Anna North - The Life and Death of Sophie Stark

“Yes,” I said. “I love it.”

She nodded. I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed. I wanted her to think we had things in common.

“I mean, it’s really hard sometimes—” I started, but she interrupted me.

“That makes sense. You would be good at being married. But I’m just not good at it.”

I thought about what she’d said to me about love back in college and all the things I’d heard or read her say about feelings since then. I got excited — I could help her. She had a problem, and because I’d known her for so long and followed her so closely, I could solve it.

“I don’t think you’re bad at it,” I said. “I think you’re just different from other people. Other people talk about their feelings, but you actually show them, with your movies. And maybe that’s even better.”

She was shaking her head, but I kept going.

“I’ve thought about this. Some people, regular people like me, we play by the rules. We act a certain way, we say what we’re supposed to say. But if everybody was like that, the world would be a pretty boring place. That’s why there are people like you, who shake things up a little bit. And maybe it’s not always easy for the people around you, but overall you make the world better for everyone.”

She was shaking her head still. Now she was smiling too, but in a sad way.

“I used to think that,” she said. “I used to think I was special and that was why I seemed to fuck everything up all the time. But now I know it’s just because I’m not a very good person.”

When she said that I almost sobbed. For the first time I really said to myself what I’d been thinking for months, that I was counting on her to make me better. And now I knew she was feeling just the way I was feeling, maybe worse.

“That’s a terrible thing to say about yourself,” I told her.

She shrugged. “I call ’em like I see ’em,” she said. The phrase sounded weird, like she’d learned it from TV. She looked miserable, but she wasn’t crying. She looked like people look when they’ve cried all they can and they still don’t feel any better.

“I think you’re a great person,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Yeah?” she asked. Her voice was almost mean. “What possible evidence could you have for that? What have I ever done for you?”

I wanted to tell her that I thought she might know me better than anyone. But I knew that wouldn’t be enough. I needed something specific. And then I thought of a day.

It was October, after Sophie started filming me but before we ever got together. I’d hurt my knee the week before — it was just a twinge, but the ACL was starting to tear, and the next season it would tear all the way, and I’d have to quit basketball forever. I didn’t know that yet, but I was anxious about the knee anyway — I wasn’t used to anything going wrong with my body. CeCe was acting weird, too — she was clinging to me when I tried to get out of bed in the morning, and she kept talking about friends of hers who were getting engaged. We were having an Indian summer — the days were windy and warm, and at night the moon was fat and orange. I felt itchy under my clothes — I felt like something was about to happen, and I wasn’t sure if it was bad or good.

One day I felt like I had to get outside. We didn’t have practice — I should’ve gone to the gym to lift weights, but I was too restless to sit down. Instead I went to the park. It was midafternoon on a weekday, and there was nobody around.

When I was a kid I had a way I liked to let off steam. I’d go out in the field behind the house, all the way till it met the trees and no one could see me, and I’d spin around as fast as I could. I’d spin until I couldn’t stand up anymore, and then I’d fall to the ground and feel it pitch and roll under me like a ship. And then I’d get up and do it again. Finally I’d go back to the house all red-faced and sweating, and if anyone asked what I’d been up to I’d just say, “Playing.” The game was kind of like a pure version of basketball, just moving around for the excitement of it.

The truth was I hadn’t completely stopped the game when I started college. I never told anybody, obviously, but sometimes when the park was deserted I still played it. So that day, when I found the park empty and covered in dry leaves, I started to spin. All the red and brown October colors turned to stripes, and when I let myself fall, the ground humped up to meet me like a living thing. It’d been so long since I’d been just happy that I’d forgotten how it felt — even when I was drunk I never felt that loose and excited at the same time. At some point I kind of started yelling — not words, just sounds that welled up inside my body until I couldn’t help but let them out. I’d stopped spinning and was just yelling, and maybe jumping a little, and waving my arms, when I saw some movement in the trees up by the swing set. It was Sophie, with her camera.

I charged her like a dog.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I screamed at her. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

The air was getting cold finally and she was only wearing a light fall jacket. She was shivering a little. She looked so small to me; I hadn’t realized how small.

“I’m sorry,” she said in that plain voice. “You looked really happy.”

And the tension went out of my muscles, and my hands unfisted, and it seemed ridiculous to be angry on that pretty day, the last one we’d have for months, because somebody thought my happiness was important enough to videotape.

SOPHIE SMILED when I finished that story.

“I remember that,” she said. “You were so mad, and I didn’t understand. I was pretty dense back then.”

“No,” I said, “I’m grateful.”

“Why would you be grateful?”

I knew that now was the time to ask her my question. I’d been planning it for so long, but now everything seemed hard to explain.

“Why did you like me?” I asked instead.

“What do you mean?”

“I might’ve done something really bad,” I said. “In the accident. I might’ve…” I trailed off, tried to start again. “Remember the story I told you, the time I had meningitis?”

She nodded.

“That’s how I feel all the time now,” I said. “Like it’s not worth living. Ever since I had to stop playing. Maybe not that strong, maybe not planning like that, but it’s always there.”

Sophie nodded again. I was glad she didn’t say she was sorry or I should get help, or anything a normal person would say.

“I’m not smart, I’m not interesting. The only thing that was good about me was basketball, and I don’t think you really cared about that. So I want to know what else there is, because that’s all that’s left now.”

Sophie put her cup down and looked at me the way she used to, that naked, direct stare, and then she reached out and put the palm of her hand on the side of my face. I could smell her skin strongly then, musty and spicy like I remembered, but I wasn’t turned on. I knew what it felt like to be touched sexually by her, and this wasn’t it. But it wasn’t maternal either. If anything it felt like the old movie about Helen Keller, where the nurse spelled words on her skin. Sophie wasn’t spelling anything, but I felt like she was trying to say something comforting to me. And it’s true that I was comforted, maybe more than if she’d tried to talk.

After a long time she took her hand away. She checked her watch — it was big and cheap-looking and didn’t fit her, unlike the rest of her nice clothes.

“Shit,” she said. “I have to go do a radio interview.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It won’t be a big deal. I already know this guy likes the movie.”