Chapter Two - Potentially Bright Future
Cyrene
I know a lot of girls would give anything to become a witch and that I sound ungrateful when I say I don’t want to be one. Here’s the thing: Being a witch is hard. There’s no school of magic, no Hogwarts or a special academy where you can go to learn the art of magic. Witches are witches by birth, skipping a generation, so there’s nothing you can learn from your momma and the generation gap is even wider with grandmas. That is, if I had a grandma. You are supposed to figure things out all on your own or find them in a grimoire. All families of witches have grimoires, but they are HUGE, old, fragile and un-indexed. If you want to find something, there’s no spell for it. You have to manually go through hundreds of pages until you land on the one you are looking for. And, even then, you have to find weird-ass ingredients to make potions. And I respect myself too much to ask Minerva or any other witch for help.
I spend the next three days wracking my brains to figure out a way of getting dragon hair. On the fourth day, I get an email from Glance.
Dear Ms. Redwood,
We are happy to inform you that you have been selected for an audition.
You are requested to visit Glance Modeling Agency (GMA) tomorrow, between 3:00 - 5:00 for a portfolio shoot.
Please do note that this is only the first step. Should your shoot capture our interest, you will be signed by us. If the decision is otherwise, you will be informed via email.
Best wishes,
Erin Vam
I call Bats the second I get the email.
“Batsy! You won’t believe what just happened,” I squeal with delight.
“What, you’re not calling me Bathilda anymore?”
“You broke my window.”
“I am sorry. I had to get you to the meeting.”
“Whatever,” I say, not wanting to talk more about the incident. “I might be becoming a model. I have been selected for the audition. If I make it, we are so going to take Hollywood by storm.”
“Good for you,” she says, not even trying to hide her indifference.
“Bitch, you’re jealous.”
“I am not bothered in the least,” she says. “If I wanted to be a model, I would have come up with a spell for it ages ago.”
“Is that even allowed?” I ask, not knowing whether she’s serious or just fucking with me.
“Is love potion allowed?” she retorts, taking a jab at me. It’s the only potion I use—I am hot, I know, but I can’t play games so I use the love potion instead when I need to get laid.
“Just tell me!”
“You’d know if you listened to Minerva, or listened to any of us in general.”
I hang up the phone. I am happy, excited and have no tolerance for a buzzkill right now.
That night, I find the grimoire in the kitchen, in the cabinet under the sink where I keep the broom, cauldron and other crap related to magic. I try to read, skim through a few pages, but then I get bored and just turn a few more pages without looking at any of them until I finally put it away. That shit is boring.
The next day, I head to GMA for my audition. I lean against the brick wall outside, pull out a pack of Marlboro from my purse and light a cigarette. I flick the cigarette butts out on the pavement as I wait for my name to be called. The other girls wait inside, in the waiting room, giggling together, taking selfies, caking their faces with makeup and preening. Suddenly I remember that I forgot to put on base to hide my freckles, but I ain’t going to ask any of those stuck-up bitches for it. If I don’t make it, it won’t be the end of the world.
After almost an hour, my name is called. A tired receptionist points me in the right direction without even looking up. The second I step inside the audition room, it is as if I have been transported to a different world, possibly third world. It is nothing like I expected.
The room is starkly simple. There’s a huge green screen serving as the backdrop. A guy is hunched behind a camera while another is adjusting lights. An old man with pale blonde hair is standing opposite the screen, probably to tell girls how to pose and a small woman is flitting about, doing god knows what.
“Go stand there,” says the blonde-haired guy, pointing toward the center of the screen. I am offended by the way he orders me, but I do as I am told. My light auburn hair is long, slightly rough, with natural curls that reach my ass. I always leave them open, untied.
“Tie it up,” he says.
“Tie up what?” I say, defiant.
“Your hair, dimwit.”
“Take that down a notch, will you,” I say, pissed at his condescension.
“Yael, throw this one out,” he shouts to the small woman.
“I’ll walk out,” I say, glaring him in the eyes, then start walking toward the door.
“Come back,” he calls after me.
“What?” I look at him square in the eyes.
“Too much attitude,” he says, suddenly calm.
I hold my head high, my straight-edged nose cheekily returning his earlier condescension, “Deal with it.”
“Patrick, that’s the one. That’s what I am looking for.”
The blonde-haired guy suddenly becomes nice, calls Yael—who is his assistant, I find out—to help set my hair the way he wants. Then he comes to me and adjusts my face and posture, using his hands on me like I am an inanimate object.
“Ready,” he says to the cameraman. I flash a smile for the photo.
“Don’t smile,” he says. “Not what we are after. Show us that attitude.”
Once the shoot is done, the blonde-haired guy—his name is Fred—escorts me outside and tells me that I will hear from him soon. Apparently he’s second only to Erin and his chief job is finding new talent and signing models.
I saunter my way home, happy to be a potential candidate for a job where I won’t have to work.