie? Are you alive?”

I open my eyes, but all I can see is a vague shadow through the blue gel of the ice pack. “Mah-gid? Thad you?”

“Geez, you scared me to death, Sophie!” Margaret says. “I came by to see if you wanted to walk to school together since it’s such a nice morning. Then I get here and see you stretched out, flat on the ground, with blood everywhere. What happened?”

“Libby.”

“Libby? Who’s Libby?”

“Dot Libby! Lib—by! Oww!”

“I think she’s trying to say ‘Livvy,’ ” Carey says. “They were, like, sharing a lane. Sophie’s face sort of ran into Livvy’s hand.”

Margaret looks around me at all the blood and says with mock seriousness, “I always knew this feud with Livvy Klack would end in bloodshed.”

I fight back the urge to laugh because my gut tells me that would really hurt right now.

When Michelle returns, the three of them help me to my feet and sort of half carry, half drag me out the door and into the waiting taxi. Michelle and Margaret talk to my parents on the way to the hospital, assuring them that I’ll probably live.

Here’s what I learn from my trip to the emergency room: if you’re going to get your nose busted by your worst enemy, do it really early in the morning, because the place is basically deserted. With Michelle at my side, a nurse actually takes me directly into a treatment room; no waiting around for three hours while every other sick person in the city gets bumped ahead of me in line because they’re sicker, or older, or younger, or, more likely (after all, this is New York I’m talking about), complaining louder than I am.

The doctor is much younger than I expect, and, well, let’s just say she looks a little confused by the way I’m dressed at seven in the morning—I guess a clammy swimsuit and a bunch of bloodstained towels aren’t part
of the fashionable fall attire in the ER. The faces she makes as she pokes and prods aren’t doing much for my confidence, either. Finally, she speaks.

“Yep. Broken nose. Did you run into the wall?”

“Another swimmer,” Michelle says. “She gonna be okay?”

“Oh, she’ll be fine—no sign of concussion or anything like that. It’s a pretty good break, so you’re going to have to be wrapped up for a few days, maybe a week.”

A week with a bandage on my nose! Clearly, this is someone who either had the entire adolescent portion of her memory erased or skipped seventh grade completely. Why not just tattoo “Kick Me” on my forehead?

Just when I think it can’t get any worse, my parents show up. When Mom sees me, her hand flies up to her mouth and she runs, crying, to hug me. “Sophie! I’m so sorry!” she sobs, like it’s
her
fault I was practically decapitated by the Livvinator.

The doctor takes a stab at reassuring them that I’m not permanently damaged, but they both look so miserable that I figure it’s time for me to take a look in the mirror to see why everybody is so wigged out.

Mystery solved. I am a
freak
. My hair, still wet, is so impossibly tangled that I’m afraid I’ll have to just shave my head and start over. And that’s the
good
part. Above the enormous bandage covering my nose, my eyes are circled by puffy purple and yellow rings.

“Ohhhh,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach.

Mom hugs me again (gently!) and guarantees that
I’m going to be fine. “You’re definitely staying home today, and maybe tomorrow, too. By then, the swelling should be gone at least. And the bruising will go away … in a few days. Now, let’s get you home and into bed.”

“Well, maybe a shower first,” Dad says, squeezing my hand. “You still smell like the pool.” He tries to straighten out my hair but quickly gives up. “And I’m afraid we will have to shave your head, too.”

I give him a dirty look as Margaret, who is going to have to run to make it to school on time, promises to fill me in on everything that happens at St. Veronica’s. And that’s when it really sinks in: for the first time in my life, I am going to miss a day of school.

“Wait. I can’t miss school.”

But I can, and I do. And just like that, my seven-year perfect-attendance streak ends as I wave to Margaret, who bolts out the glass hospital doors.

My dad, who’s the chef at a ritzy French restaurant, doesn’t have to go into work until the afternoon, so Mom leaves me in his mostly capable hands. She objects at first, and is just about to call the music school and cancel all her lessons for the day, but I convince her that I’m fine. (Hey, I don’t want to be responsible for a bunch of violinists wandering aimlessly around the city all day. After that whole Vanishing Violin thing, I’m
so
over the violin.)

On the taxi ride to our apartment building, Dad
promises to take good care of me—he’ll fix me anything I want to eat. Now, under normal circumstances, that would be amazingly awesome. In fact, I have a whole list of his special treats that I keep handy for just such occasions. But there’s a problem: I don’t really feel like eating. My head feels like it is made of concrete, and even the thought of chewing makes me queasy. I just want to go back to bed.

When I get to my room, however, I make the mistake of checking my phone for messages. There’s a new text from Margaret, sent right after she left me at the hospital. Like all of her texts and emails, it is properly punctuated and capitalized.

And another, this one from Leigh Ann, sent at eleven last night.

So I do, where I find three new messages—two from Raf, my not-quite-a-boyfriend-but-more-than-a-friend friend, even though I have told him that I never check
my voice mail, and one from Leigh Ann. In one very excited breath, she says, “Sophieoh
migosh
you’renot
gonnabelieve
whatIfound
outIwason
mywayback
fromdanceclass
tonightand
therewere
allthese
trailersand
signsall
overthe