Sophie Foster's Diary [COMPLETE]

At the ER. . . again

"Sophie?" 

My mind barely registered the voice. It planned to sink back into oblivion, but then—

"Sophie!" a familiar voice cried in panic. "Oh, Doctor, is she okay? What happened?" 

That voice. That was my mother. I knew I should probably open my eyes, sit up, and say hi, I'm just fine, thanks, but honestly, I didn't feel fine. And my eyes wouldn't open. And I was tired. And I wanted to sleep. 

"Wake up, Sophie," said the first voice gently, but with a stern undertone. I forced my eyes open, and took in the scene. The white hospital room. My parents' anxious faces. The doctor with jewels in her braids. Wow, rich lady. 

"Sophie!" My mom cried, hugging me tight, then seeming to realize that I was probably fragile released her grip and brushed stray hair out of my face. "Are you okay, dear?" 

"I—" my tongue seemed to have swollen, and I couldn't get anything else out. The doctor made a note of that on his clipboard. 

"What happened?" my dad asked, worry lines etching his brow. My eyes bore into the doctor's. Yes, what had happened?

She looked at her clipboard. "Well,  from the tests we ran, she has had an allergic reaction—"

"Allergy?" my mother frowned. "Sophie's not allergic to anything,"

"But allergies can take time to develop, and maybe she just hadn't eaten or come in contact with that substance before today," replied the doctor calmly. Doctor. . . Livya? Was that what it said on her nametag? 

"What is she allergic to?" my dad asked, scrunching his brows in concentration. 

"We aren't quite sure," hedged the Dr. Livya, although I noted she seemed to hold something back. I made a mmph sound, and the three adults suddenly began fussing over me. By the time they found that nothing was wrong with me, they had moved on to another topic. 

"Where's Mr. Forkle?" asked my mom. 

"Mr. Forkle? The old man that brought her in?" asked Livya. "He's in the waiting room with another girl. She was fine though, so I don't think you have anything to worry ab—"

My mom ran out the door. 

My father was still frowning at the machines they had attached to me. "You're sure you can't find out what it was?" 

The doctor pressed a few buttons halfheartedly, and glanced at her notebook a few times, but in the end she shook her head. "Sorry, but it doesn't seem to be findable. None of the other doctors found anything, either," 

My dad frowned some more. "Well, will Sophie be able to get well?"

"Of course! She may just need to spend the night, so we can monitor—"

Another night?

"She's doing well, now, though?" my dad interrupted.

"Yes, yes. She should be better soon. just make sure she's careful with any new foods, or maybe anything in her surroundings. . .?"

"So you think it was something in our house that made her allergic?"

"No, probably not, but it's good to be careful. You know, vacuum more, dust everything, those kinds of things. And stick to normal food, nothing too exotic." 

"I see," my father said. "Okay. Perhaps Sophie's mom will stay with her tonight. I have a lot of spring cleaning to do," he smiled weakly at me, and I tried to smile back. 

By the end of the week I was back to normal, going to school and all that. My parents were overprotective though, and wouldn't let me anywhere but home and school. And they started inviting Mr. Forkle to dinner again. Again! Now the man would ask me every week about my headaches and about how I felt! I was grateful he got me to the hospital in time, but really, he could maybe be a little less nosy?

And it wasn't only the dinners. He would say hi and ask about me every time I saw him. Which was really often. He was usually playing with his bearded garden gnomes every afternoon when I came back form school, and even in the mornings, at six a.m.! I would wait patiently for the bus (why was my stop in front of his house?) and then he would say something along the lines of, "Sophie, what a beautiful day. How are your headaches?" or "Hello, Sophie. Nice to see you"—as if he didn't see me every day—"and by the way, are you doing well?"

I would answer politely, as my mother always instructs me to do, but I roll my eyes in my head. As if he could imagine me doing that, he smiles my way, somewhat in that way adults always go kids these days.

Speaking of "kids these days," he has to go and start every. Single. Sentence. With "you kids." I walk past on my way to the bus stop and peer anxiously down the road for the bus and he says, "You kids, always so impatient." Once I saw him at the public library (I had to negotiate with my parents for almost half an hour), and saw him looking at the fiction books about elves. I might have given him a weird look, and he muttered under his breath, "You kids, always so nosy." Says Mr. Forkle!

But he wasn't that bad, I supposed. Better than the kids at school. He's not exactly caring, but he's. . . nice. I guess. The kids at school are the opposite of both. Inconsiderate and mean. Ooh, and rude. I regret agreeing to skip grades now. I went to high school in September, and the fourteen-year-olds would stare down the little nine-almost-ten year old and then glare at her when they realized she was not a practical joke.

Honestly. They were just mad they weren't smart enough to skip grades! 

And my parent were really suspicious of the high school. My high school gave out free lunch, unlike many other schools, and although the food was disgusting everyone ate it. I tried it a few times to fit in some more, but my parents were afraid I'd have another allergy and insisted I pack a lunch, too. So now I sit in the table in the back corner with the Disney princess lunch bag with a sandwich. Perfect. I have made myself the laughingstock of the entire school. 

My teachers, though, loved me. They were like, "Kids, look at Sophie! She's younger and gets the highest marks!" or "Kids, look at Sophie! She just aced this math test!" and "Kids, be quiet! Sophie's so cooperative!" as if that would make the teenagers shut up. 

When we went on our annual day trips up to California in December again, I was so glad to be off school that I actually played in the water with Amy. Sure, the water was cold, but I too happy to be away from those horrible kids that I didn't care anymore. Until Amy decided to actually swim. I was fine with splashing, but swimming? In cold water? I'd rather sunbathe, and I hate getting tan. So I built a sandcastle. 

Yeah, it's such a kiddie thing. But really, it was fine. I let my mind to whatever it wanted to with my hands, and I was actually pleased with the outcome. It was a cool castle with spiraling turrets and arching entrances, and I was surprised the sand could be molded into something to beautiful. 

"Cheese!" my mom cried, and I heard the telltale snap of her camera. I frowned into the camera as my dad and Amy blocked me. I went back to refining my castle. 

All too soon, winter break was over and I was back at that horrid school. And in a flash, I was in my senior year. On the first day of school, my mother gifted me with a pack of pencils, tears in her eyes, and I was reminded of the first day I decided to skip grades. Sighing, I set out again for the bus. Again, Mr. Forkle asked me about my headaches. At least his talk about my allergy had disappeared. 

And then I stepped into the school. Or, rather, was pushed into the school. That was not my fault. Some guy with a pimply face and overstuffed backpack decided to shove me off the bus. And when I tried to go up the stairs like a normal person, he found it necessary to push me so that I was running to escape his shoves. 

Honestly. So immature.