I glanced over my shoulder to where Nina had the laptop open. The glow from the screen made her pale skin look an odd, translucent silver.
I spun the laptop to face me and read the subject line slowly. “‘Someone has responded to your request from yourfamilytree.com.’” I blinked at Nina. “What should I do?”
“You should open it.”
Before I could think better of it, I clicked the icon and an animated tree popped up, a single green leaf blinking jauntily begging me to Click and see who’s looking for you!
My heart thundered against my chest and my stomach churned.
“Who is it?” Nina’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I can’t. What—what if it’s him?”
I had grown up under the care of my maternal grandmother. She was the most amazing, special, intelligent woman I have ever known. Of course, when I was an overemotional preteen, she was horrendously embarrassing, odd, and loud. She wore scarves and costume jewelry that made more noise than a tambourine trio; she read palms, tea leaves, and right into my deep-seated fear of forever being an outcast. She died just after I graduated college; and not too long ago, began the unsettling habit of appearing in shiny or glossy objects (cut cantaloupe was a particularly disconcerting fave), giving me advice and ominous clues about my parents and their shady past. Namely, that my mother had committed suicide to protect me.
Oh.
And also that there was a pretty good chance that my dad was Satan. Not the “Your dad is a really bad guy—bad like the devil!” but more the “No, really, your dad is the absolute Prince of Darkness.”
“Just look. You don’t have to do anything about it. Don’t you want to know?”
My finger hovered above the track pad and I focused on that stupid little leaf.
Nina crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Come on, Soph. What are the odds that el Diablo would sign up on Your Family Tree? I would think he’d have better things to do, you know, like Filet-O-Fish Genghis Khan or whisper in J.Lo’s ear or whatever. If anything, I think this is probably a good sign.”
I blew out a sigh. “You know what? You’re right.” I slammed the laptop shut. “It’s probably just another penis ad that slipped through the Family Tree filters. I’ll check it tomorrow. Right now”—I piled up Nina’s selection of vampire-romance reference material—“is all about you and this amazing novel you’re going to write. I’m totally supportive. I totally want you to do this.”
“You’re totally chickenshit.” Nina smiled.
“Totally. See you in the morning.”
I groaned and tried to slap the two morning DJs who cackled in my ear from my alarm clock. Instead, I knocked the picture of my grandmother and me off my nightstand and scared ChaCha half to death, causing her to spring up on her tiny little doggie legs and bark ferociously while backing herself underneath the covers.
I went to the kitchen in search of coffee, but I stopped at the dining-room table, where Nina was slumped over. Her dark eyes were a weird combination of glassy and milky, open, but staring into nothingness. I poked her stone cold arm.
“Nina?”
Her head lolled at the sound of my voice and she blinked up at me. “Is that you, Sophie?”
I did a quick once-over, checking Nina’s pale face and arms for evidence of bruising, bloodletting, or general malaise.
Nothing.
Heat started to crawl up my neck and I crouched down and shook her shoulder violently. “Nina! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Nina pushed herself up, slowly, painfully. I clutched my thudding heart. “My God, I thought you were dead! Again.”
“I might as well be,” Nina said, full lips pressed into a mournful pout.
“What’s going on?”
Nina blew out a tremendous sigh. “I have writer’s block. It’s horrendous. Awful. Crippling. I now know why authors are so tortured.”
“Well, maybe I can help you. I wrote a little for my high-school newspaper.”
Actually, I wrote a lot for my high-school newspaper and stashed every poignant well-worded “Letter to the Editor” in my locker, along with reams of sorrowful poetry about waxing moons, waning sunlight, and one of the guys from the New Kids on the Block. I never had the guts to submit anything. In high school, I barely had the guts to walk down the hall. I just wanted to blend in then, to quietly hide in my B.U.M. sweatshirts and stretch pants, dissolving into the spiral permed masses, but I always had the unfortunate ability to stand out.
First, on account of my fire engine red hair, which curled in all the wrong ways. Of course, that was correctable and forgettable, but my nickname—bestowed upon me by one of the prettiest, perkiest girls to ever don a Mercy High uniform—stuck. Year after year I endured the whispers, coughs, and downright shouts of “Here comes Special Sophie, the Freak of Nineteenth Street!”
It didn’t matter that Nineteenth was an avenue.
I sat down across from Nina and poked her arm. “Read me what you have so far.”