Snapping my fingers, the space around us changed. We were now standing in a different house, covered in wallpaper from the 1980s with a dull red carpet and the smell of mold and mildew all around it.
Sitting at a desk in front of a window sat a girl, roughly around the same age as the wishing girl.
"Who's that?" I asked, not really caring about the answer.
"Sheila," came the response. "She's one year younger than me."
The girl looked like the perfect student. In fact, she looked so perfect that it made me throw up a little in my mouth. No one was like that at home unless they were forced to be. The ponytail in her hair was slicked back so hard that it had to be giving her a headache, but still, she sat upright at her desk, reading from a textbook.
