“But Persephone is so much nicer.”
“Well no one calls me that.” It wasn’t my name and she knew it. It was just a symbol of my mother’s fleeting obsession with Greek mythology, which had, rather unfortunately, coincided with the time I was born. Thankfully, my father had given up on the mouthful within the first year of my birth. It didn’t take him long to think of “Sophie” as a passable alternative — the name I suspect he wanted all along and one that rendered me eternally grateful to him for two reasons: 1. that I didn’t have to go through life with a barely spellable relic for a name, and 2. that he didn’t nickname me “Persy” instead. When my mother conceded defeat, I became “Sophie” for good. Plain, simple, and pronounceable.
“How do you even know to call me that anyway?” I added as an afterthought. For all the times Mrs. Bailey had intentionally wrongly addressed me, I had never thought to ask her how she had discovered one of my best-kept secrets. Then again, she was the first person to discover the location of our new house when we moved, despite the fact we had actively tried to hide it from her, and it was nearly an hour’s walk from Shrewsbury Avenue. Maybe she was clairvoyant after all.
“I saw it on a letter once.”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember.” She sounded affronted by the question. “It may have fallen out of your mailbox.”
“Mmhmm.” Snoop, I noted mentally.
Beside me, my mother was circling the top of her mug with her finger. “Sophie,” she chided gently, “why don’t we talk about something else?”
“Why? Are you still trying to shirk the blame for naming me the most hideously embarrassing thing you could think of?” Even though my voice was light, I was only half-joking. Not that it seemed to matter to my mother; she found my name-based indignation inexplicably amusing. I guess it made sense. The whole joke was hers in the first place and now it was following me around through people like Mrs. Bailey or Uncle Jack, who used it like a weapon when he was angry at me for taking impromptu nap breaks at the diner.
“I think the name Sophie is just as lovely. It suits you,” my mother pandered, smirking into her mug until all I could see were the tips of her delicate pointed brows. I felt a tiny pang of envy for their symmetry. Everything about her was dainty and refined, like a pixie. Through the magic of genetics, she had only passed her sunny blond hair and her heart-shaped face to me. But, by the wonder of mimicry, I had also acquired her tendency for extreme messiness and her inability to cook properly. I was reserving judgment on where my diminutive height came from, because I was still hoping to miraculously grow another three inches before my seventeenth birthday, which was rapidly approaching.
At the word “Sophie,” Mrs. Bailey emitted a long noise of ragged disapproval. It sounded like she was choking, and, fleetingly, a small, morally devoid part of me hoped she was.
I crossed over to the countertop to fill my mug and caught sight of the honey jar on the windowsill. Streaks of sunlight winked at me through the glass, as if to say “Good morning!” It would be a shame not to try it, I resolved. I grabbed a spoon and pried the lid from the jar, setting aside the frayed square of cloth that covered it and taking care not to disturb the black velvet ribbon.
Behind me, Mrs. Bailey was practicing her favorite hobby — the art of lamenting, “Persephone is so much more elegant. It might not suit her now, but she could always try and grow into it.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll just stick with Sophie and continue to live in the modern world.” I dipped a spoon inside the jar and twirled it.
“You look so tired this morning, Sophie,” Mrs. Bailey informed the back of my head, laboring over my name like it was difficult to pronounce.
Ignoring her taunt, as well as the civilized option to put the honey in oatmeal or on toast, I stuck the heaping spoonful of it straight into my mouth.
“She’ll be bright and chirpy once she’s had her caffeine fix,” my mother explained over my shoulder. The edge in her usually calm voice informed me that her patience was finally wearing thin. Even after my father’s screwup, my mother had managed to retain her inhuman level of kindness, which meant she was still too polite to turn a sixty-something, lonely, annoying Mrs. Bailey away, even when her conversations mainly consisted of disapprovals and backhanded compliments.
“Are you sure, Celine? She seems so exhausted. She’s a shadow of what a sixteen-year-old girl should look like. She should be out in the sun, getting a tan. She used to be such a pretty little thing.”
Seriously? I would have responded with bitchiness in kind, but the honey was sticking my teeth together.
My mother released a small sigh — a specialty of hers. It was ambiguous enough to mean anything to anyone — “I’m tired/happy/disappointed” — but I had a feeling it was intended to politely draw the topic to a close.
Fighting the urge to take my coffee and run, I turned around and seated myself firmly at the kitchen table, dragging the chair legs against the floor as noisily as I could and reveling in the look of discomfort on Mrs. Bailey’s face.
OK, lady. Let’s go. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.” The labored, honey-laden words masked the sarcasm in my voice. I took my first, glorious sip of coffee and felt the steam rise up and warm my nose.
“Well actually, you did.”
Quelle surprise. I always seemed to be interrupting Mrs. Bailey’s groundbreaking news bulletins.