Free The Sweetness of Salt by Cecilia Galante Page A

twenty pounds!”
    “Well, what are they saying exactly?” Mom asked.
    “You want to know what they’ve been saying? When I got up from my lounge chair at the pool today, some asshole friend of Eddie’s made oinking noises. And when I walked over to the snack bar to get a soda, I heard Marissa Harrington call me a lard-ass under her breath. Okay? That’s the kind of shit I’m dealing with.”
    “Sophie, please.” Mom was begging. “Don’t use that kind of language.”
    “Jesus Christ,” Sophie yelled. “Me using bad language isn’t the point here, okay? You asked me what was wrong and I told you what was wrong.” I flinched as the sound of something being slammed filtered through the window. “I don’t know why I ever think I can talk to you about anything!”
    I counted slowly to ten, then went inside.
    Mom looked bewildered as I walked through the door. “Julia,” she said flatly.
    “What’s wrong with Sophie?”
    Mom blinked. “Oh, nothing. She’s having a rough day is all. She’ll be fine.” She glanced down at my trophy. “What’s that?”
    I held it up. “I won the spelling bee at camp today.” Somehow, the news didn’t feel that exciting anymore.
    But Mom squealed and clapped her hands and kissed me. She placed the trophy on the kitchen counter so she could admire it, and then said, “How about a snack?”
    “No thanks.” I grabbed the trophy and began to climb the stairs.
    Mom came after me. “Honey? Don’t bother Sophie right now, okay? She’s not feeling that great. You can show her your trophy later. Don’t bug her now.”
    “I won’t bug her.” Insulted that Mom would even suggest such a thing, I sat in my room for a while, staring at the little prize in my hands.
    Little drops of rain began to pelt my bedroom window. I put my trophy down and went over to the chair behind my desk. I drew a fat pear with arms, legs, a hat, and a skirt. Then I drew a pair of cherries, connected by a single stem, holding hands. All of them wore striped socks, bows in their hair, and had little red cheeks. I put my colored pencils down. Sophie had to see my trophy. She just had to. If anything could make her feel better right now, it would be this. I knew it.
    I tapped very gently on her door. “Sophie?”
    “Go away.”
    I paused, pressing my forehead against the door, and squeezed the trophy in my hand. “Sophie, I just want to show…”
    The door flung open and I stepped back, surprised. Sophie’s hair hung around her face, as if she had turned her head upside down and shaken it. Black eyeliner had been drawn thickly around the bottoms of her eyes, and her lips were painted a garish red color. “What do you want?” she screamed. Even her voice, hoarse and shrill, sounded as if it didn’t belong to her. But it was not until I looked down and saw the hair—a large, massive clump of it—clutched in her right hand, that I began to cry.
    I took another step back and bumped into the wall. The sound of Mom’s footsteps running up the stairs echoed somewhere faintly in the background, but she was not fast enough. Sophie had already snatched the trophy out of my hands and was glaring at it. “This?” she yelled. “This is what you wanted to show me?” I tried to flatten myself even more against the wall as Sophie leaned down. Her weird eyes leveled with mine. The red lipstick had begun to smudge around her bottom lip, and her breath, hot and metallic smelling, made me wince. “You think getting first place all the time will make them like you a little more?” she hissed. She held the trophy to my face, as if I might forget what it looked like, and then threw it down the hallway. I stared, horrified, as it scuttled noisily against the hardwood floor, and then spun into a corner. Suddenly, Sophie’s hot breath was in my ear. “Well guess what? Being perfect won’t change anything. Believe me. I’ve already tried.”
    Mom burst out from the steps, racing toward us. “Don’t touch