“Excuse me, can I have some water?”
Maya closed her lesson book. She looked up at the model who had approached her—towering, bright-eyed, ethnically ambiguous—and pursed her lips. “Oh no, that’s not my job.”
“Oh,” the model said, her English thickly accented. Her cheeks went red, and Maya could see her wondering whether something had gotten lost in translation. The model pointed at Tatiana, who was sitting on the opposite end of the massive white backdrop that had been installed in the Clarke Stein offices for the day’s shoot. In her gingham DvF pedal-pushers, monogrammed Omondi crewneck, and pointed-toe slingbacks, she looked annoyingly angelic, nothing like the try-hard Miranda Priestley wannabe she really was. “She told me to ask you.”
Tatiana looked up from the concept board in her lap and wiggled her fingers in a wave. Maya swallowed her pride and headed to the water cooler on the other side of the office, not wanting to give the model anything negative to report to Harry Nguyen, the notoriously cranky photographer. When Maya returned, water in hand, Harry was in the middle of a complete meltdown. Maya handed the plastic cup to the model on her way over to Tatiana and Harry, quietly hoping Tatiana had fucked something up. The two were staring at the pictures from the shoot on the camera’s display screen, Harry gradually turning the same color as the beetroot smoothie Maya had had for breakfast.
“Am I crazy?” Harry asked, his voice climbing to an unstable timbre. “I mean am I fu-cking crazy?”
Maya and Tatiana made brief, confused eye contact.
“We cannot print her in this color. It’s offensive, it’s disgusting, it’s . . . Midwestern.”
“Wait,” Maya said. She jabbed a lacquered nail at the dress they’d pulled. “You mean this green color? The Pantone 352 U you had us dig through the closet to find just this morning?” Maya softened her voice, as if talking to a sentient ticking time bomb. “Not to be, um, disrespectful, but I promise you thought that color was the future just ten minutes ago.”
Harry was too engrossed in his tantrum to care about Maya’s tone. He jerked back from the screen ecstatically, forcing Tatiana to duck away from his bald, oiled head. “I know what it is—it wasn’t green I saw in the future, it was pink. Piiiiink pink pink pink pink pink pink! Those two are so easy to mix up, don’t you find?”
“Mmmm,” Tatiana said. “I do.” Maya struggled to withhold a gag.
“Now, ladies of CS, Tati, Mimi, if you could, please bring a dress. Not pants, not a skirt, not a T-shirt, a dress of some sort, preferably something identical in shape and cut to this hideous green dress, but in a baby pink. You know, that nursery-room, gender reveal, not-quite-Pepto-Bismol, ironic-pink?”
Maya sighed. Somehow, it was the clearest direction the man had given all day. She and Tatiana, in silent agreement that they wouldn’t humiliate themselves by running, speed-walked to the storage closet. Tatiana stiff-armed Maya at the entrance, nearly knocking her over and immediately started digging through the CS clothing archives. Maya got to work on the opposite end of the closet, rummaging through dresses as quickly as she could without damaging anything. Finally, after several minutes of searching, Maya realized there was definitely nothing ironic-pink on her side of the closet. If there was anything pink, Tatiana was going to find it first, since she was already encroaching on the unclaimed middle territory. Maya was annoyed—until she realized she had something better.
She slipped out of the closet and back to the set. The model had already changed into a robe and was still sipping her water. The tiny green dress, made mostly of absurd, impractical straps, lay across her lap. Harry was off by the windows, chatting distractedly into his signature BlackBerry Bold. Maya grabbed the dress from the model’s lap and ran to the bathroom, scrunching the mass of fabric under her arm and shielding it with the boxy black blazer she’d layered over her orange LaQuan Smith bustier. In the stall, she balled the dress up in her hands and stared at it, recalling the words of the only page in the lesson booklet that she’d read more than once:
principles of spellcasting
Spells are the oldest form of magic in the world. Before the twentieth century, the Witch Sphere operated almost entirely on the casting of spells. In modern times, witches use direct magic because of its capacity to be easily and readily customized. Spells, however, continue to be an effective form of magic, especially where a witch feels her powers may benefit from the structure and history of an established spell.
There are over 300,000 spells known to witchkind. Each spell is accompanied by directions addressing the pacing, positioning, volume, and intent of the witch casting the spell. Spells may be cast only on subjects in view of, or in reasonable proximity to, the witch casting the spell. The impact of a spell (its intensity, duration, or time of commencement) is determined by a witch’s intent. Where a witch wishes to make a spell more powerful, she may cast the spell far in advance of the intended commencement date. This practice is called steeping.
sample spell for annotation
The Spell for Superficial Changes
(developed by Allison Hampton)
Here’s a thing I’d like to change
Not transform, just rearrange
Change what’s outside, not within
Keep the organs, swap the skin
Purpose: This spell may be used to make changes to superficial characteristics of the spell’s subject.
Intent: The witch must prove a strong desire to make exclusively superficial changes. Any strains of desire to change the essence of the subject will render the spell ineffective.
Pace: The witch must recite the spell at a slow pace and remain at this pace for the duration of the spellcast.
Repetitions: The spell must be repeated three times.
Positioning: The witch must be seated. The body of the witch must be facing West. The witch must have her eyes on the subject of the spell. The witch must have legs crossed at the ankle for the duration of the spell.
Other: The witch may touch the subject during spellcast to enhance the strength of the spell.
It was the spell she’d been using to do her makeup all week. She hadn’t done a total 180 on the whole witch thing, but she was close—Alba was right, she was good at it. And it made her life way easier. Maya sat breathlessly still as she recited three times, as the spell book instructed. After the third recitation, she felt her armpits begin tingling with sweat, then she watched as the dress morphed slowly, from mint to muddy gray to pink. Maya inspected it—too bright. She focused on it again, clamped her hands tighter around the slippery fabric, thinking about how soon, none of this shit would matter if she could just fill up her metric and get to the other side. The fabric changed again, dialing down the shade of pink until it was exactly as Harry had described.
Maya scurried out of the stall, almost screaming, startled, when her coworker Tina entered the bathroom. She threw Maya a confused look, then perched in front of the mirrors to shape her eyebrows. Outside, Tatiana was holding two clothing items: one a skirt in the perfect pink, the other a dress that was definitely the wrong pink. Maya approached the two, trying to seem normal and not as though she’d just sweated out her roots doing magic in the bathroom.
“I mean, dusty rose is definitely taking off right now, but if you don’t like it we could put Mathilde in a white top with the skirt.” Tatiana pulled a silky, off-white top out from under her arm. Harry looked like he might cry. “I’m sorry, this is just literally all we have,” Tatiana said.
“Does this work?” Maya brandished the dress, which was miraculously wrinkle-free, and wondered if her powers had taken care of that, too.
“Ewwwwwww my god! It’s perfect! Ugh, thank you, you’re such a dear.” Harry leaned in to air-kiss Maya. “Mwah! Mwah!” He turned to Tatiana, who looked angrier than Maya had ever seen her. “Could you get Mathilde dressed, hon?” He handed Tatiana the dress and walked off toward the set, fiddling with his camera.
Tatiana turned to Maya, surely about to say something devastating, when Lacey approached, wearing a pair of unreleased Nikes and the custom puff-sleeved Christopher John Rogers dress she had in several colors—today it was navy blue. Maya’s heart stopped. Lacey was the sort of larger-than-life boss whose very presence struck fear into the hearts of her employees. On top of being exacting and meticulous in the office, she was a social media goddess beloved by the internet. Thirty-six with two kids and a perfect body, an enviable kitchen, and endless tough-love advice at the tip of her tongue, she was perfect I-ascended-to-a-position-of-impossible-influence-and-here’s-my-daily-routine article fodder. Maya wanted to hate her for being so demanding, but instead, she kind of just wanted to be her.
“Incredible work, Maya.” Lacey placed her hand on Maya’s shoulder, pulled back, and allowed a tiny smile to flash across her face. The burnt ends of her braided bob darted as she spoke, and the right side of her head was freshly faded. “And that’s a gorgeous jacket,” she said, as if being alerted to Maya’s existence for the very first time.
Maya straightened. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Lacey looked over at Tatiana placidly, almost as if she didn’t exist, then walked off, leaving Maya to revel in the frightening warmth of Lacey’s new affection.
On the walk home, after pocketing a third sanction, she snapped a pic of her metric for the girls.
Maya
Gabbie
Delali