Page 5 of Witch You Would

If I could travel back in time and kick Past Penelope for thinking today would be a triumphant montage to the tune of “Victory

Is Sweet,” my butt would already have a bruise.

I woke up before my alarm went off, worried I’d sleep through it. My curly hair refused to cooperate, so I pulled it back

in a ponytail and prayed for professional stylist intervention. A button popped off my shirt, right under my boobs. All my

other nice shirts were packed and I’d had to sit on the suitcase to close it; the only one I had left was a fake-silk peasant

shirt in a once-trendy shade of yellow that would make people ask who wore it better, me or a rubber duck.

I had planned to make scrambled eggs and toast like a real adult, but the button debacle made me late, so I poured store-brand

chocolate puffs from the bag directly into my mouth while driving. I splurged on an online coffee order, then spilled it in

the parking lot because the lid was loose. Ahh!

The sun was perfectly positioned to stab my eyes for the longest hour and a half of my life, in bumper-to-bumper traffic from Kendall to Wynwood.

By the time I got there, my head ached from lack of sleep and caffeine, and people honking at each other as if it would magically make rush hour go away. Magic had its limits.

Why didn’t I go to the hotel the night before? Why did I think sleeping in my own bed would be better? Right, because I’m

a comemierda.

The long drive gave me plenty of time to think about Leandro Presto. I’d been such an asshole to him. I’d spent hours casting,

then waiting for that shitty customer to pick up his counterspell, then Rosy had dragged me to the park... Leandro screwing

up yet another spell was the sprinkles on my bad day sundae. But no matter how much he annoyed me, I shouldn’t have let it

turn me into an evil, cranky monster.

If I ever saw him again, I’d apologize better. Maybe I’d email him after the show finished filming? By then, he’d probably

have forgotten I existed.

I was also definitely not going to think about how he was cuter in person, especially when he smiled. Nope. No me meto en

eso. Rosy could stay president of the Bad Mustache Fan Club without me. I could look, though. Respectfully.

And what was that casual dropping of the theory of compositional conformity? He’d played it off, but I wasn’t sure I bought

his act.

There had to be more to Leandro Presto than it seemed. Sort of like how pro wrestling was fake, but the moves were real. Not

that I’d ever find out, so why did I care?

To distract myself from my own bad brain, I called my sister. She should be driving to work now, too, and Atlanta traffic

was almost as bad as Miami. Worse, according to her.

Emelia answered on the third ring. “What’s up, Penelup?”

“The sky, Emeli,” I replied. “On my way to the thing.”

“On a scale of capybara to chihuahua in a thunderstorm, how nervous are you right now?”

“Three chihuahuas, and they all have to pee.”

“Well, don’t do that on camera. Unless you think it will help you win.”

“Bold strat, but I’ll pass. How are you?”

“Dealing with work stuff, as usual. Don’t get me started. We are all about you right now, and how you’re awesome.”

Was I awesome? I didn’t feel that way. Not after yesterday, and especially last night.

“Do I hate fun?” I blurted out.

Emelia paused. “Did someone tell you that? Give me a name and I’ll call Javi.”

Our cousin Javi was nine feet tall, with hands as big as stop signs. The thought of him picking up Leandro Presto by his weird

shirt and growling in his face was kinda funny, but also not nice. He wasn’t even the person who’d said it.

“No Javi. No bullying people for telling the truth.”

“It’s not the truth. But...”

“But?”

Emelia snickered. “You said ‘butt.’”

“You said it first!”

“You can be fun,” Emelia said. “Sometimes you’re just a little... reply guy.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Like, you hate it when people are wrong on the internet.”

“Okay, but—”

“You said ‘butt’ again!”

“—I don’t go around telling people they’re wrong.” Except for that time I literally emailed Gil to correct him—oh my GOD. I sighed and banged my forehead on the steering wheel. It gave a tiny surprised beep.

“You get salty. It’s not healthy, that’s all I’m saying.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“I’m always right. So listen to your extremely right big sister: Stop stressing about this. Stop overthinking. Normal amounts

of thinking only for the next two weeks. Okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“They picked you for this show because they liked what they saw in auditions. Be that person and you’ll be fine.”

That person was the happy customer service personality I used at work every day, so that shouldn’t be too hard. I hoped.

We shot the shit until I pulled up in front of a giant concrete warehouse that looked like every other warehouse around it,

down to the spelled graffiti art shimmering and shifting along one wall. The parking lot and all the streets were packed with

cars, a catering truck, and multiple trailers. A few people carrying plastic bins walked past me like they had places to be,

others leaned against the wall or chatted, others were glued to their phones.

An earpiece-wearing, tablet-wielding man in a navy polo shirt with a hexafoil logo checked my ID and pronounced me allowed

to be there, then a valet handed me a ticket and drove away in my ancient sedan, probably to another lot or garage somewhere.

I realized I’d left my coffee cup in the car, so that was going to smell great in two weeks. Too late now.

Or not. I could still rush back to Espinosa’s and pretend this was all a dream.

No! I’d made it this far, and I wouldn’t give up. If I could just get partnered with Charlotte Sharp, even if we lost, I knew

my whole life would change.

I got a grip on myself and my luggage and opened the door.

A weirdly normal office waiting room greeted me. Cream-colored walls with generic abstract artwork, chocolate-brown chairs,

lighter brown carpet tiles on the floor. A reception desk in the corner with a fake orchid and a phone. Nothing else.

It was also freezing. I tried not to shiver.

A woman stepped through a door in the far wall. She also had a navy polo shirt, an earpiece, and a tablet. The corporate uniform,

I guess?

“Penelope Delmar?” she asked.

“That’s me,” I replied, maximum cheerful.

“I’m Rachel, production manager.” She tapped and swiped on the tablet. “Did you read today’s schedule?”

Only like ten times. Twenty, max. “We’re doing individual interviews, meeting the hosts and judges, then meeting our celebrity

partners?”

“Correct. Pair interviews after that. Lunch should be around one, dinner around six, then we have a night shoot at another

location before we wrap.”

“Quadruple cafecito day, got it.” I hesitated, then asked casually, “Do you know who we’re being partnered with?”

“It’s a surprise for you.” Tap, tap, swipe, tap. “Remember, before we start filming, I’ll be collecting everyone’s cell phones,

tablets, and computers. Per the terms of your NDA, you’ll get your personal items back temporarily on day six, but under no

circumstances are you permitted to share any information regarding the status of the competition. Emergency protocols are

in your handbook. Your social media accounts are also being monitored, so don’t try anything cute.”

“Don’t want the lawyer ninjas coming after me,” I joked.

She flashed a fake smile as she spoke into a microphone clipped to her collar, presumably attached to the walkie-talkie on her hip. “Little Manny! Front desk.”

Little Manny bounced in. He looked younger than me, with thick green glasses and short black hair. Instead of a polo, he wore

a hoodie over a black T-shirt and jeans.

“Take Penelope to the greenroom,” Rachel said. “The rest of the contestants should be coming from the hotel soon.”

Little Manny held the door for me. We crossed a big, open area with one lonely cubicle that hadn’t been ripped out. Along

the walls were separate offices with empty nameplates on their doors, except one with an LED sign that was turned off.

“I should have brought a jacket,” I said, rubbing my arms. “I didn’t realize it would be so cold.”

“Yeah, they keep it like sixty-five in here,” Little Manny said.

The store was always seventy-eight degrees. I didn’t have to worry about winning; I was going to die of hypothermia. I pictured

myself blue-skinned and covered in icicles like the guy in that horror movie with the ghost hotel. And I was catastrophizing

again.

“Is there a Big Manny?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Little Manny replied. “And Just Manny.”

“So many Mannys.”

Little Manny pushed his glasses up. “That’s why we have different names.”

“Right. So Big Manny, Little Manny, and Manny?”

“Not Manny, ‘Just Manny.’”

“Ah. Got it.” I did not got it.

Little Manny led me to an office with a printed paper sign taped to the door: “Greenroom.” Inside were a love seat, chairs,

and a few side tables, plus a long table at one end covered in food and a minifridge full of drinks. Cozy-ish, in a college-meeting-room

way.

“Snacks and drinks are for anyone,” Little Manny said. “Hair and makeup should be ready for you soon.”

“Cool, thanks.”

When in doubt, stress-eat. A box of pastelitos de queso called my name, and I’d inhaled two before I realized I should leave

some for other people. I slid sideways to the fruit and veggie platters, helping myself to a grape because the celery looked

sus.

It was weirdly warm, for a grape. Hmm. I peeked under the serving dish; someone had tied the cooling charm backward. I pulled

it out and started separating the strands of knotted yarn.

The door to the room opened and a woman who looked a little older than me walked in. I’d learned the word “statuesque” for

a vocab quiz in high school, and wondered when I would ever use it. Well, here she was. Statuesque had to be six feet tall,