What My Girlfriend Doesn't Know

  “Sophie … I’m … I’m so sorry …

  I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “For me to what?” she says.

  “Find out that you were cheating on me?”

  “But, you don’t understand. I was—”

  “You were kissing her, Robin. I saw you.”

  “Yeah, but I was kissing her good-bye, Sophie.

  I was telling her it was over.”

  “Over?” she says, her chin trembling.

  “Over, as in, like … a relationship?

  How long has this been going on, Robin?”

  “Only since yesterday. I swear.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “But it’s true, Sophie.

  I ended it with her because of you.

  Because I love you.”

  I reach out to wrap my arms around her,

  but she pushes me away—hard.

  “Keep your hands off me!”

  Then she bursts into tears

  and runs away from me.

  “Sophie!” I shout. “Let me explain!”

  But she just keeps right on running.

  I Stand Here Watching Her Go

  Thinking

  if only Tessa and I had gotten here

  a few minutes earlier …

  if only

  Sophie had gotten here

  a few minutes later …

  if only

  outlaws

  still ruled …

  I Try Everything

  I try

  calling her cell—

  no answer.

  I try

  calling her house—

  no answer.

  I try

  ringing her doorbell—

  no answer.

  I even try

  tossing pebbles

  at her bedroom window—

  but she just

  switches off

  her light.

  After Midnight

  All I want to do

  is escape into sleep.

  But every time I close my eyes,

  I see Sophie’s face,

  see the look

  that was on it

  just before she turned

  and ran from me today …

  and my heart

  feels like a stone,

  sinking

  down

  and

  down

  and

  down

  through

  cold

  black

  water.

  Dad Cracks Open the Door and Looks in on Me

  “Robin?” he whispers. “You awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you might be.”

  He comes in and sits down on the edge of my bed.

  “You seemed pretty bummed when I

  picked you up in the Square tonight…” he says,

  Aw, for chrissake.

  He’s not gonna try to get me

  to unburden my soul, is he?

  But then he says, “I’m feeling kind of blue myself.”

  Huh? That’s a switch.

  “How come?” I say.

  “Well, tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,

  and I sort of dropped the ball.

  You don’t happen to have any red paper, do you?

  And maybe some glitter or something?

  I want to make your mom a valentine.

  Girls go gaga over that stuff.”

  Give me a break—“Girls go gaga over that stuff?”

  What kind of loser says things like that?

  “Girls go gaga …?” Gaga …?

  Hey … wait a minute …

  Maybe my dad’s actually onto something for once—

  maybe girls do go gaga over that stuff…

  February Fourteenth

  The moon’s just the ghost of a smile,

  floating on the sky’s pink face,

  when I finally finish

  making everything for Sophie.

  But for some strange reason,

  I’m not even tired.

  I zoom down the hall

  to drag Dad out of bed early,

  so he can take me to the store

  on the way to school.

  And for some strange reason,

  he doesn’t even complain.

  I don’t tell him my plan,

  but when I hop back into the car

  and he sees what I’ve bought,

  he high-fives me and wishes me luck.

  Like, for some strange reason,

  he knows just how much

  I’ll be needing it.

  All Morning Long

  I’m sprinting

  across campus,

  racing against the clock,

  to get to each one

  of Sophie’s classes

  before she does.

  I rush in the door,

  ask her teacher where she sits,

  hurry to her desk,

  and leave

  my offerings

  on her altar:

  a homemade valentine

  and a single

  rose.

  And Every Time

  As soon as I’ve

  made my delivery,

  I get out of there

  as fast as I can.

  Because I can’t bear to stick around

  to watch what happens

  when Sophie walks in

  and finds what I’ve left for her.

  What if she’s tearing up my valentines

  without even opening them?

  What if she’s tossing my roses

  into the trash?

  What if

  nothing I’m doing

  is making one bit

  of difference?

  At Lunchtime

  I hurry over to Schultz’s room,

  so I can catch him

  before he heads off to the teachers’ lounge.

  When I tell him what I want to do,

  he smiles at me and says,

  “I like a man who thinks big.”

  Then he reaches into his desk drawer

  for his own personal set

  of primo French pastels

  and says, “Why don’t you use these, kiddo?”

  So I thank him and set to work on the chalkboard,

  drawing an enormous picture of a pig for Sophie.

  And inside the heart-shaped speech cloud

  over his head I write:

  VALENTINE,

  I’M SUCH A SWINE.

  SWILL YOU BE MINE?

  I think

  she’ll know

  who it’s from.

  When I Tell Schultz I Need to Skip Class

  He’s cool with it.

  So I leave a rose on Sophie’s desk

  and skulk down the hall to hide out in the library.

  Then, when art’s over, I go back

  to leaving a rose and a valentine for Sophie

  in each one of her classes,

  always making sure

  to be long gone

  before she shows up.

  And always making sure to avoid

  catching even a single glimpse

  of her face.

  Because I’m afraid

  of what I’ll see there.

  And afraid of what

  I won’t.

  4 p.m.

  I’ve been standing here

  by the goalpost,

  waiting,

  just standing here in the knee-knocking cold,

  with my eyes trained

  on the back door of the building,

  picturing Sophie rushing through it,

  picturing her running across the field to me

  and throwing herself into my arms.

  I’ve been standing here

  watching that door

  for forty-five minutes now,

  while the chill crept into my bones,

  and the truth crept into

 
my heart:

  if Sophie

  was gonna come to me,

  she’d have come to me

  by now.

  It’s Starting to Snow

  And the flakes are floating down all around me,

  like big frozen tears …

  I’ll freeze to death

  if I stay where I am.

  But I can’t handle the thought

  of going home.

  Because I can’t handle the thought

  of walking into my room—

  of walking into my room,

  looking up at my wall,

  and seeing Sophie’s portrait

  looking back at me.

  So I Can’t Go Home

  But I can’t stay here.

  Where can I go?

  Where?

  Suddenly,

  the answer hits me:

  the Museum of Fine Arts.

  If I can just get myself over there

  to see Le Bal à Bougival

  one more time,

  if I can just sit down on that wooden bench

  and look up at the dancing couple,

  like I always used to with Sophie,

  I’ll somehow feel closer to her,

  somehow feel like we’re still

  connected.

  Which I know

  is totally corny.

  But I don’t even care.

  It’s Not Till I’m Actually at the Museum

  Not till I’m sprinting up the marble stairway,

  toward the impressionist gallery

  and Le Bal à Bougival,

  that I’m finally able

  to admit to myself

  the real reason I’ve come:

  I’m hoping Sophie will be here—

  hoping she’ll be sitting right there

  in front of the painting,

  sitting there

  waiting for me

  on that wooden bench …

  My feet reach the top of the stairs

  and carry me down the hall,

  faster and faster, closer and closer …

  but when I get to the gallery

  and hurry through the door,

  Sophie’s not on the bench—

  and the painting’s not on the wall!

  I Take a Step Back

  Reeling from the shock of it—

  from the sight of that big blank wall.

  The wall where the painting’s supposed to be.

  Where the painting’s always been.

  Then I notice a little plaque.

  It says that Le Bal à Bougival is on loan

  to a Japanese museum

  and won’t be back for a year.

  I flop down onto the wooden bench,

  and, for a long time,

  I just sit here,

  staring up at that empty space,

  while the emptiness inside me

  swells and swells,

  till it feels like my chest

  will burst …

  The painting’s gone.

  Sophie’s gone.

  My one chance for happiness—

  gone.

  But Then I Hear Footsteps

  Footsteps that make me glance

  toward the door—

  just as Sophie walks through it!

  When she sees

  that the painting’s not here,

  her eyes fill with tears.

  And a second later,

  when she shifts her gaze,

  she suddenly notices

  me.

  Her Cheeks Flame Up

  Her eyes get wide.

  She looks unsteady,

  like her knees are weak.

  Did she know I’d be here?

  Is that why she came …?

  But the look on her face

  says she didn’t know.

  The look on her face

  says she wants to hide.

  The look on her face

  says she’s trying to decide

  whether to stay

  or run away.

  I Want to Rush to Her Side

  But I’m scared she’ll bolt.

  I hear myself saying, “Don’t worry, Sophie.

  It’s only on loan … It’ll be back …

  It’s coming back …”

  The sound of my voice

  seems to help her make up her mind.

  Because she starts walking right toward me.

  She sits down next to me on the bench,

  reaches into her backpack,

  and pulls out a sketchbook and a pencil.

  Then she opens the book to a blank sheet

  and starts crisscrossing it

  with straight lines,

  making what look like

  the empty frames

  of a page out of a comic book.

  And when all the squares are drawn,

  she passes it over

  to me.

  I Take the Sketchbook from Sophie’s Hands

  And stare at the first empty frame.

  Then I suck in a quick breath

  and begin to draw.

  It’s a picture of Sophie and me

  sitting on the wooden bench

  in front of the bare museum wall.

  And in the thought cloud

  floating above my head, I write:

  SOMETIMES. I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING.

  I turn to look

  at Sophie’s face

  and see that she’s smiling.

  It’s a strange kind of smile, sort of crooked,

  like she doesn’t want to be smiling,

  only she just can’t help it.

  And when I reach over,

  to cover her hand

  with mine—

  she doesn’t pull away.

  SONYA SONES

  is the author of Stop Pretending: What Happened When My Big Sister Went Crazy; One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies; and What My Mother Doesn’t Know, the first book about Sophie and Robin. Among the honors Sonya’s novels have received are the Christopher Award, the Myra Cohn Livingston Award for Poetry, and the Claudia Lewis Poetry Award, as well as several state awards voted on by teens. Sonya lives near the beach in California, but she grew up not far from where Sophie and Robin live. She hopes you’ll visit her at www.sonyasones.com.

  I DON’T GET IT

  I used to think it was so cute

  the way Dylan’s sneakers always

  squeaked when he walked.

  I liked teasing him about them.

  Called them his squeakers.

  Loved being able to hear

  him coming a mile away.

  When I’d hear that squeak of his

  heading in my direction,

  my heart would dance right up

  into my throat.

  I used to feel like I was floating

  a few inches above the ground

  whenever he was squeaking along

  next to me.

  But now when I hear those

  noisy Nikes of his,

  I feel like

  I want to scream.

  I want to stomp on his toes.

  I want to trip him up and run away.

  I just don’t get it.

  HE CALLS HIMSELF CHAZ

  I like the ring of it—

  chatting with Chaz.

  I met him on the Internet last week

  and we just seemed to click right away.

  We’ve been getting together

  every night since then at ten o’clock

  for these long private talks.

  Just the two of us

  floating through cyberspace.

  There’s something so neat

  about not even knowing

  what he looks like.

  Something even neater

  about not even caring.

  And knowing

  that he doesn’t care

  what I look like either.

  It’s a soul thin
g,

  with us.

  A cybersoul thing.

  I made up that word.

  Chaz really likes it.

  MY MORAL DILEMMA

  I ask Rachel and Grace

  if they think it’s the same thing

  as cheating on Dylan

  when I chat with Chaz.

  Grace says that depends

  on who I like talking to more,

  the cyberstud (as she calls him)

  or Dylan.

  Grace says she can’t imagine

  wanting to talk to another guy

  more than her new boyfriend Henry.

  On the Net or otherwise.

  She says it’s a bad sign if

  I don’t feel that way about Dylan.

  But Rachel says one person

  can’t completely fulfill

  anybody’s needs a hundred percent

  and it’s not as if

  I’m actually dating Chaz,

  so she doesn’t see anything wrong with it.

  I love that girl.

  CYBER SOUL MATE

  It’s almost ten o’clock.

  I can hardly wait

  to see his voice

  HIS WORDS POP ONTO MY SCREEN:

  “So tell me about your day.

  I want to know everything that happened

  from the minute you woke up this morning

  to right now.”

  I don’t think anyone’s

  ever

  been this interested in me before.

  Not even me.

  As I place my fingers

  to the keys

  and begin,

  my heart does the happy chatroom dance.

  MORE OR LESS

  If Dylan and I had met

  by chatting on the Net

  in a room in cyberspace

  instead of face to face

  and I hadn’t seen his lips

  or the way he moves his hips

  when he does that sexy dance

  and I hadn’t had a chance

  to look into his eyes

  or be dazzled by their size

  and all that I had seen

  were his letters on my screen,

  then I might as well confess:

  I think I would have liked him

  less.

  DOUBLE DATE

  All Grace has to do is smile at him

  and Henry forgets what he’s saying

  right in the middle of his sentence.