The Golden Child Read online

  By the end of the year, things had escalated. The tormenting became more overt and, on one occasion, physical. Sophie was hurrying along the deserted junior hallway one morning, running an errand for a teacher, when Holly suddenly appeared around the corner. She headed straight for Sophie, barging into her with her heavy schoolbag as they passed one another.

  Sophie skidded, then slipped and sprawled, her legs splayed at an embarrassing angle on the waxy floor. The other girl stood above her, waiting for her to get to her feet. ‘Sorry,’ she panted, ‘I didn’t see you there.’ She giggled at the ridiculousness of it, and held out her hand as if offering to help Sophie to her feet. Sophie grabbed hold, not thinking beyond the gesture, and to begin with the girl pulled as Sophie pushed, but she let go at the crucial moment, just as Sophie was almost upright. Sophie crashed back down again, this time falling heavily, hitting her hip. ‘OMG, you weigh a ton!’

  Sophie bit her lip, blinked to stop the tears from welling. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and then crouched for a moment, too nervous to get up while Holly still loomed. Holly stared down at her hard for a long moment, as if considering what to do, and then smiled. ‘You’re actually quite ugly, did you know that?’ She spoke kindly, as if trying to comfort Sophie. ‘I mean, I knew you were fat, but I’ve never really seen your face this close . . . Your nose is really huge and your eyes are weird – it’s like you’ve got . . . what is it? Downs syndrome or something? And your freckles – ugh. There are so many of them, and they’re so brown. Maybe you could have some sort of operation. But you’re not going to be able to do anything about your eyes.’ She sighed and held out her hand again. ‘I’ll have another go,’ she said, ‘but you should do something about your weight. It’s actually irresponsible, you know – being fat. My mum always says that people like you are totally selfish: you’re going to end up sick and cost the rest of us a whole lot of money. Which is totally not fair.’

  Sophie ignored her, pulled herself upright, and continued down the hallway as if nothing had happened.

  That was the finale of Holly’s victimisation program. Other than some residual sneering she pretty much left Sophie alone after the hallway incident. Perhaps she had worries of her own: a few months later her parents divorced, and the following year she left the school, much to Sophie’s relief.

  Still, for a long while after that, Sophie avoided being alone in the corridor and out of sight of teachers. She told no one; it was somehow too humiliating – not just the fall itself, or Holly’s gibes, but her own behaviour. Her own lack of anger, her passivity, the way she cowered, terrified, was excruciating to recall.

  But now, in year seven, she’s finally stopped noticing whether the hallways are empty or isolated. So when she sees the four girls – Charlotte, Amelia, Harriet and Grace – heading towards her as she’s rushing to her music lesson, it doesn’t occur to her that this could mean anything sinister. She moves towards them innocently, directs a tentative smile towards Charlotte, who surprises her by smiling back uninhibitedly. Sophie had already greeted her that morning in maths class, and, as usual, was confused by Charlotte’s lack of response; she’d feigned deafness, turned away and spoken loudly to someone else. Sophie has consciously decided not to be hurt, thinking that perhaps her friend’s coolness that morning wasn’t deliberate, and sees this as a good opportunity to greet her again – just a casual hi. She calls out cheerfully, but there’s no response.

  Instead, the four girls stop as she approaches. They stand absolutely still for a moment and then, as if by design, each of them moves equidistantly across the hallway. Sophie pauses, confused and suddenly nervous. The four of them look beyond her, their faces expressionless. Then they step slowly, in unison, towards her: left foot, pause; right foot, pause.

  Sophie looks behind her, seeking help, but there’s no one. She could run, but the thought of their laughter paralyses her. The four girls keep moving in sync, eyes distant, faces stern, taking slow, fluid steps across the waxed surface of the floor, coming inexorably closer. ‘Hi there,’ Sophie says again, her smile quite uncertain now. She can hear how anxious she sounds, her voice high-pitched and sticky. Her mouth feels unaccountably dry. She backs towards the wall as if for safety.

  The four girls pause, ignore her, continuing to stare straight ahead for a long moment as if she’s invisible. Then they’re on the move again: left foot, pause; right foot, pause. They are coming towards her on a slight angle now, pushing Sophie further against the wall, blocking any possible means of escape.

  They halt in formation when they are only a few feet away and then stand motionless for another long moment, still looking beyond her. But this time Amelia deviates from the blankness: her face twitches and she makes strange little hiccoughing sounds as if swallowing down laughter. The tension broken slightly, Sophie takes the opportunity to speak: ‘Are you guys practising for a play or something?’ She tries to keep her words casual, her voice even, but she can hear it shaking.

  ‘Did you hear something, my angel sisters?’ Charlotte’s voice is monotonal, chant-like. She maintains her blank expression. ‘I heard a strange noise.’

  ‘Perhaps a mouse?’ Amelia offers.

  Squee squeeeee. Little mousie.

  They come out of character then and laugh, overpowered by the humour of their joke. Squee squee.

  Sophie tries to take advantage of their momentary distraction, goes to walk through them, but they are immediately alert, re-forming in a solid line and marching towards her, still in the slow step–pause routine, blocking her forward movement wherever she goes.

  ‘I have to go to my piano lesson.’

  ‘She says she has to go to her piano lesson.’ Charlotte’s voice has lost its incantatory solemnity, has become arch, playful.

  ‘Imagine that – a mousie who can play piano.’

  They erupt into laughter again. Squee squee.

  Sophie wonders whether she should push through them or run back the way she has come and walk the long way through the playground. Or maybe even miss her lesson altogether. She is late now anyway; another few minutes and she’ll be too late.

  ‘How badly does the little mouse want to go, d’you think?’ The laughter in Charlotte’s voice has gone, replaced by something hard and cold, and the other girls’ faces are grim. Sophie looks beyond them, hoping desperately to see someone else approaching, but the corridor is empty.

  ‘There’s no one coming, little mouse.’ Charlotte’s voice has become menacing: low, sinuous, almost a growl. ‘No one’s going to save you.’ Sophie lunges to the right; all four follow, blocking her way. She lunges to the left and they are there too. She tries pushing through them, crashing into Harriet and Amelia, beyond caring now, terrified, desperate to get away. They retaliate violently, following Charlotte’s lead; barge into her repeatedly, forcing Sophie back, back, and then back again, until she is right up against the wall. She drops her music bag and the books and manuscripts spill out, scattering across the floor.

  The four stand in front of her, panting, their faces red.

  ‘Mousies really shouldn’t try to play rough, should they?’ Charlotte’s voice is syrupy, her smile sweet. ‘They should stick to piano.’ At this, they burst into wild laughter, take hold of each other’s hands, and race off down the hallway, trampling over her music deliberately as they go.

  Sophie stays leaning against the wall, waiting for her heart to stop racing, her breath to return to normal, swallowing her sobs. She’s glad it’s over, whatever it was; relieved that nobody has seen. When she can move, she gathers up her music, some of it torn and all of it battered, and shoves it back into her bag, continues her journey, her steps slow, to the music room.

  When she arrives she is surprised to find she is only ten minutes late. Madame Abramova, impatiently waiting, comments on her tardiness, the state of her music, the griminess of her hands, but notices nothing else. ‘The eisteddfod is only weeks away. What are you thinking, you silly girl? It is unaccept
able that you waste my time when I have so many other students,’ she says in her harsh, humourless way. Sophie tells her that she is sorry, that she has been held up in class, that she won’t do it again.

  ANDI

  THE FIRST FEW MONTHS AFTER GUS’S BIRTH WERE HARD FOR Sophie – and some of the difficulty, Andi knows, was of Andi’s own making. She had been prepared for sibling jealousy, had known that it might not be easy for Sophie – an only child for so long – to adjust to sharing her parents, in particular her mother. Andi had been warned by her mother, and by a multitude of child-rearing manuals, that the road ahead might be a bumpy one; that unconditional love between siblings wasn’t the norm.

  What she hadn’t expected was that the problem wouldn’t come from Sophie, but from herself; from Andi’s own attitude, her own feelings of resentment. The day they brought Gus back from the hospital, Andi carried him straight upstairs to her bedroom. She put the sleeping baby down in the readied bassinet – Gus was, in those first few weeks, a sound sleeper, as a result of his mild jaundice. She took a long shower and crawled into bed, almost tearfully grateful for the comfort of her familiar mattress, pillow, blankets; for the smell of home. She was physically spent, both from the unexpectedly drawn-out labour – which had gone on for a good ten hours longer than her first – and from the emotional intensity of the previous few days. He was here at last – this beloved second child, a son – almost ten years after they had first started trying. She could hardly believe that he had arrived safely, intact – as beautiful and as perfect as any baby ever. And right then, released from the hospital, and with a few weeks of cosseting from a quietly jubilant Steve, and the promise of a month-long visit from her own mother, she was looking forward to following her basic primal urge, to crawl into bed and sleep and nurse and sleep and nurse.

  It was very different to her experience with Sophie. She remembered those first few days with Sophie being particularly gruelling. She had been numb with the shock of it all: the feeding had been impossible; Sophie had been kept in the nursery in a humidicrib for the first two days, until her oxygen levels normalised. It had all been fraught, medicalised. Andi had been swamped by simultaneous feelings of failure and anxiety, had not experienced until much later (weeks or even months after they were home, when things were running relatively smoothly) anything close to the wash of uncomplicated maternal love that she was already feeling for Gus. She would have been happy to be completely alone with him, to feel his soft uncertain suck, to watch the fluttering of his lips as he slept, to have his little fingers wrap around hers, to trace each vein in his translucent skin, to gaze into those slate-grey eyes that seemed to see everything and nothing. She would be content to do only this; wanted nothing more.

  Perhaps if she had experienced the feeling before, she would have been prepared. As it was, the extreme resentment she felt at having to share her time with anyone other than Gus, even Sophie, came as a complete surprise. Sophie had also returned home that first day, having spent the previous couple of nights in Sydney with Andi’s parents. Although she ran directly up the stairs after greeting her father, she had waited shyly at the bedroom door rather than walking straight in to her mother, who was sitting up in bed feeding the baby. Andi welcomed her with a smile, but was shocked by the coolness of her feelings towards the daughter who only days before had been most beloved: Sophie seemed suddenly unappealing – a bit grubby and unkempt, her mouth open, nose running, her breath slightly laboured. Worse, she seemed to pose a vague threat to the new and precious life Andi held in her arms.

  As if sensing her mother’s transformed regard, Sophie stood there, watching them silently. ‘Can I sit up on the bed with you and the baby, Mummy?’ she asked eventually, her voice soft. ‘Can I hold him?’ Her big dark eyes were filled with longing.

  Andi’s response was not as welcoming as it should have been – she frowned and put her fingers to her lips. ‘Wait a moment, Soph,’ she said. ‘You can come in, but just sit on the bed and watch quietly for a bit. He’s feeding now and I don’t want to disturb him.’ Sophie crept over to the bed and perched carefully on the edge. She inched towards her mother, then leaned close to her baby brother, still breathing heavily, her cheeks pink. Andi had to ask her to move back a little, to give them both some space, some light. Sophie did as she was asked, but then slowly worked her way forward again until she was almost on top of them, leaning across the bed towards Andi and Gus, gazing at the nursing child as if mesmerised. As she gazed, a drip of snot formed on the end of her nose and then dropped, splat, on Andi’s breast, just millimetres from Gus’s furiously working mouth. Sophie opened her mouth to apologise, her hand moving instinctively to wipe the mucus away, but Andi rounded on her, unexpectedly furious.

  ‘Oh, Sophie, you’re just hopeless. I asked you to give us some space. You’re too old to let your nose drip like that. Go away and blow it properly.’ And then, her voice ice cold: ‘Sometimes you are just completely repulsive, Sophie.’

  Her daughter’s face immediately flushed red, the bright colour moving down her throat and suffusing her chest. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ she said, swallowing a sob. She gazed at her mother blindly, wordlessly, for a moment, and then fled, thumping along the hall and clattering down the stairs.

  It was an appalling thing to say, cruel and insensitive at any time, but worse at that particular moment. Andi was ashamed. It just happened, she told Steve later, without warning, and was no doubt to do with hormones, was followed by a bout of silent crying. She explained all this to Sophie, later, but despite Andi’s apologies, her entreaties, her efforts to make it up to her, it was days before Sophie relaxed around her mother and Gus, almost a month before she again asked to hold him. She spent more and more time alone in her bedroom, before and after school, and the door tended to be firmly closed. Andi knew that on some, perhaps inarticulable, level, her daughter had been badly hurt.

  She and Steve did everything in their power to alleviate Sophie’s feelings of loss, of marginalisation. They took her to movies, cafes, on numerous shopping trips, even a concert. Andi made sure Sophie was included in cuddles with Gus; she had her help with nappy changes, bath time, pushing the pram.

  Yet another part of her welcomed Sophie’s distance, enjoyed the luxury of the time she was able to spend alone with Gus, with only his needs and wants to worry about. She knew she was taking advantage of Sophie’s slight withdrawal, but her daughter’s lack of demands was something of a relief. There were no doubt things happening in Sophie’s school life that she should take an interest in – the friend situation was clearly difficult, with Tess and Maya gone. But Sophie was busy with her music anyway, and Andi was hopeful that with all the opportunities available in high school – drama group, art appreciation, film club – Sophie would find her tribe. And then Charlotte had arrived, and a friendship seemed to be developing between the two girls. Regardless, whenever she asked, Sophie assured her that things were fine at school, and Andi took her daughter at her word.

  What was the saying? Never trouble trouble until trouble troubles you.

  ask.fm/sophiepen

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  Thoughts on me HelenBurns

  Really good cellist. Best voice at camp. Funny ’n awesome

  When you played piano at assembly today I was frothing your so hot anon

  LOL. Ty

  Fave character in a book MattyMat

  Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web

  Thoughts on @CharlotteMah HarrietGeo

  Smart funny pretty cool nice. Love her accent!

  Thoughts on @Nellshep BridieS

  Seems pretty nice but don’t really know her tbh

  Thoughts on @Jadelon MattyMat

  Don’t really know her, seems really nice, haven’t really talked but would like to.

  @Jadelon would rather suck Mr Steens cock than talk to you anon

  Who is this?

  Are you gay? anon

  No


  If so you should totally stay in the closet anon

  Not gay

  Do you want to lick @CharlotteMah? anon

  Do you mean like? haha

  No. I mean LICK HER CUNT anon

  Gross. Who is this?

  Dont know you but tbh your the ugliest girl in school anon

  Get lost

  Pap of your butt – need to get sick kwik 4 day off school lmfao anon

  haha

  I’d take a handful of sleeping pills if I was as ugly as you anon

  Who is this?

  ANDI

  IT’S THE FIRST TIME THEY’VE HAD PEOPLE TO DINNER, OTHER than family, since they moved here. Which is bizarre, Andi supposes, or at least she suspects that most people would find it bizarre. It’s not like they’re hermits, or that there’s anything badly wrong with them, socially speaking. They’re pretty normal people. She just hasn’t had the time – or, if she’s honest, the inclination. Steve has made some vague suggestions, over the months, that they invite this colleague or that from the station, but nothing has eventuated. It seems the entire time they’ve been here, Andi’s either been too busy, too sick, too pregnant – and, since Gus, too royally stuffed – to make the effort.