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JOURNAL OF SOPHIE WULTZ

Hi. I’m Sophie Wultz. I’m eleven, almost twelve. This is the first entry for my summer writing project. We’re supposed to write every day for at least fifteen minutes. On the first day of school, we’re going to turn in our entries, and this really seems like an attempt for Mr. Alford to spy on the inner thoughts of his sixth-grade students. Bridget says Mr. Alford is a pervert, and I’m withholding judgment for now, but this assignment seems to support her opinion.

For that reason, I won’t be turning in these pages. I’ll be writing different, boring entries that will seem like they took fifteen minutes, but actually I’ll whip through them in five. I’m a very fast writer. Or typer. Both. We took typing tests in class, and I was one of the fastest in the class. 67 WPM, that’s how fast I was. At that speed, I could be a stenographer. Those are the people in court that type while people talk. I’d like that job, though I’d be tempted to make up things as I typed. Sometimes people say the stupidest things. When I watch Court TV, I can immediately spot the liars. Sometimes the lawyers can too, and they trip them up with questions, but a lot of the time, they don’t. They just finish their questions and walk back to their seat, even though the person is clearly hiding something.

Dad says I’d be a good lawyer, but I don’t know if that’s what I want in life. Sitting in a courtroom all day long seems boring. I’d rather be an actress. Flying all over the world to act in movies with famous stars ... that seems way better. Plus, you get training in things like martial arts and accents and horseback riding.

Dad said I can be anything I want to be, but Mom hates the idea of me being an actress. She wants all of the attention for herself, and I want all of the attention for myself. The only difference is that I’m a kid—and an only child—so I’m supposed to get all of the attention, and she’s supposed to fix my lunches and buy me the right clothes, and take me and my friends to the mall, and if she doesn’t like that—too bad. That was the deal she signed up for when she had a kid.

Plus, if she didn’t want me to act, she shouldn’t put on a show so much. I can see how much she enjoys acting—but it’s not really acting. Like Dad says, it’s lying. She lies and I like to lie too, so why not get paid for it and become famous and marry a movie star while you’re at it?

I’m never going to have kids. No stretch marks, or baby vomit on my clothes, or packs of diapers in my purse. I’m going to be tall and gorgeous and sip champagne in dark bars while hot guys whisper in my ear and tell me that I’m beautiful.

I’m not beautiful now. Or tall. Or anything other than a decent soccer player with above-average typing skills and a flat chest.

That’s me. Sophie Wultz. Normal with a capital N. But not for long. One day, I’ll be famous.