Page 20 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
“What?” my gram-gram stutters, utterly flabbergasted, as I was.
“Thank you! I’m not the only one who thought reality TV was justthat. I just need to ensure that the network and, more importantly, the viewers, want me to win. All they care about is their ratings and image.”
“I hope America enjoys bitchy witches,” she deadpans.
I cringe. I changed before going home, so all that’s new is my rockin’ hair.
“It’s. . .complicated.”
Gram snorts out a chuckle.
“What are they making you do? I knew the hair wasn’t your choice.”
“It was,” I defende. “At least, the color was. The network just thinks there needs to be a hippie witch.”
Now, Gram hoots with laughter.
“You,a hippie? Is this a gameshow or a comedic sitcom?”
“Funny, real funny,” I grumble under my breath. “Besides, I can’t be the witch bitch that I am; the network already chose one—Bellamy.”
His name comes out in such a twist of disgust that Gram immediately knows that I’m referring to the Putnam coven member. She tsks in reproval, like it’smyfault that he’s on the show.
“Evanora, listen to me, you have to win, no matter the cost.”
“That’s a tall order and some steep-ass stakes. What if the cost is someone’s left toe or some equally fucked up shit?”
“I don’t care if the cost is my right eye! Just win!”
“Gross. Don’t put that out into the universe. Positive vibes only.”
“Ugh, child, please. Just because they’re making you play a hippie doesn’t mean you have to sound like one.”
“You want me to win, right? This is the cost,” I taunt.
“I’ll mourn the loss of your personality. But, on a happy note, now you might get laid! Men love perky witches.”
“Thanks, Gram-Gram,” I toss caustically before stomping away.
I flip her the bird when I’m in the kitchen and well out of her sight.
“I saw that!” she yells, and I quickly tuck my hand away.
I’m not convinced that Gram-Gram having magic is a good thing.
* * *
The next morning, I slap on my game face. I know that I’m going to have to bring it hardcore for America to prefer me and to be someone worth keeping on the show in the network’s eyes. I don’t bother doing my hair or make-up. Preston reassured me that they would take care of all that, which really wasn’t reassuring at all, but if it made me the apple of the American audience’s eye, then, so be it.
Gram-Gram is waiting for me downstairs with a present.
“For good luck,” she tells me as she shoves the box into my hands.
“It better not be something weird!” I call out as I race to my car.
All I see in my rearview mirror is her cryptic smile.
I speed to Boston, thanking my lucky pentagrams that I don’t get pulled over. Once parked, I nab Gram’s gift and dash into the studio. I’m not late, but Preston impressed upon me the importance of arriving early and being cooperative. The network doesn’t want to work with a high maintenance drama queen who can’t tell time—not that I blame them.
