Page 1 of Witch You Would

The customer’s blue ombré hair spell sparked like fireworks as he leaned across the counter, ranting about how I was the worst

spell caster in Miami. I hid my nerves behind my best helpful-employee smile.

“Get your manager,” he snapped. Literally, he snapped his fingers at me.

“I’m the only one here, sir.” Just me and my pepper spray.

Espinosa’s Spell Supplies was so small, I didn’t have much room to move if he got violent. I’d have to run through a maze

of shelves, knocking over bottles and tins and prayer candles, then dramatically throw myself through a floor-to-ceiling glass

window to get outside, because the door opened inward. Bleeding to death on the sidewalk of a strip mall would suck. I could

duck out the back door, through the workshop and storage room, but if I survived and anything was missing or messed up, my

boss would kill me herself.

I needed to stop catastrophizing. It was super unhealthy.

“I have a very important interview! I can’t go there with hair like this!”

I’d been having important interviews for months, and I’d somehow managed not to yell at random retail workers.

“Fix this! Now!” He banged on the counter. I almost pepper-sprayed my butt.

I could do what he asked, or I could tell him to leave. My brain threw together a montage of bad store reviews on Evoke, a

lecture from my boss, my student loan payments, and the three-digit balance in my checking account.

“Do you have the spell recipe with you?” I asked. If I sounded more cheerful, I’d attract woodland creatures to help me clean

and find a horny single prince.

He threw the instructions on the counter, clearly printed from a blog because they were covered in ads for weight-loss potions

and “one weird tricks.” Big sigh. Magic was like cooking: anyone could do it, and anyone could make up recipes, but that didn’t

mean you should trust random crap you found on the internet.

As soon as I saw one reagent on the list, I was pretty sure I knew what happened.

“Did you use a broken duskywing butterfly wing?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. I bet myself a coffee he’d lie about it.

“No.”

Mmm, coffee.

“They fall apart pretty easily, and the spell wouldn’t work if it was broken,” I said.

“Maybe you sold me a broken one.”

Nice try. “We don’t sell them, but if you recast the spell correctly—”

“I want this removed now!” A shower of sparks exploded from his hair.

I went over the recipe again. The infusion method used an essential oil, so soap should work for a counterspell, with lemon to balance the butterfly wing .

. . no, orange blossom honey would have fewer side effects and better binding.

I put the pepper spray in my back pocket and grabbed my notebook, sketching out a plan.

The customer grumbled. Checked his phone. Checked his fake designer watch. Checked his phone again.

“I think I have a solution,” I said finally. “Our normal casting rate is twenty-five dollars an hour plus ingredients, but—”

“You expect me to pay to fix what you did to me?” he shouted.

Polite smile: slipping. “You cast the spell yourself, sir.”

“Are you saying I can’t cast a simple hair glamour? I’ve been doing this for longer than you’ve been alive! What are you,

eighteen?”

I was twenty-six, and I’d started casting with my abuela Perla—my mom’s mom—when I was old enough to stir a pot.

“You sold me the wrong ingredients!”

Not a chance. I always triple-checked everything. “Sir, I can do the casting for free, but I have to charge for reagents unless

you bring your own. I—”

The door to the back opened behind me. I jumped sideways and tripped over a box of quartz crystals, landing hard on the non-pepper-spray

pocket.

My boss, Ofelia Espinosa, loomed over me like a telenovela villain. Her bottle-blond hair and pore-free skin gleamed with

glamour, and her navy wrap dress had a neckline so plunging, I would see her soul if she bent over.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, smiling at the customer.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Your assistant ruined my hair.”

My official title was “spell technician.”

“She’s more of a salesgirl.” Ofelia propped her boobs on her crossed arms, giving the guy a show.He bought front-row seats.

“Why don’t you tell me the whole story? Penny, take a break.”

Whatever. I stood up, squeezed past her and headed for the front door.

Sunlight reflected off parked car windshields as I stomped down to the Castillo de las Frutas, an oasis of blaring salsa music

and whirring blenders. The tables in front of the combination restaurant, juice bar, and café were always full. Old men played

dominoes and complained about politics, people in suits cooled down with batidos, and delivery drivers loaded orders into

spelled hot-cold bags. Pigeons puttered around, which meant the owl statue wards in the overhang needed to be replaced. The

smells of fresh coffee and fried things reminded me that I’d forgotten to eat lunch. Again.

Life always seemed to happen around me, not to me.

Rosy waved through the counter window while she pushed and pulled and twisted things on the giant espresso machine. I didn’t

know how she kept her orange uniform shirt from getting stained—she swore no magic was involved. Her dark curls and skin weren’t

greasy or sweaty, either, while I needed a paper towel wipe-down in the store bathroom.

I banged my forehead on the ventana’s counter. “Why am I such an asshole magnet?”

Rosy poured Cuban coffee into a foam cup, perfect espuma on top. “What do you mean? You haven’t been on a date in six months.”

Eight. “This comemierda says I messed up his reagent blend. His hair looks like New Year’s Eve fireworks. Stop laughing!”

She did not stop. “Come on, that’s hilarious.” Rosy made an explosion noise. “It’s like a Leandro Presto video.”

I rolled my eyes. “That guy.”

“Come on, he’s funny.”

Leandro Presto was funny like someone faceplanting into a cake. He recorded himself casting spells that always went wrong, then posted them on Jinxd for his billion followers . . . and Rosy was pulling out her phone to show me a new one.

“Is that Dolphin Mall?”I asked.

“Totally,” Rosy said. “I can’t believe they let him.”

Me neither. Mall security rolled around on stand-up scooters, harassing you for breathing.

Leandro looked our age, with slicked-back dark hair, black-rimmed safety glasses, and a waxed mustache with curled ends. The

nicest thing I could say about him was he explained what went wrong—after it happened. And he was kind of hot, aside from

the mustache.

“That’s way too much lady’s mantle.”

“Shh, don’t ruin it,” Rosy said.

He dropped a pinch of powdered carnelian into his cauldron, then dramatically threw his arms open and yelled, “Presto!” Nothing

happened. He tilted his head like a confused puppy and peeked into the pot.

A massive cloud of foggy butterflies blew into his face. Leandro stumbled backward, coughing, his skin rainbow-stained. The

creatures spread throughout the room, leaving bright smoky trails. Anything they touched looked blasted with colored chalk

dust. Some people tried to catch them, and some ducked and dodged. It was a huge mess.

Rosy cackled. “How do his subscribers come up with this stuff?”

“Why does he do whatever they pay him to?”

“You do, too. At least he’s having fun.”

I put my head down on the counter again. She was right. My life was devoid of fun. A perfect example was waiting at the store.

“Sorry,” Rosy said, putting away her phone. “I know there’s stuff you can’t do because of money. And time.”

Fact. I’d been trying for years to translate and test the spells in my abuela’s spellbook. It was the only thing of hers I’d

wanted when she got sick and my relatives started claiming stuff, and thankfully, no one fought me over it. I hated confrontation.

That was why I didn’t do personal casting with store equipment—Ofelia would give me shit.

I had no good options, though, not for space or supplies or time. My efficiency’s kitchenette was tiny; public library casting

spaces and casting collectives got booked up fast; and coworking rentals were way out of my budget. Even if I got reagents

at cost from our suppliers, I could only buy so much, because most of my pay went to rent, food, and bills. And I only had

one day off every week, which I used for errands and chores before passing out watching TV or reading. So no side projects

for me.

Why was this my life? All work, no play. But if I slowed down, flamed out, it would prove my parents right. Again. I would

rather deal with a hundred shitty customers.

“Speaking of money and time...”

Oh no. Don’t ask about the thing.

“Did you hear from the Cast Judgment people?”

She’d asked about the thing. “If I did, I couldn’t tell you.” I’d signed a nondisclosure agreement longer than a pharmacy

receipt. I expected lawyers to jump out of the bushes like ninjas if I even thought about the show too hard. They probably

would have put a geas on me to shut me up, if it weren’t illegal.

Rosy mimed zipping her lips, then left to take someone’s order. I stared at my warped reflection in the napkin dispenser.

Did my internal freak-out show on my face?

Cast Judgment was a reality show, a spell-casting competition in its tenth season.

Contestants were given themes and briefs, and they’d have one or two days to design and cast a spell for the judges.

At the end of each round, one person was eliminated.

The winner got a ginormous cash prize and a yearlong residency at the Desgraves Studio, a super-fancy magical arts center here in Miami.

Free workshop space, reagents, and equipment I could only drool over in catalogs... Yes, please. Even the losers got a

boost—spin-off shows or spellbook deals or job offers. Competing on Cast Judgment was a total life changer.

And starting tomorrow, I was going to be on the show.

They were calling this season the Spellebrity Edition because every contestant would have a celebrity teammate. Two of the