“Well.” Nina stood up, too, and patted my arm affectionately. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I tried to talk him out of it. He just doesn’t think you’re UDA material.”
“Not UDA material? I’ve been with UDA longer than half the staff !”
“But you’re, you know”—Nina lowered her voice to a whisper—“human. Dixon thinks an all-demon staff would make our clientele feel more comfortable.”
“Our clientele loves me! No one has had any problems with me! Most of them hate you! He wants to fire me because I’m human ? That’s discrimination! That’s race—or life—that’s lifeism!”
“Is that even a word?”
“No!” I said miserably. “This is because of the VERM movement, isn’t it? Dixon is a supporter. I feel so betrayed! I let Vlad sleep on our couch.”
Nina held up a finger. “Actually, vampires don’t sl—” I snarled and she waved her hand. “Never mind. Vlad had nothing to do with this. It was just Dixon. I don’t even think VERM knows about it.”
I flopped onto the couch, pulling my comforter over my head. “I’ve never been fired before.”
I sniffed, letting the tears flow freely over my cheeks. Nina patted my head. “We’ll find you something else, Sophie. How about being a doctor? You love those surgery shows on Discovery Health. I’ll bet the hospital is hiring.”
I threw the blanket off my head and gaped at Nina. “I can’t just be a doctor. You can’t just walk into a hospital and be a surgeon!”
Nina crossed her arms. “Not if you’re going to be so negative, you’re not. We’ll find you another job. It’s not like the Underworld Detection Agency was your life.”
But it kind of was.
My life—even pre-Satan’s kid knowledge—had never been white-bread normal. I was raised by a woman who read palms, fortunes, and tea leaves and who advertised that fact with a six-foot neon hand that flashed in our living-room window. Not exactly the stucco-tract home simplicity that high school popularity demanded. I tried to separate my home life from my school life and I had succeeded for a while—until a group of perfect plastic senior girls thought it would be a hoot to have their fortunes read and showed up on my doorstep one Saturday morning. By Monday morning my grandmother’s profession was all over school and the fact that I was related to the “crazy palm lady” spread like wildfire. I could no longer stay silent in the back of the cafeteria, masquerading as an exotic foreign exchange student who lived with a host family somewhere in Marin. I was dubbed “Special Sophie” and lived out the rest of my high school existence slinking in the hallways and avoiding crystal-ball and “I see dead people” jokes.
It wasn’t any easier once I got home. While most kids can sink into normalcy once the three o’clock bell rang, I usually opened the door on one of Grandma’s mah-jongg games—her regulars being a pink-haired pixie named Lulabell, a pair of zombie twins who often left fingertips on the game board, and a centaur named Alistair who, I think, was a little light in the hooves.
I attempted a normalcy reinvention in college, but my magical immunity prevented that. While most girls joined sororities and chatted about boys, professors and term papers, I knew that the woman who slopped slaw in the Lone Mountain cafeteria was actually a level-four witch who had had her magiks revoked and that the history professor was, in fact, the expert on the Civil War—having been a general there (pre-vampire bite). For me the supernaturals never crawled out of the woodwork—they always seemed to be in the living room, feet up, drinking a beer out of my mini-fridge. When Grandma introduced me to Pete Sampson and the Underworld Detection Agency, I felt like I finally belonged. It’s true that my pumping heart and flesh and blood made me an anomaly among the majority of the UDA staff, but they thought my “issues” were as normal as any other demon issues—like Mrs. Henderson who spent most of her time setting her loved ones on fire (accidentally, of course), or the hobgoblins, who had to have every document laminated to prevent spoilage by hobgoblin slobber. I never had to second-guess at the Underworld Detection Agency and among the other above-world rejects, I was, blissfully, just one of the crowd.
I sniffed. “I’m jobless. Destitute.” I pulled my comforter up over my head a second time; ChaCha bounded up and snuggled underneath with me.
“I have something that might make you feel better,” Nina said.
“Eggs won’t make me feel better. Ditto bacon.” I considered. “Maybe the cake, though.” I stuck out my hand, hoping she’d bring it to me.
My palm remained empty.
“Oh, Nina! I’m miserable. Unsavable.” I stuck out my lower lip. “And cake-less.”
I felt Nina tug on my comforter. “Sophie ...”
I poked out my head, opened one eye. “Did you get me a kitten, too?”
“I hope you still have time to cancel the caterer for your little pity party.”
I stuck my tongue out at Nina and went back to my blanket cave.