Page 29 of Witch You Would

Knowing I would have trouble sleeping, I had a couple of edibles and one of my emergency meds. By the time I woke up, the

clock on the nightstand said it was after eleven. My eyes felt a little gritty, my head a little foggy, but at least I’d gotten

more rest than in the past week or so. I’d also successfully avoided all the unhappy thoughts that had started piling up now

that I was conscious.

We’d almost lost again. Being saved from elimination by two spell wrecks in a row meant that, unless we got lucky at someone

else’s expense or we upped our game hugely, we wouldn’t make it to the final round.

We absolutely couldn’t count on Dylan and Zeke or Felicia and Charlotte fucking up. It was true that magic could be fickle

because of its intrinsic reliance on various individual casting conditions, despite some consistently repeatable methods.

Anyone could spark a pre-made charm or potion, anyone could learn to craft their own spells based on known theories and practices,

but anyone could also make unforeseeable mistakes. Especially with spells created from scratch.

Still, I had my suspicions. They were about my height, super snobby, and could have modeled for a fashion magazine. If I was right, she’d bumped Doris into the table, and that had knocked over Penelope’s potion.

It still hurt that Penelope had assumed it was my fault. I’d thought we were vibing—not in the gross Isaac way, but in the

good, on-the-same-wavelength way. Maybe that was just wishful thinking. Maybe I wanted to believe she was catching feelings

for me, when it was pure lust.

Breakfast was over, so I ordered room service. It was good to be a Spellebrity. I had the hotel attendant leave the food outside,

then covered my mustache-free face with my shirt, and yoinked the tray inside. While I chugged coffee and scarfed a thousand

mini-waffles and an entire pig’s worth of ham, I planned my day.

Step one: check texts, voicemails and emails, including the stuff that had auto-filtered into the “not important” folders.

Mostly that was ads, but also anything from an email I hadn’t added to my white list.

Step two: text Sam and/or Ed to see how things were going with Mage You Look stuff. I doubted anything was on fire, and if it was, they’d probably handled it. There might be good news, though. I sure

needed some.

Step three: call Grandpa Fred to see how he was doing and beg him for advice.

Maybe that would be step two.

Grandpa Fred was pretty much the model for my life and career.

He’d always talked to me like I was a grown-up, instead of like my ideas and goals needed to be deflated and trashed like old birthday balloons—even when my brilliant plan was to become a dinosaur robot when I grew up.

He helped me think through things instead of shutting me down and ordering me to do what I was told.

And he never put conditions on his time and attention the way my parents did.

Ugh, my parents. I should call them, too. Step four? I had talked to them before filming started, figuring that would give

me a solid week before one or both wondered what I was up to. My dad had his own life, but freaking out was basically my mom’s

hobby, and she’d use any excuse to indulge.

Step five: talk to Penelope. Hopefully Grandpa Fred would help me figure out what to say to her.

I felt like I’d be breaking character no matter what. Leandro Presto would have no problem accidentally spilling a potion.

He would laugh it off and say it had all worked out. After the other night, he might even try to kiss Penelope until she forgot

what she was mad about.

But then what? She’d be kissing a character, not a real person. Leandro, not me. And the more that idea dug its claws into

my brain, the worse I felt for leading her on. Lying to her.

Sometimes I wished I’d never started being Leandro Presto. The good parts were worth it, but the bad parts... The bad parts

were tough. As an adjunct professor, I had the same low pay and lack of benefits, the same stress of wondering whether I’d

have a job next semester. But at least I could date anyone except my students.

Well, I didn’t have students anymore since I’d quit for the show, so no worries there.

Enough. Voicemails and texts, oldest first. Memes from Sam, motivational quotes from Ed. Spam, more spam, the alumni association begging for money I didn’t have. Long message from my mom about how if she had an emergency I wouldn’t know because I never answer my phone.

Emails next. Sam and Ed were on top of Leandro Presto business, nothing to worry about. My regular email was, as expected,

mostly spam and ads. A note from my agent about the direct deposit for my show income—hell yeah. Bills set to autopay. A couple

of questions for Doctor Witch that I could answer later.

Then I found one from Penelope Delmar. Subject line: Hi this is me from Espinosa’s Spell Supplies!

I dropped my phone like it was on fire. It bounced off the bed and hit the floor with a thud, face down. Panic spiked in my

veins. Did I break it? As long as I didn’t look, it might be okay, or it might not.

Don’t be a chicken, Gil. I climbed down and picked it up, turning it over. No cracks. Enchanted phone cases for the win.

I opened the email, my stomach tight.

Dear Gil,

I’m writing this in a hurry I won’t be able to check email for a while but I wanted to tell you I got fired from Espinosa’s.

I don’t know what my boss might do if she reads our emails but just in case she sends something weird or rude I wanted you

to know it wasn’t form me. And you won’t be able to email me there anymore.

I realize also that I never actually introduced myself as not my boss because I usually don’t do that for work emails.

My name is Penelope and this is my personal email if you want to stay in touch about recipes and book suggestions and stuff.

Maybe we could hang out sometime. Not for a few weeks because I’m going to be not available but if you don’t mind waiting and it’s cool with you. No worries if not.

Penelope

Now that I had met her, I could hear it all in her voice. And I could tell she’d written it fast, because it was way more

rambling and grammatically questionable than usual. But she told me her name, finally. She asked if we could hang out. She

did want to meet me! Our friendship—and maybe more—wasn’t totally in my head.

Sam was right: I should have asked her out sooner. And now, here I was, and here she was. Except I was Leandro, not Gil. And

she’d sent this before we’d started making out in casting booths.

What did that mean?

I called Grandpa Fred, hoping he was near his phone. Sometimes he left it to charge and wandered off. After a few rings, he

picked up.

“Hey, hey, if it isn’t little Bert!” Grandpa Fred’s voice boomed into my ear. “Aren’t you supposed to be incommunicado right

now, buddy?”

“Hey, Grandpa, yeah,” I said. “I’m still at the hotel. We can talk, I just can’t tell you how the contest is going.”

“Zip those lips. And before you figure out a slippery way to ask how I’m feeling, I’m fine. My blood sugar got away from me,

and your mom made a scene, but the doc isn’t worried.”

That explained the angry message.

“That’s good. I know how Mom can get.”

“She started going through my cabinets and fridge and checking the sugar content on every package. I told her if she threw anything out, I’d go to her house and return the favor with every bottle of rosé I found.”

I laughed. “You’d mess up your back trying to clear out her wine closet. She buys in bulk.”

“For her book clubs and whatnot, I know. It was not an idle threat. But what are you calling me for, huh? You bored or do

you have a story?”

In all the months I’d been writing to Penelope, I hadn’t said anything to my grandpa. I scooted back against the headboard

and crossed my legs in front of me, trying to figure out where to start.

“You know all the rules you gave me about showbiz?” I asked.

“Sure, yeah. I probably made some of them up on the spot, but not from nothing. Why?”

“I’m just wondering what to do about... you know, girlfriends?”

“Oh ho ho!” Grandpa Fred made a sound like he’d slapped his leg. “And here I thought you were hiding your love life from me,

like it was a dark secret.” He paused, but before I could say anything, he added, “So which rule exactly is the problem here?

Refresh my memory.”

“Rules one and two,” I said. “Be someone else and stay in character.” I banged my head against the headboard, then filled

him in on everything, starting with my first emails to Penelope and ending with an extremely edited version of the last few

days, plus the email.

“Ah, so. You had a good thing going with your pen pal, but you never made a move. And now she’s interested in Leandro Presto

instead of Gilberto Contreras, except they’re both you.”

“Yeah. Basically. I kept him separate like you said. Rule four: leave work at work. But I have to be on all the time here,

so I can’t do that. And now...”

“Aw, buddy.” Grandpa Fred must have sat down in his leather recliner, because I heard it creak and squeak. “You were always such a little lawyer. Not like your dad, though. You wanted rules so you’d know what to do, how to behave so your parents wouldn’t go for your neck.”

“It didn’t help,” I said quietly.

“No, it didn’t. Your dad wanted to be right, your mom wanted attention, and they fought like cats in a sack. Except you were

stuck in the sack with them, trying not to get scratched. But I digress. The thing is, kiddo, you’ve taken this alter ego

thing way too far. I know you enjoy being Leandro Presto, and that’s good, but not if you’re shutting out every other part

of your life.”

“But what about that stalker who—”

“The Stalker Incident, as you call it, is not your fault,” Grandpa Fred said, his voice hard. “I told you when it happened,

you didn’t do anything to make her go after you like that. Some people take things the wrong way and run with them, right

off a cliff.”