Nina’s arms dropped to her side and she pushed out her swollen lower lip. “You have no idea what I was thinking.”
“I’ve lived with you way too long, Neens. I know exactly what you’re thinking and the answer is a giant, loud, resounding, no. Scratch that—a no way in hell.” I hopped up on the counter and plucked a mostly wrapped muffin from the Red Cross stash and eyed Nina, who said nothing.
“You were going to ask me to be in your commercial,” I said then, fishing for a bottle of water to wash the sawdust muffin crumbs out of my trachea. “Right?”
“I was not!”
I paused, water bottle midway to my parted lips. “You weren’t?”
“Oh!” Nina clapped a hand over her candy-pink lips as her eyebrows dove together in a sympathetic V. “Oh, now you’re sad! Don’t be sad! I can’t believe I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to do that.” Nina paced dramatically while I looked on in wide-eyed confusion.
“Oh, honey, you know what? You’re too important to me. I am going to put you in my commercial. You deserve, probably more than anyone, to be in this commercial. If anyone should be the voice, the image of the Underworld Detection Agency, it’s you. It’s Sophie Lawson.”
“Wait, what? No, I—”
Nina held up a silencing hand. “Not another word. It’s done.” She yanked me off the counter and toward her, my chest mashing into hers in an overzealous hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. “You don’t have to thank me, sweetie. You’re my best friend. Of course I want to have you in my commercial. Oh, I feel so bad—it was almost an oversight.”
She flitted out of the kitchen and I stood there, completely dumbfounded. “No, that’s not what I meant. That’s not—I don’t want—”
But Nina was already out of the room and I was left with my day-old muffin and the second most horrible job in the world.
I shoved the last bit of sawdusty muffin in my mouth and upturned a can of something meaty and congealed into ChaCha’s rhinestone-studded dog bowl, thinking that the only thing that could possibly alleviate the angst of high school and UDA: The Documentary was a hot bath and a cold Chardonnay. I drew my bathwater extra hot and sat on the edge of the tub, watching the steam waft up and coat the mirror in a fine, foggy mist. After adding a mammoth glop of coconut bubble goo and downing my first glass of wine, I stood in front of the mirror and wiped off the steam. I glanced over each shoulder and, finally, used my index finger to tap the edge of the mirror.
“Hello?” I whispered. “Gram?”
After my father abandoned me and my mother killed herself, my grandmother had always been my rock, my one voice of sanity in an insane world. She was a seer, a mystic, and a regular at a mahjongg game that included a pixie and most of a centaur. She occasionally would pop up in shiny surfaces to offer me words of encouragement, advice, and the latest about Ed McMahon and the waffle situation in Heaven.
In our family, sanity was relative.
I tapped the mirror again, waiting, hoping. I hadn’t talked to her in ages and I suddenly was feeling very alone.
“Gram?” I tried again. Then, desperately, “Ed McMahon?”
Nothing.
I poured another slug of wine and slipped out of my robe. I had a toe in my bathwater when I heard a little scratching tap. My whole body perked. “Gram?”
I rushed out of the bath and toward the mirror, my heart exploding with joy—she had answered! Finally!
I slapped that one dipped toe onto our old-school tile floor and went sailing. I saw the golden arc of my wine as it sloshed out of the glass. I saw my own bare feet as they slid out from underneath me. It was graceful, and silent. Soon the sun was overhead and my neck and shoulders were cuddled by something fluffy and soft. I had to close my eyes just for a second. . . .
“Ms. Lawson? Ms. Lawson?” It was a desperate, echoing whisper. I didn’t recognize the voice, but everything inside me told me that I knew the voice. Something told me that I knew everything.
“Alyssa?” My own voice sounded weird—it echoed almost, like every syllable was bounding off a concrete wall and ricocheting through my head. I couldn’t tell if the voice was inside or outside of me.
“Alyssa, is that you? I’m Miss—Sophie. Sophie Lawson. Do you know me? Let me help you. I can help you.”
“Help me. Help me. . . please . . .”
I was panicked. I felt myself spin; I could hear the gravel crunch underneath my sneakers. “Where are you? You have to tell me where you are!”
“It’s so dark.”
I hadn’t noticed that and suddenly I blinked. The darkness was all encompassing. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t feel my limbs. I was sinking and it was suddenly getting hard to breath. Someone was squeezing my legs, my waist. Pinning my arms. Pressing against my chest.
“Alyssa!”
“She’s awake now.”
I sucked in a giant gulp of air that burned at my lungs and reached up, feeling my arms, my hands. I was clawing, scratching, trying to get more air into my lungs.