Something About Sophie by Mary Kay McComas Page A

community activist. She’s the spoon in the soup pot that moves everything around, stirs things up, and keeps them swirling so nothing burns on the bottom. In any other pond, she’d definitely be an impressive trophy fish. Here, she’s the fish and that’s the way she likes it. It’s also why my Dad set his practice up in Charlottesville when he could have gone anywhere. And, yes, I know I had too many metaphors going on there, but one is never enough to describe her.”
    â€œSo,” Sophie said slowly into the breathy silence that followed. “Do I want to accept her invitation to dinner tomorrow night?”
    She grinned. “Oh, yeah. For you, she will be the perfect hostess, gracious and charming—that all comes with the meal—the payoff for her being . . . your life story, your connection to Arthur Cubeck, your reason for being here, your plans for the immediate future, and, consequently, my brother.”
    â€œUm. Sounds lovely.”
    â€œOh, it will be. The extractions will be painless; simply tell her what she wants to hear. We never know until the last minute if Dad will make it for dinner, but I’ll be getting the night off from being reminded of what a disappointment my lack of direction, purpose, and ambition are to her. And Drew, who has the most remarkable and annoying talent for letting most everything she says and does roll off his back, will be abnormally jumpy and on guard the whole time to keep you buffered from her . . . which will amuse me immensely.”
    Sophie shook her head in wonder. “Well, in that case . . .” Then she wondered, “Will I get to meet your other brother and your sister?”
    â€œDefinitely not Pam. She’s like a clone of my mother but, again,” she held up her index finger, “this is a one-fish pond. Mother was on the verge of eating that little fry when Pam married her college sweetheart and moved to South Carolina. Naturally, she’s only a trophy fish down there, but she doesn’t seem to mind much.” She fell into a moment of thought on that note.
    â€œAnd your brother?”
    Had she not spent the afternoon watching and enjoying Ava McCarren, Sophie might have missed the subtle shades of . . . confusion, wonder, and concession that rippled briefly across her features. “Billy. You never know about Billy. He’s . . . well, he’s Billy.” She hesitated briefly. “You know how people say, There’s one in every family ? Sometimes they compare kids with apples: There isn’t a bad apple in the bunch or the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree ?” Sophie nodded; she was the apple of their eye in her family.
    â€œBilly’s an orange.”
    â€œAn orange.”
    â€œYeah. He’s a fine fruit, no doubt about that, but he doesn’t fit in with the McCarren apples. If we had a banana and a pear or a peach to make us a proper fruit bowl, that would be something else. But he’s an orange sitting in a bowl of big shiny apples—the unique one, the quiet, thoughtful one; the complicated one, the one’s that’s harder to eat because you have to peel him.”
    â€œWhat does he do?”
    â€œHe’s an artist, too.” She looked a bit sheepish. “A real one. The best and most beautiful parts of his world are in his soul.” She hesitated. “But that also makes him introverted, solitary, and moody sometimes—an historical definition of a great artist, I guess, but it can be hard to live with.” She shrugged. “Still, he isn’t twenty-seven yet and he’s already had two major shows. In Richmond and then Washington D.C. His talent’s heading north, you see. Next: Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York. And then the world,” she said proudly. She smirked. “He’s well on his way to being a phenomenal orange.”
    Sophie laughed. “I’d love to see some of