A moment later, in a glittery ink decidedly unlike what Alyssa used:

Wow, that's one of those every-letter sentences!

Yes.

Let me try! ✨

A pause, during which the sparkles wax and wane.

Quietly placating, withholding firm rejection, my brazen example skews even.

That's pretty good!  I haven't seen that one before.

Thank you! 😊 I made it up myself. Yours is tidier, though…

(The smiley face wiggles a little.)

I've practiced a lot.

Who are you?

If the notebook could vibrate with excitement, it probably would. It can't, though, so the most prominent sign of excitement is the speed with which the following words write themselves:

I'm an avatar of the Spirit of Youthful Femininity! Well, I'm more of a messenger, really, since I'm not personally part of the Spirit. But I can speak for it just fine! And do some of its work!

. . . Alyssa locates the sparkliest washi tape from the organizer at the corner of her desk (purple, transluent with starlike metallic flecks), extends a segment about five inches long, detaches it using the built-in sharp edge, and uses it to underline the notebook's previous statement.  In lieu of an immediate written response.

The pause this time is about twice as long as the notebook took to compose the pangram, without any dancing sparkles.

Oh dear, was any of that unclear? Or did you just want to underline?

It's a lot to think about.  Don't you like washi tape?

Also it's probably very important to find out - "Can you hear me?"  She speaks at a low conversational volume, not enough that any of her family members will hear through her closed door, but above a whisper.

I don't think I knew what that was until just now! But it's very pretty. Thank you for showing me! ✨😊✨

The sparkles dance; the smiley wiggles. This motion continues uninterrupted while she speaks and after she finishes.

That's either very relieving or some amount of scary.

You're welcome!

(A heart would be too much but she can make the stroke of the exclamation mark as a tall and narrow four-pointed sparkle and the dot a little twinkly cross.)

What's your name?

The sparkles wiggle even more enthusiastically at the special exclamation point.

Most messengers of the Spirit don't have names. What's yours?

You don't know already?

She closes the notebook, keeping one hand inside to mark the page, and traces her name on the front with a fingernail.  Then reopens it.

No, I just know that

The writing stops when she traces the cover.

Oh! Your name is Alyssa? Was that written on my cover? I'm not really directly aware of things that aren't written in me… or on me, I suppose, or the washi tape!

There's an obvious next - wait a second.

On your cover?

Yeah, the notebook you're writing in! I dunno if it really counts as my body, or if I have one, but it's the way that I can interface with the physical world, so I guess in a sense I do and it is! It's easiest to talk as though it's part of me, though, so that's what I do.

Oh, I'm sorry!  I thought you were someone with a body like mine who was talking to me through you.  I'll be more careful with you from now on.

May I try something with your cover again?

That's really thoughtful of you! 😊 For what it's worth, I don't experience anything that happens to this notebook as unpleasant and I'm pretty sure it's impossible for anything really bad to happen to me. But I'm touched anyway!

Feel free to try whatever you'd like! I'll tell you whatever I notice about it.

That's good.

Reclose, fingerwrite 'Reynolds' guidelessly beneath the printed 'Alyssa', reopen.

Basically as soon as she's finished tracing:

I got that! "Reynolds," right? I think I noticed it even better than "Alyssa," probably because now I know that writing on my cover is a thing that can happen.

You're right!

'Can you read this?' Alyssa fingerwrites on the regular page.  Mostly in print but with the last word in cursive.