Walter did not have to tell Sophia again. As she headed back to the house, she couldn’t understand how Walter could be so content with farmwork. Sophia could not wait to grow up and wear classy dresses with high heels and perfume like the pretty girlfriends Unc brought around.
Sophia washed her hands at the spigot that ran on the side of the house. Cracked and calloused, her fingers looked like they belonged to someone twice her age. The Old Man was already out on one of the tractors—she could hear the motor chugging from around back—but Ma Deary continued to snort and snore.
As Sophia set the eggs to boil, she thought lovingly of her television mother, Margaret Anderson fromFather Knows Best. Margaret would never let her children go off to school without presenting a beautifully set dining table, covered with bacon, eggs, toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Sophia rolled her eyes in the direction of Ma Deary with disgust.
She walked down into her bedroom. An octagonal window the size of two fists let in a stream of sunlight. There were no electrical sockets in her room, and the only other light that came through was when she left the kitchen door ajar.
Sophia pulled her school skirt out of the trunk in the corner.Last school year, the skirt fell below her knee, as required. She must have grown at least two inches over the summer, because now the skirt stopped above her knee. Seeing that it was all she had to wear, it would have to do.
The farm sat a ways back from the main street, so Sophia and the twins traipsed through uncut grass for a quarter of a mile before reaching Double Oak Road. Sophia checked her brothers for ticks, then the three walked along in single file. After dropping the boys off at the big red barn that had been converted into a lower school, she walked the last mile alone to the high school, feeling her stomach slip from a loose loop into a tight knot.
W. S. Brooks was a single-story brick building that sat back on a large lot with a smattering of white ash and hickory trees. The grass smelled freshly mowed, and the high-pitched laughter of classmates reuniting after summer rang out loud. Sophia pushed her hand over her head, not sure why she had even wasted time with the brush and comb because the morning humidity had already puffed up her hair like a horse helmet.
As she crossed the parking lot, tugging her too-short skirt, she saw upperclassmen wearing their first-day best, posted against freshly washed vehicles, shooting the breeze. A group of sophomore boys tossed a football while blushing girls flashed their teeth, thirsting after the attention their two-hour morning routine deserved.
“Orangutan,” a shrilly voice called out.
Sophia’s shoulders stiffened. It was Maxine and her dreaded triad of flunkies. She picked up her pace.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know your name all of a sudden.” Maxine spoke louder, and her acolytes scratched under their arms while producing monkey sounds: “Oo-oo-ah-ah.”
Sophia didn’t have to look at them to know that all four girls had onbrand-new A-line skirts, starched white blouses, and two-toned flats, with their hair pressed to a shine. Their flowery fragrances contrasted with her own aroma of egg yolk and the rotten-plant residue stuck to the bottoms of her shoes. The girls were on her heels by the time Sophia had reached for the school’s front door with a trembling hand.
“Don’t fall asleep in class this year, either. Wouldn’t want the boogeyman to get you,” Maxine hissed in her ear and cackled while the flunkies chorused their monkey sounds.
Sophia was about to run away from them like she had all last school year, but something deep inside of her rooted her to the ground. She turned and looked Maxine dead in the eye. “And don’t you eat lunch. Might be a razor blade in your sandwich.”
Maxine looked so stunned that, in the time it had taken for her to recover, Sophia was already down the hall ducking into her first-period class.
She had been assigned to eleventh-grade chemistry even though she was technically in tenth grade. While her teacher went over the year’s objectives and what they would master, a student entered with a note for the teacher.
“Sophia Clark, report to the principal’s office,” her teacher said.
The knot was now so tight in her stomach, Sophia thought she would throw up. Swallowing hard, she gathered her things. It seemed like every eye in the room turned to watch her get out of her seat. Her knees wobbled so much that, right before she reached the door, she tripped over her own foot and grabbed the doorknob to catch herself from falling. The kids roared with laughter.
“Now, class, settle down.” The teacher slapped her palm three times against her desk.
Sophia moved through the deserted halls, wondering if she was being summoned because Maxine had told on her about the razor-blade comment, or if one of the hall monitors had reported her for dress-code violation on account of her too-short skirt. If it were thecomment, she would deny it, and if it were the latter, she would assure Principal Travis that the short skirt was an accident. She’d say that her mother had bought the wrong size but would take her shopping over the weekend. Which was a bald-faced lie. Ma Deary never took them shopping. She simply brought home clothes from the hospital’s lost-and-found box and told them to choose whatever passed as fitting. Unc’s latest girlfriend had given Sophia what she wore now, probably out of sheer pity. She had looked Sophia over and said, “Sugar, you are way too pretty to be dressed like an old maid.”
The school’s office had a small reception area with a desk and two bookshelves.
“For heaven’s sake, Sophia?” The white-haired receptionist looked up from her ledger.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Mrs. Brown’s just about had a cow trying to locate you. Head on back now before you give that woman a full-fledged heart attack.”
Sophia breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Brown would be easier to talk to about her circumstance than the principal. When she reached the end of the hall, she could hear Mrs. Brown’s heels click against the vinyl-plank floor. Mrs. Brown was wearing a plaid blazer with a pleated skirt, and as she removed her reading glasses, her mouth hung agape. Sophia bristled. She could tell by the look on the woman’s face what was coming next.
Detention.
Mrs. Brown was the first lady of First Samuel’s Baptist Church, and very no-nonsense about girls looking and behaving like young women: no short skirts, no fingernail polish, no earrings bigger than a hatpin, and no foul language permitted under any circumstances. Sophia was in violation of at least two of the hard-and-fast rules and braced herself for the consequences.
“Sophia. Why are you here?”
“A student pulled me from class with a note,” she stuttered.
Mrs. Brown’s dimples deepened as she shook her full head of Shirley Temple curls. “I mean here at Brooks High School. Did you not receive my message?”
