Rosy cackled. "How do his subscribers come up with this stuff?"
"Why does he do whatever they pay him to?"
"You do, too. At least he's having fun."
I put my head down on the counter again. She was right. My life was devoid of fun. A perfect example was waiting at the store.
"Sorry," Rosy said, putting away her phone. "I know there's stuff you can't do because of money. And time."
Fact. I'd been trying for years to translate and test the spells in my abuela's spellbook. It was the only thing of hers I'd wanted when she got sick and my relatives started claiming stuff, and thankfully, no one fought me over it. I hated confrontation. That was why I didn't do personal casting with store equipment—Ofelia would give me shit.
I had no good options, though, not for space or supplies or time. My efficiency's kitchenette was tiny; public library casting spaces and casting collectives got booked up fast; and coworking rentals were way out of my budget. Even if I got reagents at cost from our suppliers, I could only buy so much, because most of my pay went to rent, food, and bills. And I only had one day off every week, which I used for errands and chores before passing out watching TV or reading. So no side projects for me.
Why was this my life? All work, no play. But if I slowed down, flamed out, it would prove my parents right. Again. I would rather deal with a hundred shitty customers.
"Speaking of money and time..."
Oh no. Don't ask about the thing.
"Did you hear from the Cast Judgment people?"
She'd asked about the thing. "If I did, I couldn't tell you." I'd signed a nondisclosure agreement longer than a pharmacy receipt. I expected lawyers to jump out of the bushes like ninjas if I even thought about the show too hard. They probably would have put a geas on me to shut me up, if it weren't illegal.
Rosy mimed zipping her lips, then left to take someone's order. I stared at my warped reflection in the napkin dispenser. Did my internal freak-out show on my face?
Cast Judgment was a reality show, a spell-casting competition in its tenth season. Contestants were given themes and briefs, and they'd have one or two days to design and cast a spell for the judges. At the end of each round, one person was eliminated. The winner got a ginormous cash prize and a yearlong residency at the Desgraves Studio, a super-fancy magical arts center here in Miami.
Free workshop space, reagents, and equipment I could only drool over in catalogs... Yes, please. Even the losers got a boost spin-off shows or spellbook deals or job offers. Competing on Cast Judgment was a total life changer.
And starting tomorrow, I was going to be on the show.
They were calling this season the Spellebrity Edition because every contestant would have a celebrity teammate. Two of the five had been announced, but I only cared about one: Charlotte Sharp.
Charlotte was the owner of Athame Arts, an artisanal spell company with stores in New York, Miami, Chicago, Los Angeles... She was rich, and famous, and talented, and she had started in a tiny shop, like me.
In my fantasies, after we won, she'd offer me a job. I'd humbly accept, and we'd jump into a fancy convertible spelled not to ruin our perfect hairstyles as we rode into the sunset. Though, technically, riding into the sunset in Miami meant driving into the Everglades to get eaten by gators... No! Bad Penelope. No catastrophizing. No gators, only good hair.
It had taken bribes, begging, and straight-up lying to get two weeks off work for filming and promo. Even if I lost in round one, I had to stay in a hotel with the other contestants until the whole thing was over, for NDA reasons or something. I wanted to tell Rosy so bad, but she lived on chisme; she'd never keep it to herself, and then the lawyer ninjas would attack.
The only person I trusted with the secret was my sister Emelia, who'd signed her own NDA. She was my emergency contact and alibi. Our cover story: spa retreat at a cabin on some Georgia mountain with no internet. Eme had also helped me forward my number to her phone somehow so she could cover for me, but that hadn't started yet.
My cell played a demonic growl, popping my thought bubbles. Someone had emailed the work account, which I'd set up on my phone with an alert because Ofelia wouldn't let me use the computer in her office.
I checked the preview and a cloud of glittery pink hearts floated around my head like foggy butterflies.
"I know that look," Rosy said. "You got a G-mail!"
"Maybe." Totally.
The "G" was Gil—Gilberto Contreras. He ran a blog called Doctor Witch, where he helped people with spell problems and shared recipes that actually worked. We'd been emailing for months. It started with him asking whether Espinosa's carried a specific beetle wing, but every store had run out, including ours. I called around and found some up in Lauderhill, and he was super grateful. Out of curiosity, I clicked the link in his auto-signature and read a few of his posts. Good stuff! Then I found his picture and my soul left my body. So, so hot.
