Page 6 of Witch You Would

with honey-blond hair that fell past her shoulders and a movie-star tan. Her pearly pink shirt belted at her waist, showing

off her curves, and her black pants were so tight, I wondered how she was going to bend over while casting. A chunky purse

hung from her bent arm, the expensive kind I’d only ever seen behind a counter guarded by women who wore too much perfume.

She sat in a chair and dug around inside her purse. Was she a celebrity? Another contestant? I’d ask when I finished with

the charm.

I retied the knots, muttering the usual incantation and gently feeding energy and intention into the working. With a satisfying

rush that made my arm hairs stand up, the spell settled and the charm got colder in my hand. I slipped it back under the platter,

wiggling my fingers to get the post-magic tingles out.

Heeled boots clicked on the floor behind me. I slapped on my customer service smile, but she was looking at the food, not

me.

“What are the ingredients in these?” she asked, gesturing at a box of croquetas. Her accent was more California than Miami, heavy on the vocal fry.

I checked the lid. Just the name of the bakery. “I don’t know.”

“Well, can you find out?”

“It might be on the bakery website, I guess.” I pulled out my phone to check.

She glared at me like I’d insulted her mom. Talk about icy blue eyes. “People could have allergies, you know. Ingredient lists

should be posted on all food items.”

A light bulb appeared over my head and clicked on. “I’m not crew. I’m a contestant.”

If she was embarrassed, she didn’t show it. Her chin went up, her lips got pouty, and she stalked back to her seat without

another word.

Wow. Rude.

The door opened again, and three people came in together. First was a tallish white guy, cute in a punk way, with a septum

piercing and spiked-up hair between dirty blond and light brown. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with three dinosaurs on

it, in the colors of the trans pride flag.

Second was an Asian woman, shorter and heavier than me, with shoulder-length black hair dyed pink at the ends. She had cat-eye

glasses in the same pink, and she wore an extremely adorable cottagecore dress covered in tiny flowers. Big kindergarten teacher

vibes.

Last was a Black dude with nearly shaved black hair, thick and shorter than the white guy but taller than me. His short-sleeved

green henley was tucked into his belted khakis, and he moved more slowly than the other two, like he knew how much time things

took and he wasn’t about to rush.

White Guy waved at Statuesque. “Hey, Felicia, there you are. We thought you missed the van.” His voice was mellow, his accent NPR with a twist.

“I got a ride with a PA,” Felicia replied without looking up from her phone.

He saw me and lit up like a Christmas tree, grinning so big I couldn’t help but grin back.

“You must be the missing contestant,” he said. “I’m Quentin, and this is Amy and Dylan.”

Amy smiled shyly, while Dylan stuck his chin out in greeting.

“I’m Penelope,” I said. “Are you from out of town, or...?”

“Oh, ya,” Quentin replied. “I’m from Minneapolis, Amy’s from Jersey, and Dylan is from Baltimore.”

He didn’t mention Felicia. Huh. “Nice. I’m from here. Miami, I mean.”

“Do you live on the beach?” Quentin asked.

“No way, too expensive. I don’t go to the beach unless I have to.”

“You don’t like the ocean?” Amy asked. Her voice was high and sweet.

“It’s okay to look at,” I said. “The sand, though, yuck. Gets all up in everywhere.”

Felicia made a disgusted noise. Quentin laughed nervously, his cheeks turning pink, and I realized what I’d just implied.

Ah! Subject change, go.

“Do you know who you’re partnered with?” I asked.

“Nope,” Quentin said.

“Isn’t it a secret?” Amy added.

Dylan hmmed, then said, “I bet we don’t find out until we’re on camera.” His voice sounded like it should come out of a subwoofer.

“I hope I get Jaya Kamath,” Amy said, fiddling with a charm hanging from her necklace. “I love her show.”

Before I could do a magical girl transformation into a Charlotte Sharp fangirl, Little Manny reappeared. “Penelope, hair and makeup time.”

I shoved my suitcase and backpack against the wall, then followed him to another one of the offices. Hair and makeup consisted

of folding tables, folding chairs, and floor-length mirrors propped against the wall. More mirrors sat on the tables, the

kind that magnified your face so you could count your pores. Two people, mid-chisme, stopped and stared at me with identical,

unreadable expressions.

“This is Fina and Bruno,” Little Manny said.

Fina reminded me of my tía Maria: soft and curvy, with a cheek-pinching vibe. Her magenta hair was pulled back so tight it

made my scalp hurt. Bruno was a young reincarnation of Walter Mercado, down to the blond hair and arched eyebrows.

“Mija, that shirt,” Bruno said. “It’s like a rubber duck.”

“Increíble,” Fina agreed.

I winced. “I have other shirts in my suitcase—”

“No, we can work with this,” Fina said, tapping her bright red lips with one long acrylic fingernail. “If wardrobe hates it,

they’ll fix you.”

“It will pop on camera,” Bruno added.

It would also be partly hidden by one of my work aprons, thankfully.

“What is it you do, mija?” Fina asked.

“I work in a store. Like, a botánica? As a spell technician.”

“Sounds nerdy.” Bruno waved his hand in a circle at me. “Turn around and take down your hair.”

I obeyed, shoving the hair tie in my pocket. Bruno and Fina sucked their teeth.

“When was the last time you cut it?” Bruno asked.

I had no idea. They muttered about split ends and hair products while I avoided looking at my reflection.

“Do the sloppy albóndigas,” Fina said. “We’ll go, cómo se dice, hipster.”

Hipster? Oh no. And what did meatballs have to do with hair?

They combed, yanked, pinned, and sprayed my curls into submission. Makeup followed, airbrushed foundation and eyeliner and

mascara and blush, plus eyeshadow and lipstick in colors way more exciting than I would have picked. The meatballs turned

out to be a pair of messy buns perched near the top of my head.

“What do you think?” Fina asked.

“Awesome!” Not. I looked like an anime character, which wouldn’t be a huge deal except that Charlotte Sharp would never take

me seriously.

“Come back here if you need us to fix anything,” Bruno said, flapping a hand at me.

“Good luck, mija,” Fina added.

I would certainly need it. Between the cold and my nerves, I’d gone from three shaky, peeing chihuahuas to a whole kennel.

Rachel came to collect me this time, a finger pressed to her earpiece like she was half-listening to someone. “Liam is ready

to mic you,” she said, hauling me back to the greenroom. On the way, we passed Little Manny, Felicia, and Amy going in the

other direction.

Liam turned out to be a smiling dude about nine feet tall with a pair of headphones around his neck. He looked at my shirt

and sighed like he wasn’t mad, just disappointed.

“Is that polyester?” he asked.

“Maybe?”

“Can you change?”

“Not without messing up my hair.”

“How would you feel about wearing a big hat?”

Rachel cut the air with her hand. “Absolutely not.”

They launched into an argument about clothing noise and mic placement. At some point Little Manny returned with Felicia, and

Rachel sent Quentin and Dylan off with him. She and Liam kept going until Liam said something about a hollowed-out pen and

I got an idea.

“Would this help?” I pulled an apron out of my backpack. Loosening the neck strap so I wouldn’t mess up my hair, I carefully

slid it over my head, tightened it, and tied it around my waist. My pencil and notebook went into a side pocket.

Liam stared at my chest with a puzzled half smile. Rachel raised her eyebrows.

Rosy bought me this apron for my birthday two years ago. It was a cute retro style, with red ruffled edges and nice big pockets.

I loved the print: white fabric with orange and red llamas and flaming hearts. “Las llamas de mi amor” was stitched in white

cursive font on the red heart-shaped chest pocket.

“Is that... inappropriate?” Rachel asked.

“No, it says ‘the flames of my love,’” I explained. “It’s a pun? The word for ‘flames’ is spelled the same as ‘llamas,’ but

it’s pronounced ‘yamas’—”

“As long as it isn’t bad. Liam, can you work with this?”

“I guess.” Liam taped a tiny microphone to the top of my apron, then tucked a transmitter thingy inside the top pocket. “Don’t

touch it,” he warned.

“I’ll guard it with my life,” I said solemnly.

He cracked a smile and moved on to Felicia, sitting stiffly on the couch, phone in hand. Another deep sigh escaped him as he muttered about silk being impossible. Eventually Amy came back, then Dylan and Quentin arrived together just as Liam finished with Amy.

“We’re getting close to camera time,” Rachel announced. “As soon as everyone is wired, I’ll be around to collect your phones,

tablets, laptops, and any other devices prohibited by the NDA. If you have any last messages to send, do it now.”

I whipped out my phone so fast, I nearly dropped it. I’d put it on do-not-disturb mode, which meant I hadn’t noticed a bunch

of calls and texts coming in. Rosy, my sister, and... oh no.

The voicemail from my boss was surprisingly short. “Penny, this is Ofelia. Since you’re not here, and you’re not taking my

calls, you’ve clearly made your choice. You can pick up your final paycheck when you return your keys. If anything goes missing,

I’ll tell the police you’re responsible.”

My mouth hung open in shock and disbelief. She’d actually done it. She’d fired me.

Seven years. For seven years, I busted my ass working for Ofelia, teaching myself everything I could to be a good spell technician,

quitting college so I could be full-time. Seven years and she’d just... dumped me in the trash like a used tissue.

“Are you okay?” Amy asked. “You look sick.”

What could I say? That my boss—former boss—was a spiteful jerk? That now I definitely had to win this show, or at least hope

Charlotte Sharp gave me a job that started literally as soon as we stopped filming or I wouldn’t be able to make rent next

month?

“I’m fine,” I lied.