Page 67 of Succubus

“I don’t want a playdate. I want to visit Mr. Button and Joel and show him my fairy costume and tell him I got fifty-seven pieces of candy. Even though Mommy only let me keep five.”

“I’m sorry, baby. We can’t. Sinai might like to— ”

“I don’t want to see Sinai! I want to go over to Joel’s because it’s Monday and that’s our tradition.”

“It’s not, like, a big tradition,” I argue, weaker now.

“Text Joel!” she suggests suddenly. “Text him that I want to come over.”

“No, sweetie.” My patience feels shallow today. It’s been feeling that way more often. I’m proud of myself for keeping my tone neutral.

“Why not? It’s so easy.”

“Not right now.”

She snatches my phone. “I’ll do it!”

“Ella! Give me my phone!”

She looks up, startled by my tone. Halting reader that she is, she absolutely can’t be allowed to see any of my texts right now.

I do text Joel, later, from the checkout line at Wegmans, where Ella is whining that marshmallows are a need, not a want. I can’t wait to see you naked tonight. After all the erotic fiction I’ve read, I should probably be better at sexting, but it doesn’t feel natural. Still, I can’t seem to stop writing to him.

“Who are you texting?” Ella asks.

“Oh, just—um, Alice.”

“Are you asking her if she likes California?”

“Is she in California?” I remember that she is—a trip to San Jose to visit her in-laws. Who are very much of the opinion that good Korean wives should not be covered in tattoos.

“Yes, of course!” says Ella.

“Oh man, I’ll ask her now.”

I text Alice. I’m a bad friend. I should be offering cleverly worded support. And, come to think of it, the fact that she isn’t texting me right now suggests she’s withdrawing a little. I haven’t exactly been sharing my life with her recently. Maybe she’s interpreting that the normal way, as a sign that I don’t want to.

My phone rings and something lurches inside me—is it Dick Face? I keep thinking he might reach out. Why would my father want to talk to me? Ha. I pick up anyway and it’s an obvious scammer. “We need your social security number for— ”

“No, you don’t,” I say, about to hang up. “Don’t call this number.”

“Oh.” His voice downshifts, going slack. “I’m really sorry. You’re right. We don’t. It’s a lie.”

I stand there, silent, holding the phone to my ear for a long moment.

“Are you still there?” says the scammer. “I just wanted to apologize— ”

I hang up.

What was that? Something is happening.

* * *

“School break?” says a woman at the farm store, where Ella and I are picking up some of Dee’s favorite apples.

“Nope, she’s homeschooled,” I tell her.

“How’s she going to make friends?” she asks. I dread these people, the ones who seem not to have been socialized themselves.