Witch You Would

The customer’s blue ombré hair spell sparked like fireworks as he leaned across the counter, ranting about how I was the worst spell caster in Miami. I hid my nerves behind my best helpful-employee smile.

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“Get your manager,” he snapped. Literally, he snapped his fingers at me.

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“I’m the only one here, sir.” Just me and my pepper spray.

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Espinosa’s Spell Supplies was so small, I didn’t have much room to move if he got violent. I’d have to run through a maze of shelves, knocking over bottles and tins and prayer candles, then dramatically throw myself through a floor-to-ceiling glass window to get outside, because the door opened inward. Bleeding to death on the sidewalk of a strip mall would suck. I could duck out the back door, through the workshop and storage room, but if I survived and any- thing was missing or messed up, my boss would kill me herself.

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I needed to stop catastrophizing. It was super unhealthy.

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“I have a very important interview! I can’t go there with hair like this!”

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I’d been having important interviews for months, and I’d somehow managed not to yell at random retail workers.