A/N: By now you should know that I don't own Erik. However, Sophie, the Fujiwara clan, and the Long Island Housewives do belong to me, along with everything else you don't recognize. Many thanks to SafetyPinStitches and Hot4Gerry for reviews!

"Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity

To seize everything you ever wanted…

One moment…

Would you capture it?

Or just let it slip?"

-"Lose Yourself" by James "Eminem" Mathers III

July

Sophie

I was relieved to step into Hinode Sushi. It was hotter than sin outside; yet yesterday was cool and drizzly. I had spent all last night and this morning with my family after accidentally leaving a copy of The Communist Manifesto on the coffee table.

In April, my history teacher said he'd count it as two test grades if I read the book and wrote a report on how successful the world's various "communist" regimes were at implementing Marx's ideas. I wasn't flunking the course at the time, but an average in the low 80s- the result of three bad tests in two weeks- was as close to failing as I would tolerate.

I forgot to bring the book back, and it was lost in the sea of clutter that is my bedroom. It resurfaced yesterday when I was cleaning, and I stupidly carried it upstairs and put it in plain view so I wouldn't forget to give it to Devon, who was Mr. Mahon's neighbor. I don't know why I did it- I just forgot the rules of my life, I guess. I haven't been sleeping much lately, which makes me more absentminded than usual.

Of course, my parents think I'm being indoctrinated. It can never be as simple as an extra-credit assignment. It's always a vast leftist conspiracy against freedom and the American Way (whatever that is). My teachers, textbooks, and curriculum are designed to turn me into a soulless liberal drone.

The consequence of my debauchery was a long, stern, and never-ending talk about not believing everything you hear and some other things that I missed because I wasn't paying attention. I'm surprised it was only that, actually. I've been punished worse for lesser offenses.

That kind of thing is why I work here. It's very safe to assume that my parents will never, ever come to a restaurant specializing in raw fish. There's a hibachi too, but I'm not telling them that.

I'm technically not supposed to have this job. I had never even been inside this place until I started collecting job applications in May. It was mid-afternoon and Kimie- the owner's granddaughter and my fellow uētoresu- was nodding off at the hostess stand. She started when I asked her for an application, rummaged around a bit, and said that she couldn't find them but would take my name and phone number. Kimie's duties do not normally include being a hostess, so she couldn't be blamed for not knowing. "You can waitress?" she asked. "We're short on waiters."

"Yes," I told her. I had no idea that she was really asking if I had experience. This isn't my first job, but I didn't learn much stocking shelves at the pharmacy.

Leah explained it to me later and I called Hinode Sushi to beg for forgiveness. But Mr. Fujiwara, Kimie's uncle, was very gracious. "Oh, it doesn't matter," he said. "You'll learn on the job." I then gushed thanks and said the obligatory "I won't let ya down, sir," even though we both knew I would make dozens of mistakes. Like bumping into Rina and sending three bowls of miso soup to the floor a week later.

My uniform here is much nicer than my old one. It comprises of soft black slacks and a colorful cotton jacket that changes weekly; it's currently emerald green with sunflowers. Providing a shirt for underneath the jacket is my responsibility- plain black or white ("And nothing obscene writen on it!" according to Mr. Fujiwara).

It was difficult at first, remembering that the amaebi goes to table seven and the just plain ebi goes to table twelve. It was even harder to balance four plates on one tray. But I've gotten better and now I even kind of like it. It's -what do they say? -challenging.

The other Mr. Fujiwara, Kimie's father, leans against the wall gazing sulkily at the koi pond. One slow evening, the oldest Mr. Fujiwara, the owner, told Kimie and me why he didn't give his older son a managerial position. "Akira has no willpower," he said. The first Fujiwara, as I called him, was short, bald, and frail-looking. Jirou was the second Fujiwara, and Akira was the third. "He's very smart, but also very lazy. Jirou isn't as clever, but he works hard." This was not news to Kimie, who had been covering for her father when we first met.

"Your boyfriend's here," announces the third Fujiwara. I discreetly rolled my eyes.

My 'boyfriend' is at least fifteen years older than me and only got the title because I sometimes sit down and talk with him while I'm on break. We've had some good discussions. I've never met anyone who knows so much about, well, everything.

The first time I tried to talk to him- I try to chat with all my customers, because people like that and tend to give bigger tips when you do things they like- he was very stiff and impolite. I know I was being far too sensitive when I took that so personally, but I was angry. When he came in again, I was determined to not be blown off again. Before I took his order, I gestured to some college kids sitting across the room; one was wearing a T-shirt with Che Guevara on it. "El Che is rollin' in 'is grave," I said.

He smirked, thus starting our peculiar relationship. "They should hope that necromancy doesn't become possible in the near future," he agreed. He now comes every Sunday for tea. And the quiet, maybe. Afternoons tend to be slow.

The most unique feature of my 'boyfriend' is his mask. Made of black leather, it covers his entire face. Only his mouth and chin show. His lips are strangely thin and slightly lumpy- not the way lips should be at all- and his skin is jaundiced. Perhaps he's ill.

No one says anything, of course, because that would mean losing a regular customer. The third Fujiwara occasionally makes a snide comment, but Kimie usually shushes him.

He sits as table nine, as he does every week. "Hiya, sir," I say. "Green tea as usual, I s'pose?

"Yes, coquine." We've been talking for weeks but haven't exchanged names, and my uniform doesn't have a nametag. He is Sir and I am Coquine. Sir usually wears a suit, but the heat has forced him to abandon it for dark jeans and a white work shirt. Long-sleeved, of course, but his hands still show. They are an artist's hands, large, though quite thin and bony.

I deliver his tea and question, "D'ya think Heaven's boring?"

"I don't believe in Heaven." He talks smoothly, like a reporter.

His voice…I've never heard another like it. It's beautiful. A warm, powerful tenor. It's one of the reasons I talk to him.

"For the sake-a argument, pretend ya do."

"Oh, fine…now, why would Heaven be boring? Isn't it supposed to be perfect?"

"That's the point. Perfect is boring. I mean, sure, it's nice at first, but there'd be nothin' ta do. Ya get sick of harp playin' 'n' angelic choir singin'."

There's something about Sir, something that I've seen occasionally in my grandfather and uncle, and very rarely in some of my teachers. He's been places and done things. He's a gentleman.

The main reason why I talk to him is that he makes the shadow leave. Ever since my –for lack of another word- adventure in Maddox, the shadow has followed me. I'll be doing something completely normal, like brushing Orry or talking to Leah, and suddenly the shadow's there, watching.

I've tried telling myself that it's ridiculous, that there's no such thing as ghosts and demons. That I'm educated, self-educated, which is better than just school-education. That I shouldn't believe in these things like the little hick that I am.

But how can't I? Myths and superstition have always lurked in the corners of my life. Stories, dreams, and things that might've happened and might've not blend into a tapestry of childish imagining and truth: foxes that disappear like smoke, a housecat that grew into a panther one minute and shrank the next, snow ladies that can kill you with one frigid breath, bloody daggers reflected in creeks.

"Perhaps all the activities Heaven offers are eternally satisfying."

"Well, maybe. But all the intrestin' people are in Hell, too. Like Shakespeare 'n' Mozart 'n' Kurt Cobain." The second Fujiwara signals to me from the kitchen doorway. "Gotta go."

The second Fujiwara points me to a table of girls with bleached blonde hair, fake tans, and manicured nails. I have a name for this type of girl: Long Island Housewives, because that's exactly what they'll be someday. They have cars and credit cards. They will go to the school Daddy donated a library to, where they will meet rich, handsome doctors and lawyers. They will get married and live in Southampton with their hubbies and children named Aiden, Jaden, Braeden, and Haydyn. They will get weekly facials and massages. They will have done nothing to deserve any of this.

I admit that I am jealous.

My prospects are not looking good right now. I am smart, but not smart enough for a scholarship. I am talented, but, again, not good enough for it to matter. In short, I am remarkable, but not remarkable enough. Students who know six languages and can play three instruments get scholarships, not losers who have been making half-assed attempts to learn French and bombed their violin recitals. I didn't practice enough. I never do, and I had exams the same week…

Have you ever known something, deep down in your bones?

I have known for a very long time now how my relationship with my parents would end. I think I was twelve or so when I first started daydreaming about my departure. Sometimes I had done something wrong. Sometimes I had done nothing. Sometimes I left angrily, with shouts and triumphant curses. Sometimes I left graciously, shaming them with my decorum. And other times I left with my own head lowered in humiliation and grief.

I don't know why I started dreaming this. I did not hate my parents back then; in fact, I loved them very much. It was only when I started thinking my own thoughts that my love became painful, like hugging a rosebush.

For years, I only knew this in my mind- I could not feel it. But when I turned seventeen in May, I thought, This is my last year, and it was true. I knew that when I had my next birthday, I would no longer be on speaking terms with my family.

Perhaps I can prevent this. Perhaps I can't. But it doesn't matter, because I don't really want to.

I take the Housewives' orders; one of them is quite disappointed that we don't offer vegan sushi. I try steering her in the direction of noodles, but she's not buying it.

"Try the kitsune udon," I coax.

She eyes me skeptically, as if I'm offering her sea urchins. Which I'm not. That's in another section of the menu. "What's in it?" A first-timer, obviously.

"Very simple," I say. "It's just noodles in a soy sauce broth with fried tofu."

She agrees, thank God. I scurry to Yasu, the sushi chef, and then to Masashi, the everything-else chef. I return to Sir.

He gestures to the seat opposite him. "Sit down, coquine."

I glance around nervously for the second and third Fujiwaras. Either will take the opportunity to scold me for being lazy even though there really isn't much to do. The first Fujiwara takes Sundays off, but would have let me sit down for a few minutes with Sir anyway.

"Firstly, I have decided that your argument is valid. Everyone worth knowing is in Hell, assuming there is such a place."

"Well, not everyone," I say. "I was exaggeratin' before. There are some intrestin' people in Heaven, I bet."

He holds up a hand to shush me.

"This is not about that."

"Oh," I counter dumbly, then remember my manners. "Sorry."

"How much is your salary?"

"Oh, ya don't need ta worry about me. I'm fine, sir, really." The polite way to say, None of your business.

"Tell me." He is losing patience fast and there's an edge to his voice.

"Seven-fifty per hour plus tips." It's a good living for someone who spends money maybe once a month.

"What would you say if I said you could earn more than ten times that while working fewer hours?"

"I'd say it's probably illegal."

"It's not."

I give him a look that says, Yeah, right.

"No, really, it isn't," he insists.

Sir outlines his plan to me, a plan that he says has been accepted by the Powers That Be.

We will be ghosts for Giordano's project, a publicity stunt. Well, I wouldn't be a ghost, exactly. I would be his assistant, his apprentice, and perhaps I could be a ghost too if I worked hard enough. He and Matty had cooked it up together, though Sir said he it was mostly his idea.

Matthew Giordano would forever be known as Matty, the consequence of being the youngest son in a prominent family.

It will pay well, he says, for not that much work on my part, less than I'm doing here. And it will be easy for a clever girl like me.

"You'll be an actress," he entices. "Which you already are."

"What?" I manufacture a confused expression. "I'm afraid ya lost me there, sir."

"You understand perfectly, coquine."

The blood freezes in my veins. How does he know? How could he have seen through me so clearly? I've always thought I was good at lying, but suddenly I'm not so sure. Are my falsehoods this obvious to everyone? Do they only pretend to believe out of politeness, a desire to minimize trouble? My body becomes weak. I feel frightened, vulnerable.

"You will meet us somewhere…alone. It has to be a secret, you understand. There's no point in playing a ghoul if everyone knows you're not…don't worry that pretty head of yours, we'll pick somewhere public so you know you've got nothing to fear."

He puts two pieces of paper into my hand and tells me to put the tea on his tab. "Oh, and coquine? Invest in a good pocketknife." He leaves easily, as if we've been chatting about the weather and not as if he gave me the greatest chance I will ever have in life.

In my palm sits a scrap of looseleaf with an address written on it, and a fifty dollar bill. President Grant stares up at me. He looks tired.

oOo

For the rest of the afternoon, I ponder his offer. I see myself getting a nice- not fancy, but comfortable- apartment. It would be in a good section of town, so I wouldn't have to fear for my life when going out after dark. I see myself going to college. I see myself getting a job I actually want instead of becoming a hooker and dying of a heroin overdose.

I know my fears are irrational and that only happens to a very small percentage of people. But that percentage still exists: little rich girls that don't know anything about the world or life and slipped through the cracks. I could be in that percentage. The women that haunt Franklin Street at night were once like me. They once had nice clothes and good food.

I go to bed happy that night. As I snuggle under the covers, a worry plucks at my brow, gnawing at my bliss. I shoo it away.

I know the money will be stolen.

A/N: Sophie's perspective is quite warped, isn't it? But that's the point, I suppose. She's been very sheltered and tends to assume the worst, among other things.

I'm terribly sorry if these chapters seem mostly like thinking (or in Erik's case, scheming). It gets more eventful, I swear.