Page 3 of Witch You Would
When I first started making videos, my grandpa Fred told me, “Gil, you need a persona. A character. Someone you can leave
onstage when you go home to your future wife. Rule number one: be someone else.”
The trick to creating a memorable persona, he’d said, was to focus on a few specific, exaggerated details. People might not
notice someone’s hair or eye color, or the shape of their nose, but they’d remember a wacky hat and tie.
More importantly, when you took off the hat and tie, the odds of the same people recognizing you went way down.
That’s why I sat in the passenger seat of my friend Sam’s car wearing a tacky pink dress shirt covered in not just red and
white flowers, but also tiny squares in a random pattern. I’d rolled up the sleeves almost to my elbows, and left the bottom
untucked so it hung over my baggy jeans.
My Leandro Presto style: thrift shop bargains, two sizes two big.
Sam was a fashion icon by comparison. She wore a T-shirt that read, “Cinematographers do it from behind” and, in much smaller font underneath, “the lens.” Her short hair was amethyst purple, while mine was slicked back with gel that tinted it a few shades darker.
Eye makeup made her blue eyes pop; black-framed safety glasses made my dark eyes look smaller.
My fake mustache was firmly attached, and thank god spirit gum was sweat-resistant, because it was hot as balls even with the AC blowing at my face.
All practical, no illusion magic, also per Grandpa Fred’s advice; illusions didn’t always show up on video, I couldn’t trust them not to go wrong at a bad time, and some people carried enchantments to see through them.
In the back seat, Ed messed with levels on the audio receiver, his dark head bent over the bag. He wore a pink shirt and glasses,
too, but his polo actually fit, and he needed his glasses to see. Where Sam stood out, Ed tended to relax in the background.
We’d been partners in Mage You Look for years, roommates and best friends for much longer.
Headlights streamed back and forth in the street as the last strip of orange sky faded to velvety blue. About fifteen people
stood in the grass at the park outside, surrounded by a jogging trail and palm trees, a sand-filled playground nearby. Some
teenagers giggled their way up a toddler-sized climbing wall and down a curved plastic slide. Pretty good for a last-minute
announcement to my “live recording”–tier subscribers. The place had closed at sunset; we didn’t have a permit for filming,
but it wouldn’t be the first time cops had kicked us out.
I unlocked my phone and tapped the email app. Nothing new.
“Waiting for Cast Judgment stuff, or did you email her again?” Sam stretched out “her” so it had three syllables.
I knew which “her” Sam meant: Penelope. I’d emailed her a little after lunch. Usually she wrote back faster, so she must have
been busy. Unless the witch picture had crossed the line from flirty to gross?
“Aren’t we really close to where she works?” Sam asked. “You could literally go over there now and ask her out.”
“It’s closed already.” Not that I hadn’t picked this park on the off chance that she might magically show up. Every time I’d
decided I would call her, or surprise her at the store, I’d chickened out. I could make a fool of myself for thousands of
strangers, but I couldn’t talk to the girl I liked.
“You need to fortify and do the thing.”
Ed passed me the wireless mic, and I clipped it to my shirt collar.
“She hasn’t even told me her name.” I got it from the friend who’d recommended her shop, who said the owner was never around
and the cute tech answered all the emails.
“You know her favorite ice cream flavor and her shoe size, my dude.”
And then some. “I don’t want to assume she’s interested.”
“You’re not assuming if you. Ask. Her.” Sam punctuated each word with a flick to my forehead. Ow.
I rubbed the place she’d flicked. “It’s not just that. It’s the Leandro thing.”
“You’re not a superhero, Gil,” Sam said. “Your rules are smart, but even with the Stalker Incident, you don’t have to be this
extreme about your secret identity.”
Maybe that was true when I first started making these videos, but not anymore. And not only because of the Stalker Incident.
Grandpa Fred warned me: the bigger you get, the more gravity you have, and the more people want to be sucked into your orbit.
Anyway, I didn’t want to argue about this again. Not when I was about to potentially get even more popular.
“You said you had something to talk about earlier?” I asked.
Sam tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, all serious now. “We’ve been thinking. Viewership and engagement metrics are good, we’re getting more sponsor and ad requests . . .”
“Right.” Where was this going?
“But we think you should skip the step-by-step demonstration videos.”
What? “I have to do those. People are subscribed to that tier.”
“Sixteen people. It’s a waste of time we could be using to make more short content.”
A waste of time I enjoyed. A lot. I liked coming up with spells and recording goofy videos and making people laugh, but I
really loved explaining how it all worked. My grad school cohort had moved away, my thesis advisor had moved on, and none
of my friends wanted to casually chat about intangible components, or Sina’s correspondent distillation, or how applications
of the law of participation could improve spell effectiveness. Sam and Ed cared about how the spells would look on camera
and whether they’d go viral, but their eyes got that I don’t get it look when I tried to get into the theory. My Doctor Witch blog scratched the itch a little, but otherwise, the only person I could really talk to about this stuff was Penelope.
So why didn’t I go talk to her already? Ugh. Loser.
“Until we get rid of that tier, we have to do it,” I said.
“So we get rid of it. Give refunds. It’ll save us more money than we’ll lose. Those videos get no traffic and no ad money,
and they take Ed forever to finish.”
“Not forever,” Ed said. “But it’s not an efficient use of our time or budget.”
Sam stopped tapping and unlocked the doors. “I’m just saying, think about it. Especially if things change after this contest.”
“I hear you.” I didn’t like it, but Mage You Look wasn’t my show. We were a team. “When I get back in two weeks, we can decide.”
“Fair enough.”
I got out of the car and grabbed my box of supplies from the trunk. Sam and Ed joined me, each carrying their gear, and together
we headed toward the crowd.
“Hey, everyone!” I said. “Just have to set up, and then we’ll get started.”
A few people cheered, and one asked, “What spell are you doing tonight?”
“A little something I like to call: ‘U Jelly, Bro?’” I put the box on a picnic table and started taking things out.
Within minutes, I’d placed camping lanterns around where I would be performing, adding to the camera light and floodlights
and nearly full moon. I slipped a bottle of water into my back pocket, then put my premixed plastic baggie of reagents and
another baggie with the catalyst into a side pocket. Last was the mason jar where I’d combine the ingredients, a small hole
punched in the lid to control the initial size of the emanation.
“Let me know when you’re ready, Ed,” Sam yelled, peeking over the monitor of her shoulder-mounted DSLR.
Ed dangled from the top of the nearby swing set, adjusting the wide-angle sport cam he’d clamped to the metal frame. He gave
her a thumbs-up and climbed down, heading for another tripod-mounted DSLR off to the side.
My heart rate sped up like it always did before a performance. I let the stage fright have its moment. The spell would work
because I’d practiced it three times and triple-checked my reagents. I went over my script in my head again: solid. I smoothed
down my mustache with my thumb and forefinger.
A couple more people jumped out of a car in the parking lot, so I gave them time to join the audience.
They were cute: a Black woman in an orange uniform polo and a tan brunette wearing a black T-shirt with the Frogtail logo on it.
I had one just like it, since I bought a lot of their herbs.
They had really nice customer reps. Mine was Greg.
And I’d been staring at her chest for like ten solid seconds. Classy.
“Ready Freddy,” I said.
Sam started recording, the camera light flashing into my eyes.
I spread my arms wide and faced the crowd. “Hello, mages!” I boomed. “Welcome to another unforgettable episode of...”
“ Mage You Look !” everyone shouted in unison.
“Tonight’s spell,” I continued, “is a request from a subscriber who has a happy memory involving bioluminescent jellyfish.
Remember, mages: don’t try this at home.”
I unscrewed the lid of the mason jar and wedged it under my arm, then pulled the bottle of water from my back pocket and poured
it inside. The plastic baggie was next; I dumped the contents into the jar as I rattled off the quantities and how I’d prepared
them. I must have gone too fast, because Ed used the slow down hand motion.
Frogtail Shirt whispered something to her friend. Three people shushed her.
I screwed the lid back on, plugged the hole with my palm, and shook the jar, murmuring an incantation under my breath as I
infused the mixture with my intention. The water turned inky black; people oohed. I held up the jar to distract them while
I slipped my hand into my pocket and palmed the next reagent.
“And now, the catalyst.” With an exaggerated flick of the wrist, I made a dried shrimp appear in my hand. “This delicious crustacean helps jellyfish glow.” I pretended to eat it, and everyone laughed.
Except Frogtail. She looked grossed out.
“When I add this shrimp and say the magic word, a cute little glowing jellyfish is going to fly out of the jar.” I dangled
the shrimp above the opening in the jar’s lid, waggling my eyebrows as I looked across the crowd.
Frogtail said something again. Someone hissed at her.