OPERATION “ALONE AT LAST”
I’m standing
near the children
watching them swarm
over the jungle gym,
remembering vaguely
what it was like to be six.
I’m stealing a glance at Dylan
as he ducks through the hole
in the chainlink fence
and disappears
into the sheltering darkness
of the woods.
I’m waiting,
just as we planned,
for my slow motion watch to tick off
three
full
minutes.
I’m sidling over
and sneaking through the same hole
into the shadows,
into the warm flanneled arms
of my partner
in delicious crime.
ALSO BY
SONYA SONES
One of Those Hideous Books
Where the Mother Dies
What My Girlfriend
Doesn’t Know
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should
be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as
“unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author
nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,
real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination,
and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Sonya Sones
All rights reserved, including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949
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Also available in a hardcover edition.
Book design by Jennifer Reyes
The text for this book is set in Tekton.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First paperback edition February 2003
21
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Sones, Sonya
What my mother doesn’t know / by Sonya Sones.
p. cm.
Summary: Sophie describes her relationships with a series of boys as she searches for Mr. Right.
ISBN 978-0-689-84114-9 (hc)
[1. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 2. Love—Fiction.] 1. Title.
PZ7.S6978 Wh 2001
[Fic]—dc21
00-052634
ISBN 978-0-689-85553-5 (pbk)
eISBN 978-1-4391-1518-3
For Ava and Jeremy—
I know all
NICKNAMES
Most people just call me Sophie
(which is the name
on my birth certificate),
or Sof,
or sometimes Sofa.
Zak and Danny think it’s cute
to call me Couch,
as in:
“How’re your cushions doing today, Couch?”
Or sometimes they call me Syphilis,
which I don’t find one bit funny.
My parents usually call me
Sophie Dophie or Soso.
And Rachel and Grace call me Fifi,
or sometimes just Fee.
But Dylan calls me Sapphire.
He says it’s because of my eyes.
I love the way his voice sounds
when he says it.
Sapphire.
I like whispering it to myself.
His name for me.
Sapphire.
It’s like the secret password
to my heart.
SIXTH SENSE
Sometimes I just know things.
Like when Lou asked me to go on that walk
down by the reservoir last year
on the last day of eighth grade.
I knew he was going to say
he wanted to break up with me.
And I knew my heart
would shatter
when he did.
I can feel them coming.
Like a couple of weeks ago
when I went to the Labor Day party at Zak’s.
Something perfect was going to happen.
I just knew it.
That was the night I met Dylan.
HOW IT HAPPENED
After Zak’s party,
Rachel’s big sister
came to drive a bunch of us home,
with her friend
and her friend’s younger brother.
I was the last one to get in the car
and it turned out
all the other laps were taken,
so I had to sit on
Rachel’s sister’s friend’s brother’s lap.
It was
Dylan’s lap,
but even though he goes to my school
I’d never seen him before.
And he had such smoldery dark eyes
that I felt like I’d been zapped
smack into the middle
of some R-rated movie
and everyone else in the car
was just going to fade away
and this guy and I
were going to start making out,
right then and there,
without ever having said
one word to each other.
But what really happened
was that he blushed and said,
“Hi. I’m Dylan.”
And I blushed back and said,
“I’m Sophie.”
And he said, “Nice name.”
And I said, “Thanks.”
After that we didn’t say anything else
but our bodies seemed to be
carrying on a conversation of their own,
leaning together
into every curve of the road,
sharing skin secrets.
And just before we got to my house,
I thought I felt him
give my waist an almost squeeze.
Then the car rolled to a stop
and I climbed out
with my whole body buzzing.
I said good night,
headed up the front walk,
and when I heard the car pulling away,
I looked back over my shoulder
and saw Dylan looking over his shoulder
at me.
When our eyes connected,
this miracle smile lit up his face
and I practically had
a religious experience.
Then I went upstairs to bed
and tried to fall asleep,
but I felt permanently wide awake.
And I kept on seeing that smile of his
and feeling that almost squeeze.
DISTRACTED IN MATH CLASS
All I have to do
is close my eyes
and I can feel his lips,
the way they felt
that very first time.
I can feel the heat of them,
parting just slightly,
brushing across my cheek,
moving closer
and closer still
to my mouth,
till I can hardly breathe,
hardly bear to wait
for them to press onto mine.
All I have to do
is close my eyes.
BETWEEN CLASSES WITH DYLAN
We fall into step
in the crowded hall
without even glancing
at each other,
but his little finger
finds mine,
hooking us
together,
and all the clatter
of the corridor fades away
till the only sound I can hear
is the whispering of our fingers.
IN THE CAFETERIA
Sitting alone
with Dylan.
Eating my sandwich,
but not
tasting it.
I’m only aware of
the sparks in his eyes,
the sun in his hair
and the spot where his knee’s
touching mine.
Then, over his shoulder,
grinning like pumpkins,
holding up this little sign
with “Remember us?” written on it.
IN THE GIRLS’ BATHROOM
“Is he a good kisser?”
Rachel asks.
“Unbelievable,” I say.
And it’s true.
Dylan’s kisses
seem like something
much better than kissing.
It’s like
I can feel them
with my whole body.
That never used to happen
when Lou kissed me.
And he’s the only other boy
I’ve ever made out with.
“Has he tried to get to second base?”
Grace wants to know.
But the bell rings just in time.
IT’S BEEN RACHEL, GRACE AND ME EVER SINCE
That September afternoon,
when third grade had barely begun
and we were just getting
to know each other,
we skipped through
the first fallen leaves,
weaving our way through
the quiet neighborhood
to Sage Market for Häagen-Dazs bars.
That September afternoon,
when we saw the four older girls
pedaling towards us,
we didn’t expect them to stop
or to leap off their bikes
and suddenly surround us.
But they did.
And we had no idea that the biggest one,
Mary Beth Butler,
who had these glinting slits for eyes,
would ask Rachel
what church she belonged to.
That September afternoon,
after Rachel mumbled, “Saint James’s,”
we didn’t know that Mary Beth
would ask Grace the same question,
or that Grace would squeak out,
“North-Prospect.
And it’s none of your business.”
But she did.
And when Mary Beth asked me the question
and I said I didn’t go to church
because I was Jewish,
I didn’t think she’d start shouting
at Rachel and Grace,
“Don’t you know you aren’t supposed
to play with anyone
who doesn’t go to church?”
while her friends glared
and tightened their circle around us.
That September afternoon,
when Rachel kicked Mary Beth in the shin
and the three of us
crashed through the cage of bikes,
racing off together
across the nearest lawn,
scrambling through the hedge
and into the alley,
not stopping till we
were locked safely behind
the heavy oak of Rachel’s front door,
we didn’t know that we’d just become
best friends.
But we had.
WHY I DON’T MIND BEING AN ONLY CHILD
In fourth grade,
when Rachel had to put her dog to sleep,
we held a funeral for him
like the one Grace had seen
in Chinatown in San Francisco.
We marched down the middle of Meadow Way,
Rachel holding up a photo of Waggy,
Grace pounding solemnly on her snare drum,
me blasting out “The Dead Dog Blues”
on my clarinet.
In sixth grade,
when Grace’s parents got divorced
during spring break,
we had a sleepover
that lasted three nights.
We painted Grace’s nails Revenge Red,
covered her with henna tattoos,
watched a Saved by the Bell marathon,
and obliterated six pounds
of Oreo cookies.
Last June, when Lou dumped me
for that awful Alison Creely,
Rachel and Grace
helped me make a voodoo doll
that looked almost as stupid as him.
We poked it with a hundred pins
and wrote him a letter
which included all the swear words
we had ever heard,
as well as a few that we just made up.
But we didn’t mail it.
We burned it in the fireplace instead,
along with the voodoo doll.
Then they dragged me off
to see a movie.
WATCHING MURPHY DURING ART CLASS
He is so homely,
so downright ugly
that none of the girls
even think about him.
He’s too lowly,
too pitiful
to even bother
making fun of.
So something must be
very wrong with me,
because I want to kiss him.
I want to kiss him real bad,
even though his nose is crooked
and his ears are huge,
even though his hair’s a mess
and his lips are tight and scared.
I want to kiss away
those circles under his eyes
that make him look like
he’s never slept a second in his life.
And those arms of his
seem like they’re just aching
to hold on to someone.
I wish I could let them hold on to me.
When no one was looking,
I’d walk up to him
and say, “Hey, Murph.
Would it be okay if I kissed you?”
And he’d look hurt
because he’d think I was joking
and he’d turn away
to hide his face,
but I’d touch his shoulder and
look at him with gentle misty movie eyes
and say, “Come on. I mean it.
I really want to.”
And he’d look dumbstruck,
and all the gray
would fade out of his eyes
and this light would come into them
and his lips would look like
they were getting ready to smile and then,
before I had a chance to change my mind,
I’d kiss him.
And he’d wrap his skinniness around me
and his arms would be shaking,
and suddenly
I’d feel all this love,
all this need pouring into me
right through his lips
into me
and it would feel great,
and I’d close my eyes to feel it better.
(Whoa.
I can’t believe
I’m having this fantasy about Murphy,
when I’m so totally in love with Dylan!)
DURING HISTORY CLASS
How can I study
when my blood is pumping so loud
that I can’t hear my own thoughts?
How can I read
when all the words
keep swirling around on the page?
How can I concentrate
on Ancient Babylonia
when Dylan’s note is burning in my pocket?
HIS NOTE
I stand by my locker
waiting,
till the hall
is practically empty.
Then I slip his note
out of my pocket,
carefully unfold each crease,
and read:
“You are the coolest girl
in the whole world.
(And probably even on Mars, too.)
Meet me near the hole in the fence
after school.”
I fold it back up,
press it to my heart,
then slip it into my pocket
and sprint to French class.
I’ll be late,
but it was
très
worth it.
OPERATION “ALONE AT LAST”
I’m standing
near the children
watching them swarm
over the jungle gym,
remembering vaguely
what it was like to be six.
I’m stealing a glance at Dylan
as he ducks through the hole
in the chainlink fence
and disappears
into the sheltering darkness
of the woods.
I’m waiting,
just as we planned,