“The . . . internet? You want the job to be virtual?”
“Virtual?” Ms. Magnus blinks. “I don’t think your virtue has anything to do with this. You can be as free as you like.”
I lick my lips, pausing. “I’m . . . confused.”
“Oh, darling.” Ms. Magnus shakes her head. “Me too. All the time.”
The pregnant woman sticks her head in. “Can I interrupt?”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Ms. Magnus asks.
Lisa ignores her and steps inside. “I don’t know if the ad mentioned it, but this is a live-in position. You won’t be on call constantly, but Ms. Magnus prefers her assistants to live in the house so any odd jobs that come up can be easily handled.”
Oh. That explains the money. It’s a live-in position because Ms. Magnus clearly isn’t in touch with reality. “Of course. That makes sense. I’d need to tell my roommate first.” After we both squeal and dance about the pay, that is. Nick will be thrilled for me . . . Well, maybe not super thrilled if it means I move out, but he’ll understand. I’ll keep making my rent payments, too, just so he doesn’t struggle. I can do this, though. I really can. “And you’re certain Mr. Magnus . . .”
Ms. Magnus just snorts, and that curler dips a little lower on her forehead. “You’ll just have to ignore his bad temper. We all do.”
Well now, that I can do. I’m good at ignoring things that bother me. I learned that from my parents. I smile at Ms. Magnus and Lisa. “Do I need to sign a contract to start work, then?”
“A tablet,” Ms. Magnus chirps.
“Oh, like an electronic one? Sure, I can do that.” I watch as Lisa crosses the room and heads to the desk. I expect her to pull out an iPad or something along those lines.
Instead, she pulls out what looks like . . . a square block of a charcoal-like substance with some writing on it. And a stylus.
“A tablet,” Lisa says.
3
REGGIE
So there’s good news and bad news,” I say as I breeze into the apartment I share with my best friend, Nick, a short time later. “Which do you want first?”
He’s in the kitchen, putting away some canned soups and ramen—the staples of our sad, cheap diet. It’s not easy being broke, but we make do. He’s still wearing his work clothes, the name of the private gym emblazoned across his broad back. Nick turns, grimacing when I enter, and I’m not sure if it’s because he got caught putting cans away without the labels facing out, or if it’s because he’s afraid of my news. “You didn’t get the job?”
“I did get the job,” I correct, going over to help him.
The moment I reach into the bag, he smacks my hand. “No touching,” Nick tells me. “You’re just going to say I’m doing it wrong, and you’ll stress me out.”
“Sorry,” I say meekly, clasping my hands behind my back. I’ll have to come through later and organize things properly. When he’s not looking. “But I did get the job. And it pays an absurd amount of money.”
“How much is absurd?”
“Twenty-five grand a month.”
Nick’s mouth falls open. He clutches one of the cans, staring at me. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
He doesn’t look excited. If anything, he looks worried. “Reg. What’s the catch?”
I cross my arms over my chest, feigning outrage. “Why does there have to be a catch?”
“Well, for starters, it’s a job you found in the paper. No one advertises in the paper anymore.” He stacks two different brands of soup onto one another and shoves them into the cabinet. “And two, they hired you for that kind of job without a second interview? It smells like a scam.” He moves toward the fridge to put away a container of hummus (his favorite splurge).
I discreetly reopen the cabinet and shuffle the soup cans. Brands together. Expiration dates to the front. Then flavors. Then—
“Reg,” Nick warns, catching me in the act.
“Sorry.” I reluctantly put a can back in the wrong place, even though it wounds me, and turn to face him. “The catch is that I have to live with this kooky old lady who thinks she’s a witch.”
“And is she?”
I snort. “Of course not. Magic’s not real.” I wave a hand in the air. “She’s like those people that dress up and hit each other with swords on the weekends at college.”
His brows go up. “So she’s LARPing?”
“It’s almost the same, isn’t it?” I shrug. “Look. She’s got money, she wants a live-in assistant, and it sounds nutty, but if I humor her and play along, I get paid ridiculous amounts of money. Even if I work there for just a month or two, we can catch up on all the bills. You can advertise for more clients. And I’ll still pay my half of the rent. You’ll just have privacy for a while.”
Nick hesitates. “You’re positive this isn’t a dangerous situation? She’s not going to murder you while you sleep and you’ll be in the papers?”
“Ms. Magnus? Absolutely not.” I think about the small, fragile woman in the floral robe and the curlers drooping over her head. “She’d forget where she left the knife.”
“Golden Girl?” he asks.
“Definitely a Rose,” I reassure him. It’s his favorite show, and we’ve often debated over what category most people fall into. Blanches are fun seekers, Roses are harmless, Sophias are know-it-alls, and Dorothys are problematic.
Nick relaxes, nodding. “That’s good, then. So you’ll just be working for her?”
“She does have a nephew that helps her with things, I think.” I don’t point out that he’s absolutely a Dorothy—the negative, sour attitude and bossiness evident even in our short meeting. “But I think he’s gone a lot. It won’t be a problem.”
“And you’re fine with working for someone who thinks she’s a witch?”
I chuckle. “Of course I am. If it makes her happy to pretend to live in some Wiccan fantasy, who am I to tell her no? Let her do as she likes.”
My roommate is silent for a long moment as he closes the refrigerator and then leans against it, thinking. “That’s a lot of money,” he finally says.
“A whole lot.”
“You’re not going to tell your parents, are you?” He gives me a narrow-eyed look, because Nick knows me all too well.
I give him a firm shake of my head. “Didn’t even cross my mind.”
“Reg.” The way he says my name tells me he knows I’m lying.
Busted. “Okay, maybe I thought about it just a teeny, tiny bit.” At his angry look, I sigh. “It’s just . . . I know it could help them. And I can’t possibly spend it all myself, especially if I’m living with my employer. That’s a ton of money, and even just a slice of it could make a difference—”
“Regina Marie Johnson,” Nick says in a parental voice. “We have had this discussion a hundred times.”
I hunch my shoulders. “I know.”
“You can’t keep giving them money. They’re users.”
“I’m their daughter.”
“They’re users,” Nick says firmly, and I know he’s right. I know he is. It’s just that the sad, lonely part of me that’s desperate for approval is . . . well, still desperate for approval. “They’re users, and they would bleed you dry if given half a chance. And you’ve given them a dozen chances.”
“But—”
“Remember that time they said the IRS was coming for them, and so you took out a loan with the bank? And then they drove up in a sports car?”
Remember it? I’m still paying for that loan. I bite my lip so I don’t protest. I know Nick is right. I know he’s looking out for me.
“And then there’s the time they opened a life insurance policy against you and reported you dead—”
“Okay, okay,” I mutter. “I won’t say anything.” I feel stupid for even thinking about it.