Page 5 of Witch You Would
She stared at me, lips pressed together in a red line, then slid her glasses back on and returned her attention to the computer.
“Get to work on that counterspell,” Ofelia said. “I left the original instructions out for you.”
I stood up, clenching my notebook so hard, the spiral wire dug into my palm. I was halfway out the door when she stopped me.
“Before you go,” she added, “I know you asked for time off, but under the circumstances, I think you’d better reschedule yourlittle trip with your sister. Hmm?”
I did my best impression of a fish. “I can’t. It’s tomorrow.”
“This job doesn’t come with vacation time, and you’ve called in sick more than usual in the past few months. I was being generousbecause you’ve worked here for so long, but today’s incident tells me you take this position for granted.”
I worked at least ten hours a day, every single day except Mondays. I almost always came to work sick, and I hadn’t takenvacation time in seven years—except for threeCast Judgmentauditions and interviews that couldn’t be scheduled on Mondays.
I didn’t take the blame for the customer’s problem, and now she was yanking my leash.
“We agreed on this weeks ago,” I said. “I can’t cancel the day before.”
Ofelia looked at me over the top of her glasses. “If you’re not here tomorrow, I may have to make some hard decisions. I hopewe understand each other.” She turned away, pretending I was already gone.
I leaned against the wooden table in the casting area. Was she threatening to fire me? Seriously? I ran this damn store while she had brunch mimosas with her friends. Tracking inventory, ordering stock, casting spells, helping people with technical questions, answering phones and emails . . . I had even started making extra money doing spell demonstrations at the library branch in the shopping center. The only thing Ofelia did was double-check theaccounting stuff and make the bank deposits, because she was paranoid that I might steal money from her.
What if she wasn’t bluffing, though? She had a bad temper. If I lost my job, my life would explode like hair fireworks. Ihad an associate’s degree in magical theory, which meant I was competing with a bazillion other people for any entry-levelposition that didn’t require a PhD and ten years of experience. Working at Espinosa’s was as close as I would ever get tomy dream job unless a miracle happened.
Cast Judgmentmight be that miracle.
If I won, I’d have $100,000 to live on, and I could work on my abuela’s spellbook.
If I won. A big “if.”
My parents and I almost never talked, but I could hear their voices in my head, especially my mom’s:Remember when we told you not to stay in Miami for college? Look how that turned out. Don’t risk your job. Don’t make thesame mistake again, thinking you’re better than you are.
I was a spell technician-slash-salesgirl at a magic supply shop. End of story.
Unless it was just the beginning.
I’d made it on the show, hadn’t I? Beaten thousands of people in the audition process? That had to mean something. Forgetmy parents: my abuela wouldn’t want me to give up now.
I had to take this chance, or I’d regret it forever.
First, I had to make the counterspell for Sparkles. I put out the bell with the “Ring for Service” sign on the counter andmade sure the anti-theft freezer charms were all in place on the shelves. Then I tied on an apron, put on my safety glasses,and started assembling and checking my reagents.
When I remembered to drink my coffee, it was already cold.
Chapter 2
Gil
When I first started making videos, my grandpa Fred told me, “Gil, you need a persona. A character. Someone you can leaveonstage when you go home to your future wife. Rule number one: be someone else.”
The trick to creating a memorable persona, he’d said, was to focus on a few specific, exaggerated details. People might notnotice someone’s hair or eye color, or the shape of their nose, but they’d remember a wacky hat and tie.
More importantly, when you took off the hat and tie, the odds of the same people recognizing you went way down.
That’s why I sat in the passenger seat of my friend Sam’s car wearing a tacky pink dress shirt covered in not just red andwhite flowers, but also tiny squares in a random pattern. I’d rolled up the sleeves almost to my elbows, and left the bottomuntucked so it hung over my baggy jeans.
My Leandro Presto style: thrift shop bargains, two sizes two big.
Sam was a fashion icon by comparison. She wore a T-shirt that read, “Cinematographers do it from behind” and, in much smaller font underneath, “the lens.” Her short hair was amethyst purple, while mine was slicked back with gel that tinted it a few shades darker. Eyemakeup made her blue eyes pop; black-framed safety glasses made my dark eyes look smaller. My fake mustache was firmly attached, and thank god spirit gum was sweat-resistant, because it was hot as balls even with the AC blowing at my face. All practical, no illusion magic, also per Grandpa Fred’s advice; illusions didn’t always show up on video, I couldn’t trust them not to go wrong at a bad time, and some people carried enchantments to see through them.
