Page 101 of The Witching Hours

One of the things I like most about Cass is that she’s punctual as Phileas Fogg. Ironically, one of the things I like least about Cass is that she’s never late, which highlights the factthat I’m serially tardy. It’s not that psychology thing where I’m secretly saying I’m most important. I swear it’s not that. I’m just not as organized and not as good at practical math.

She always says punctuality is just mathematics. Figure out what time you have to be ready and work backwards. Sounds easy. Right?Sigh.

When my phone lights up with a text that she is in the driveway, waiting, I check the way my scarf is tied one more time, decide I don’t like it one more time, re-tie, and finally decide scarves look stupid on me because they’re for people who are on editorial fashion shoots, rich or middle aged. I’m not rich and I don’t want to be middle aged. So, I throw it on the bed thinking it should probably be keeping company with yesterday’s cake and dip.

“Coming!” I yell like she can hear me.

She gives me her brightest smile as I climb into the passenger side of her cute as hell Mini Cooper. I’d insist on driving my tank if we were getting on freeways, but my calculations had us navigating city streets the whole way there.

“You do not look a day over thirty-five!”

“So, no one is going to assume you’re my daughter?”

She laughed. “That only happened that one time.”

“Right.”

“And it was because I was dressed too young for my age.”

“That part is true. You were experimenting with being Lindsay Lohan’s mom.”

“Guilty.”

“But you look great as a grown up.”

“I do, don’t I.” It wasn’t a question. Cass didn’t have self-esteem issues and doesn’t understand why anybody does. She won the parent lottery, meaning her mom and dad thought she was physically flawless from head to toe. They also thought herpersonality was unsurpassed, perfection in thought, word, and deed.Sigh. Maybe in my next life.

“You wore wedges!”

“Yeah?” She glanced at the foot on the accelerator.

“We’re going to be walking, Cass. Did you do that just to show me up?”

She looked confused. “Uh. No? I like these shoes.”

“They can’t be comfortable.”

“They are!”

“How? Oh. Never mind. Shoes aren’t ever uncomfortable on you because you weight ninety pounds.”

She burst out laughing. “I donotweigh ninety pounds. I’m pretty sure my skeleton weighs more than that. You and that Irish hyperbole!”

“It’s too early for six syllable words.”

“That was a four-syllable word.”

“Also, too early for knit picking.”

Cass had been an English major who’s most annoying habit was calling restaurant managers over to point out mistakes on menus. She was one of a large pool of people who’d never expected to be terrorized by something called artificial intelligence. She liked to say, “If my thunder is going to be stolen, at least let it be a person and not a machine.”

I had to agree.

“Regardless… Oh, did you hear? Irregardless is now a word. Officially.”

“Shut up.”

“Hand to God and theOxford Dictionary.”

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