My Specialty

Chapter 1

Special Beginnings

I knew I was special. I think everyone knew that. Even Daddy, I bet. That’s what he told me before he left. I knew I was special, but I didn’t know why. Everyone knew, but no one would tell me. Some people said I already knew, which was really dumb, because I told them I didn’t. Others said I’d figure it out when I got older, but I didn’t think so.
Because I don’t think I’ll live much past the age of twenty. Not that I don’t want to live, I really do. I want to have family, just like me, Momma, and Daddy. Except when I get married, I don’t want my husband to leave me and my kid(s). It’s just that feeling. I got it way too much for an eleven year old. I mean, aren’t you supposed to wait until you’re, like, sixteen or something to get feelings?
I had some theories about my specialty. I thought it was mind-reading at first, because, really, I could. I always knew what everyone was thinking—before it came out of their mouths. But I changed my mind about this one, and I didn’t even bother to share it with Momma. Because grown-ups said they always knew what I was thinking. It didn’t help my theory at all. I could say that much.
Okay, so I was kind of lying before. I really don’t have theories. I have a theory. Singular. And it was still a dumb one, at that. But, come on, you had to give a girl credit. Fifth graders don’t rule the world—or, I say they don’t. According to my Science/Social Studies teacher, “…every child rules the world. But do they have the strength encourage it? To show the world they have no envy?”
Well, maybe I wasn’t exactly lying (even though I had to be lying about one, so I was still technically lying). I did have more than one theory, though, but that was it. No more.
My second theory, not very easily put into words, was that I was never just “Sophie” or “Soph”. They always called me very judgmental/royal titles. Like ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘My Queen’ or ‘Queen Sophie’. This is a conversation I had with my Math teacher, Ms. Mitchells:
Ms. Mitchells: “What is 13x11?” People raised their hands—not me—and looked like they knew the answer. But who got called on? Me. “Yes, Your Majesty? Answer when ready.”
Me: “Just call me Sophie, Ms. Mitchells.”
Ms. Mitchells: “Yes, Your Majesty,”
Me: “Just call me Sophie, okay? It’s not ‘your majesty’ or any of that. Okay!”
Ms. Mitchells: “Yes, then, my queen. Your answer?”
Me: “One hundred forty-three.” I walked out of the classroom, without pushing my chair in.
Ms. Mitchells: “Come back before recess, Queen Sophie! We are setting up our play, and we cannot practice without our oh-so-wonderful and melodious queen!” And not to me, but to someone else in the class: “Go push her chair in.”
See what I mean? She didn’t even tell me to sit down! Heck, I never get in trouble. Ever! I’ve never been yelled at (not including my dad), never been lied to (Dad), and have absolutely never made anyone angry. For the record—yes, I have one—this is still part of the second theory.
The play, next week, I suppose will go well. I mean, no one even bothers with boo-ing when I’m around. So even if I, say, purposely knock down the entire castle and moat at the end of the play, I would not get a single person in the audience that was not giving me a standing ovation. Now, if that were my best friend, Anne…..only one story at a time, here.
Back to present time. I’m sitting on my bed, homework piled up the size of China. Math, language, reading, history, drama, art, music, science, French, health, whatever!!! The only real reason that I was studying and doing the homework, was because if I didn’t finish it all, then I wouldn’t even be able to practice in the play—according to regular rules. And I’m not so sure that applied to me, but, I don’t want to find out.
But, seriously? Who cares if Benjamin Franklin invented stuff? (Okay, I know the answer to that.) If 9x5=45? I don’t! When—besides science class—will I ever need the periodic table? Never! So, if they’re going to teach us stuff that we don’t need to learn, then what’s the point of going to school? There isn’t one! Time to call Anne—it’s Sophie’s babble time.

“Mom,” I sighed. I didn’t want to set the table! Besides, whenever Anne and Riley come over for dinner, I always have to set the table. They come over every other night. And when they come over it’s not my turn to set the table. So, when they do come over, I’m setting the table. I set the table every freakin’ night! Josie gets away with everything. Just ask her. She’s so innocent around my poor defenseless mother who is trapped under my sister’s spell…Only fifth graders could withstand her amazing power. Stupid second grader.
“Yes, Sophie,” It wasn’t a question. Simply a statement.
“Um, can’t Josie set the table for once?”
“It’s your turn, dear. Your friends are coming over tonight.” She didn’t look at me the whole time—just kept staring out the window while she washed dishes.
“But since they come over every other night, I’m always setting the table. Let Josie do it.” I pleaded. I did not expect what happened next to happen. I thought she’d just shake her head in disagreement, and stare coldly at the poor, wet dishes. But, no. She does something that just blows my mind. She turned around abruptly, dropped the dish she was scrubbing straight into the sink. Her eyes were glowing. Yellow, glowing!!!

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