Page 13 of Witch You Would
“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-roomway.
“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 leavesome for other people. I slid sideways to the fruit and veggie platters, helping myself to a grape because the celery lookedsus.
It was weirdly warm, for a grape. Hmm. I peeked under the serving dish; someone had tied the cooling charm backward. I pulledit 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” fora vocab quiz in high school, and wondered when I would ever use it. Well, here she was. Statuesque had to be six feet tall,with honey-blond hair that fell past her shoulders and a movie-star tan. Her pearly pink shirt belted at her waist, showingoff her curves, and her black pants were so tight, I wondered how she was going to bend over while casting. A chunky pursehung 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 withthe charm.
I retied the knots, muttering the usual incantation and gently feeding energy and intention into the working. With a satisfyingrush 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, notme.
“What are the ingredients in these?” she asked, gesturing at abox 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 listsshould 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 withoutanother 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 septumpiercing and spiked-up hair between dirty blond and light brown. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with three dinosaurs onit, 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-eyeglasses in the same pink, and she wore an extremely adorable cottagecore dress covered in tiny flowers. Big kindergarten teachervibes.
Last was a Black dude with nearly shaved black hair, thick and shorter than the white guy but taller than me. His short-sleevedgreen henley was tucked into his belted khakis, and he moved more slowly than the other two, like he knew how much time thingstook 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.
