Page 75 of Witch You Would
“What’s up with Amy?” I blurted out.
“We were going over what happened with her spell,” Penelope explained. “I wanted to take notes while it was still fresh inher mind.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s two spell disasters in a row. It has to be sabotage.”
“Yeah, no, totally. I was only wondering about the notes part.”
“Oh.” She frowned at her notebook. “I guess... I like fixing things. And figuring out how they went wrong. I thought maybeI could do that for Amy, or prove that she didn’t mess up. To help her feel a little better, you know?” She took a deep breathand looked at me. “Speaking of mess-ups.”
Oh no. My whole body tensed.
“I know this is getting old,” Penelope said, “but I’m really sorry. About yesterday.”
She was?
“I know you didn’t spill that potion on purpose. You wouldn’tdo that. You didn’t deserve to have me bitch at you about it. And the pressure cooker . . .” Penelope slouched down in her seat and looked up at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter. I was an asshole again. I’m sorry. I just wanted to say that up front. And I understand if sorry isn’t good enough, especially since this isn’t the first time. But I am. Sorry, I mean.”
That was a good start, I guess. My hurt feelings weren’t gone, but they felt better. Something she said snagged in my brain,though.
“What about the pressure cooker?” I asked.
“It’s a story. You don’t have to hear it. I don’t want it to sound like I’m trying to excuse myself, you know?”
“Do you want to tell me? No pressure.” I paused. “Pun not intended.”
She snorted a laugh. “I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t said anything.”
“I’m not kitten around right meow,” I said solemnly.
Her shoulders dropped an inch, but she fiddled with the straw in her drink, swirling the ice around inside. The plastic lidcreaked.
“I always used to help my abuela with her spells when I was little,” Penelope said, staring at the blank screen like she waswatching a movie of her memories. “She met my abuelo when they were both in college; she was studying magic theory, and hewas going to be a doctor.”
“Not a curandero?”
“No, he was getting his Doctor en Medicina, though I think in Cuba the program covered some healing magic, too? I’m not sure.Anyway.” She sighed. “They fell in love, they graduated, they got married. My aunt was born, and my abuela pretty much becamea housewife.”
“Pretty much?”
Penelope grinned, a quick flash of teeth. “The wife of a doctor, working? No me diga. She never stopped learning, though, and making spells for people. When they moved here from Cuba with my aunt and my mom, they lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Hialeah, and she supported the family with her magic while my abuelo struggled to get a job. He couldn’t be a doctor here unless he did his residency again, and took all his exams, and they couldn’t afford it. Eventually he sold cars.”
“Wow. That’s a big change.” And here I’d been complaining about being an adjunct-slash–internet celebrity.
“They made it work.” She sipped her drink. “Anyway. My sister and I grew up learning spells from my abuela. There was alwaysa language thing because I was born here, speaking mostly English—both my parents learned young, and we spoke it at home morethan Spanish. I sometimes had trouble understanding her directions, or figuring out which reagents she wanted, but she wasalways super patient with me.” Her voice cracked, her eyes watery and her nose turning red.
Quietly, I asked, “When did she die?”
Penelope sniffled. “She isn’t dead. She has dementia. For years now. She’s there physically, but otherwise she’s gone.”
God. I could only imagine.
“When I was sixteen,” Penelope said, “I was more... I don’t know, confident? But I procrastinated a lot. I wanted to casta spell on my own, for my abuela’s birthday, but I left it to the last minute. It was a simple soap enchantment. I’d donethem so many times...”
“You tried to pressure-cook it.”
“Yeah.” She rubbed her face with one hand. “It probably wouldn’thave been so bad if I hadn’t mixed up an ingredient. Put in a teaspoon of spearmint instead of bay leaves for the catalyst.”
