Spoiled by Heather Cocks

Charmaine had been right about that, too.
    “What did you just say about Charmin?” a girl asked.
    “… I am out loud?” Molly asked.
    The girl peered at Molly through a curtain of black hair, then broke into a slow smile. “Try the mini quiches,” she said.
     “They’re excellent on a drunk stomach.”
    “I’m not drunk,” Molly insisted, standing up as straight as she could and trying to sound polite. “I’m Molly.”
    “Of course you are,” the girl said, floating away on a purple cloud, which Molly realized was a very familiar-looking cocktail
     dress. “We’ll meet again, Molly.”
    Molly tried to concoct a charming, friendly response to this while the girl was still within earshot, but her fuzzy brain
     didn’t seem to be working right. Scooping up a handful of snacks, Molly wobbled back to her safe place and crash-landed on
     the grass. She shoveled several mini quiches into her mouth. After about the fifth one, her stomach started to complain, but
     her mouth didn’t listen. She emptied her plate.
    Dragging her knees into her chest, Molly leaned her head against the back frame of the couch and closed her eyes. So much
     for her social debut. She was wearing a dress better suited to a quilting bee, she’d let everyone point and stare her into
     submission, and she’d been too scared andnervous to go up to anyone and introduce herself—which is why she’d spent half the night on the phone to Indiana. And now
     she was wasted. And queasy. And grass-stained.
    Molly felt lost and frustrated, as if she’d followed the exact directions she’d been given but still ended up in the wrong
     place. Her own skin had never seemed so uncomfortable. She didn’t even notice the tear running down her cheek until it made
     a salty splash on her upper lip.
    Minutes later—or hours, or seconds; Molly had no idea which—she thought she heard a girl’s voice. By the time she willed a
     bleary eye open, though, there was no one there. Then she heard a rustling noise.
    “Daddy, she’s passed out,” Brooke’s voice all but shouted. “I can’t believe she did this to you. How
humiliating
.”
    Molly rocketed to her feet, then instantly regretted it as her knees buckled. Brick caught her.
    “Brookie, be quiet,” he said firmly. “Molly, let’s get you upstairs. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
    Molly found the ground with her feet, then rubbed her eyes to see if that made the scene less blurry. It didn’t work.
    “Sounds rad, man,” Molly joked feebly. But the instant the words came out, she realized how blasé and sloshed she sounded.
     “Oops. I didn’t mean… that was dumb… this is all so… I wish I had… I want to rewind,” she heard herself slur next as she wiped
     a fresh river of tears from her eyes.
    Brick looked astonished. Molly suddenly felt hysteriabubbling up in her throat, imagining what she must look like to him, all smudged makeup and a runny nose and breath that smelled
     like a brewery on a night that she was supposed to make a good impression. She had a history of laughing at inappropriate
     moments, like at her mother’s funeral when the priest got to “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” because Laurel used to say that
     when she cleaned house. Tonight, as then, her nerves—this time abetted by the booze—won out. She broke into a guffaw and sagged
     against Brick. The trees overhead were spinning like slot-machine wheels through her vision. A face appeared among them. Molly
     peered up at it and smiled.
    “G’night, Mom,” she slurred. “See you in the morning.”
    After that, darkness.

eight
    IN THE DREAM, Molly was two inches tall. She fought through the blades of grass in Brick’s backyard, running in slow motion, trying to
     tell him something very important. But she was too small. He couldn’t see her. Then Brooke appeared, sauntering toward Brick
     with a plate of mini quiches. Her shoe came down toward Molly’s matchstick-size head, closer, closer,