Sophie is five feet and seven inches of pure conventional attractiveness, a blue-eyed blonde with a smile straight out of a dental brochure. Her high cheekbones exude a regal dignity that borders on haughtiness. She sports athleisure wear that clings tight to her body, a finely crafted physique sustained by a steady diet of kefir and wild-caught salmon, as well as a pilates regimen. 

I’ve loathed Sophie from the day she moved in across the street. While her beauty is a given, my chromosomes are a rich gumbo of genetic shortcomings—I’m cursed with thin lips, large pores, frizzy hair, and flurries of dandruff that turn sweaters into winter wonderlands. Sophie used her beauty to pull off the heist of the century: convincing Notre Dame’s most eligible bachelor, Chase Fairfax, to make her his trophy wife. I, on the other hand, was abandoned by my boyfriend at eight months pregnant. He left me at a gas station in the pouring rain, never to return.

Sophie lives in the biggest house in our subdivision. She tore down two bungalows and combined the lots to build a sprawling Art Deco palace. Each morning, I spy on her through my blinds, sick with envy. Though, I don’t know if “spy” is the right word—her gaudy fish-tank windows put her life on full display, as if she’s the star of some glitzy television show and we’re her adoring fans. Every episode follows the same formula: she drops her son Brogan off at school, boots up her Roomba, and online shops—roll credits. I’m the show’s most avid hate-watcher. My life, by contrast, is composed of flooded engines, declined credit cards, and grueling shifts scrubbing grout at the local spa. Unlike Sophie, I don’t have a leading man to bail me out. My co-star wrote himself off the show, presumably to gallivant through Cambodia, dodging alimony and shacking up with cheap prostitutes like a young Hugh Grant, though how the hell should I know—he never even sent a postcard.

In recent years, Sophie’s beauty has dimmed. She’s found herself unable to talk her way out of speeding tickets, even when flashing cleavage. She’s lost her position on the H.O.A. board to a younger, more virile mom with fresh ideas about bird feeders. She’s tried everything to regain collagen—Botox, lip filler, cheek filler, chin filler, and so many facelifts the local surgeons gave her a punch card—but Father Time’s forward march is inevitable. Her new smile gives me goosebumps, for her facial features don’t move in concert with her lips—they remain stiff and mask-like.

When I rebuff her multilevel marketing pitch, she urges me to reconsider. I study the warped contours of her face, searching for some sign of a bluff. To my chagrin, I find none. 

***

I suppose I should back up regarding the M.L.M. pitch. Though, if you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all. Sophie’s spiel is about kitchen knives, but what she’s really selling is a way to make money from home and manifest the life you want. When she uses that word, “manifest,” she gets this dreamy twinkle in her eyes. She isn’t hawking off-brand cutlery—she’s offering the opportunity of a lifetime.

I zone out for most of the impersonally personal pitch, studying Sophie’s living room. This is the first time she’s invited me into her house, but that’s only because she invited any willing and available neighbor to attend, which, as it happens, turns out to be only two. I can tell she’s deflated by her over-catering. It feels surreal to be here, like visiting the set of a television show I’ve watched for years. Up close, the place is strangely hollow—unlike my home, it doesn’t pulse with any signs of life: mud tracks, stray dog hairs, the musty stench of a pubescent boy. Here, everything sparkles like a Mr. Clean commercial, from the marble floors to the chandeliers to the sleek, minimalist furniture. Most disquieting of all is the photo on the mantle. The Fairfax clan embrace on a white sand beach beneath a boundless blue sky. Their eyes have the vacant look of actors masquerading as an all-American family.

“The best part is, as the team grows, so does your earning potential,” Sophie gestures to her presentation easel, which displays a suspiciously pyramid-shaped diagram. “So, what do you gals think? Are you ready to manifest a brighter future?”

“Sign me up!” Neighborly Grace says with a giddy squeal. Grace, I should mention, is Sophie’s lapdog. Though, calling her a lapdog would give her too much credit. Assuming the role of sycophant, she knows, is her only path to gaining influence in our subdivision. She’s a meek data analyst with a closet of frumpy gray blouses that make Mennonite garb look salacious. 

“I knew I could count on you, girl!” Sophie winks. She turns to me and says, “How about you, Cassie?”

Though I wouldn’t consider myself a sycophant, I’m not exactly immune to Sophie’s charms, either. Despite my hatred for the woman, there’s a twisted part of me that’s desperate for her approval. On a normal day, she could sway me with some eye batting and a little empty flattery. This, however, is no normal day. Before I knocked on her door, I recalled all the dirty work I’d done for her over the years: chauffeuring Brogan home from soccer practice, shoveling her driveway while she sunbathed in Ibiza, and whipping up brownies she could present as her own at the school bake sale. This time, I promised myself, I would finally put my foot down and rebuff her tyrannical decrees.

“I appreciate the offer,” I muster, trying not to let my voice quaver. “But I’m going to pass.”

“I wish you would reconsider,” Sophie says, batting her eyes. The empty flattery comes right on cue: “I’ve always admired your grit—Lord knows I couldn’t hack it as a single mom! A girl boss like you would be a real asset to the team.”

When this fails to move me, she tries a harsher tact: “By the way, I’ve seen Eric’s chompers—it doesn’t take an orthodontist to know in a couple years, that kid’s going to need braces. Do you have some rainy-day funds lying around for that?”

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think joining a pyramid scheme is the most prudent financial move for me right now.”

“Will you at least let me show you the merchandise? I’ll give a quick demo, and if you’re not sold, I promise I’ll stop pestering.”

“Fine.”

Sophie sets a large, black case on her coffee table and unclasps it ceremoniously. Inside is a gleaming butcher knife whose craftsmanship, I must admit, exceeds my expectations. The blade is long, elegant, and Granton-edged, the tang extending through a rosewood handle with polished copper rivets. For a moment, the three of us say nothing, content to watch our reflections dance in the high-carbon stainless steel. At last, with a flourish, Sophie lifts the knife from the case.

“Hold out your hand,” she says, and I oblige, expecting to receive the handle. Instead, I receive the blade. She presses its edge to the soft underside of my wrist. Her touch is exacting—should she apply an ounce of additional pressure, she’d pierce flesh.

“O-okay, you’ve made your point—it’s sharp,” I stammer, “but I really should be going now.” I reach for my purse and start to sit up, but Sophie grabs me. I can feel her perfectly manicured fingernails digging into my shoulder, forcing me back onto the couch.

“Come on, stay a while. The fun’s just beginning,” she replies. I laugh, thinking this is some kind of sick joke. But Sophie doesn’t reciprocate—her steely gaze contains no trace of levity. 

***

“What the heck do you think you’re doing?” Grace whispers. It’s just the two of us in the parlor now, huddled together on Sophie’s sleek Scandinavian sectional. 

Moments earlier, just as the tension in the room reached a boiling point, the tea kettle whistled. The sound triggered Sophie’s hostess instincts—in an instant, she transformed into Betty Crocker, asking us if we preferred almond or oat milk in our tea. She lifted the knife from my wrist and jetted off to the kitchen, humming a carefree ditty.

“Aren’t you tired of letting Sophie boss you around? Someone’s gotta put her in her place,” I say.

“Now’s not the time to stand up to her. She’s in a delicate state.” She explains that Chase is having an affair with his podiatrist. To cope, Sophie’s taking enough pills to stock a pharmacy. A rumor went around that she tried to poison her gardener for over-pruning the hydrangeas, but the source of said rumor, Viv Sheridan, was a notorious hyperbolist. In this moment, it feels like it could be true. 

We freeze, startled as Sophie clanks a dish in the kitchen. Her humming sounds increasingly off-kilter, bordering on deranged. The tune is eerily familiar, though I can’t place it.

Grace whispers, “If you want to get out of here in one piece, I suggest you do what she says.”

I gulp and nod in agreement, goosebumps prickling my arms.

Sophie reappears with a serving tray. She places steaming lattes in front of Grace and me, gazing at us expectantly. We smile weakly, but neither of us makes a move toward our respective beverages.

“So, uh, Sophie, your demo made me reconsider your offer,” I say, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “It would be an honor to join your sales team.”

“Great, let me hear your pitch,” she says.

“What?”

“Well, I don’t let just anyone in on a business opportunity this juicy. I need to know that you can sell the knives.” She attempts what’s meant to be a reassuring smile, but she can’t quite pull it off—there’s an unsettling twitch in her left eyelid.

“Right.” I make my way to the presentation easel and grab the pointer. “So, what’s great about these, uh, knives,” I stammer, pointer trembling in my grasp, “Is that they’re, like, really sharp.”

“Pitiful!” she cries. “Again, from the top.”

My second and third attempts are no better. “Listen, maybe we should pick this up again tomorrow,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my dress.

“The life of your dreams isn’t going to wait around for you—you have to chase it down, snatch it by the neck, and wring it into submission,” Sophie says, leveling the knife at me. “Again.”

***

The sun is sinking along with our lattes. The long, skeletal shadows of the magnolia trees creep across Sophie’s living room. Across the street is my humble abode, a cozy yellow bungalow with chipped siding and an unkempt lawn. It looks miles away beyond Sophie’s wrought-iron gate. 

After I bumble the pitch several more times, Sophie leaves to check the muffins in the oven. This gives Grace and me the opportunity for another sidebar. 

“Can’t you at least pretend to give a frick about these goshdarn knives?” Grace says. Even in a moment as dire as this, she won’t break her no swearing rule. 

“You try forming a coherent sentence while that psycho’s pointing a knife at you,” I say.

“Okay, so what do we do? Bum-rush her?”

“Grace, she’s been waving that blade around like the Bride of Chucky. Not to mention, she’s on enough pills to tranquilize an elephant. I say we call the cops.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?”

In reply, I nod toward the kitchen where Sophie chants, “I can manifest the life I want.” As she repeats the mantra, her voice grows manic, like she’s forcing herself to believe it. 

“You’ve made your point,” Grace says. 

I whip my phone out of my purse and dial, checking over my shoulder for Sophie. 

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the blasé operator asks. 

“I’m at this tea party, and…” I pause, unsure how to convey the situation. I realize Sophie hasn’t broken any particular law, per se. “The host is being, like, vaguely threatening.” 

“Are you being held against your will?”

“I think so? There’s kind of an implication.”

“An implication?”

“I mean, she hasn’t outright said, ‘You can’t leave.’ But if I tried to dip out of here, I’m sure she’d, you know, frown upon it.” 

The line goes dead. “I don’t think they’re coming,” I tell Grace.

A few minutes later, Sophie returns with a pan of flaxseed muffins. She places one on each of our saucers, assuring us they’re low-fat. They languish untouched beside our still-full lattes. 

“So, where were we?” Sophie teases, brandishing the knife. As she takes her seat across from us and crosses her legs, she catches a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror. Her face contorts into what I believe is a look of surprise, though it’s hard to tell, as her eyebrows are perpetually raised on account of the Botox. Then a new expression takes over, one more difficult to decode. I clock it as a constipated grimace, that is, until a teardrop glides down her cheek. She’s crying. 

“Are you okay?” I ask. 

This opens the floodgates, and Sophie begins sobbing into the sleeve of her Lululemon quarter-zip. I cram in beside her on her accent chair and place an arm over her shoulder. Grace takes the opportunity to disarm her, slipping the knife from her grasp and replacing it with a tissue.

“I’m so sorry,” Sophie says, mascara bleeding down her face. “I didn’t mean to get carried away. It’s just, well, Chase has been canoodling with his podiatrist. But that doesn’t bother me—you see, when we got married, we had an unspoken agreement. He could step out every now and again, and in exchange, I got this.” She gestures broadly around her. “What really fucks me up is this time he says he’s in love. He threatened to—” she stifles a sob. “He threatened to take Brogan from me. That’s why I’m selling the knives—they’re the only way I can build a life for myself without that philandering son of a bitch.”

As I try to determine if this apology is genuine or yet another ploy, there’s a knock at the front door. 

“I wonder who that could be,” Sophie says, hostess instincts once again kicking in. She wipes her tear and goes to answer it. 

As she turns the knob, Grace and I share a look that says, “I hope that’s not who I think it is.”

***

The two cops at the door are dressed for a raid. Their gear, however, is comically ill-fitting—their helmets make them look like bobbleheads and their jackboots may as well be clown shoes. Assault rifles hang across their chests, dwarfing their gangly frames. Behind their visors, one sports a face full of acne, the other a set of glinting braces. They’re the most dangerous breed of cop: overzealous rookies with something to prove.

“What seems to be the problem, officers?” Sophie says cheerily.

“We got a call about a potential hostage situation,” Braces says, peering behind Sophie, casing the joint. 

“Hostages? Good heavens!” Sophie says, making a pearl-clutching gesture. “My friends and I are just having a little tea party. Are you sure you’ve got the right address?”

“I know it’s silly,” Pizza Face chimes in, “but we take these threats very seriously. I have to ask: Are you being held against your will?”

Sophie and Grace confirm they’re here on their own accord. 

All eyes turn to me. An expectant silence falls over the room. I recall the time Sophie wrote me up for my broken shutters, the time she said my house looked like a crack den but with less charm. I recall the pinch of her blade against my wrist. I recall the vow I made to myself before I walked through her front door. Braces, sensing my hesitation, shoulders his rifle. I’m on the verge of ratting Sophie out, that is, until I see her face. Her old powers are at work as she pleads with those sky-blue irises. 

“No, officer,” I say at last. “There must have been a misunderstanding. I said I was a captive audience—big distinction!”

“Captive audience for what?” Braces asks, not quite buying it.

“My friend Sophie, here, just pitched an incredible business opportunity. It’s a way to make money from home and be your own boss.”

“Oh, really? That sounds right up my girlfriend’s alley,” Pizza Face says.

“Yeah, mine too,” Braces says, lowering his weapon.

“I want you to envision the life of your girlfriend’s dreams: Black Cards, Birkin Bags, a vacation home in Monaco, the works. Now, what if I told you I could help her manifest it?” She places an arm around Pizza Face’s shoulder and leads him into the living room. Braces follows close behind. The two sit in front of the presentation easel, right beside Grace. They peel the wax paper off our muffins and dig in. 

While Sophie is distracted with her pitch, I slip out and sprint home. The relief I expect to feel when I reach my humble abode is absent. A strange malaise grips me as I gaze at the chaos before me: empty Go-Gurt tubes, Dorito crumbs, and dirty socks litter the floor. The scent of wet dog accosts my nostrils. I hug Eric, but he’s too deep in his video game to reciprocate—all I get is a “What the hell, Mom?” I ask if he wants something to eat, and he orders his usual without so much as a “please”: a salami sandwich with the crust cut off. 

I slap together Wonderbread, Oscar Meyer, and provolone, topping it with the last watery dregs from the mustard bottle. I draw my trusty chef knife. I pause, studying the blunt blade, the warped wood of the handle. I watch Sophie resume her presentation through the fish-tank windows. She’s calmly composed, and I’m seized with a revelatory fear of having missed out.