“Well, yeah. We got along pretty well. They have amazingly soft fur, too. Nothing like hunkering down with them on a cold winter’s night.”
“I think I’ll take getting along with a herd of sheep who at least let me snuggle with them as opposed to hating my guts.” Pausing, she looked at the women and asked, “Everybody who thinks Poppy should get a new witch, raise your hand.” She lifted hers high above her head.
“No! Did you hear me when I told you what happens when you complain?” Calamity asked, the warning tone in her voice clear.
Poppy nodded, backing away from the group. “Yep. You said I go to the Bad Place. I don’t know what the Bad Place is like, or even what they do in the Bad Place, but I’m willing to bet there’s a sense of solidarity in the Bad Place because we’d all be rejects together as a big group. I’m willing to take the risk. I’m not willing to have some guy behave like an asshole to me because he doesn’t want a familiar. And I don’t care how hot he is.”
“And he was definitely hot. And that accent? Phew, mi corazón,” Wanda murmured, her hand at her throat, her cheeks flushed, and it wasn’t from the chilly air.
“Yeah,” Marty agreed, fanning herself. “Sooo hot.”
Poppy nodded as she backed even farther away, stepping off the curb. “Now that Crankypants’s objectification is out of the way, I don’t care if he’s Benedict Cumberbatch and Idris Elba’s love child. I’m out. Let’s go cement my seat in the Bad Place.”
“Stop!” Calamity yowled. “Don’t you move, Poppy McGuillicuddy!”
Poppy’s feet instantly rooted to the spot. When she tried to lift her platform boots, it was in vain. “Calamity, knock it off with the hocus-pocus and let me go!” She bent at the waist, reaching forward to attempt to lift her feet, only to watch her shadow on the pavement resemble something out of the Matrix.
“I’m not letting you go, Poppy!” Calamity yelled back. “Not until you agree you’re going to suck it up, march your tiny ass to Mr. Sexy-Smexy’s door, demand entry, and force him to bend to your will. He needs you, and it’s your job!”
Then something occurred to her, something in this whirlwind of crazy she hadn’t even stopped to take into consideration, and it hit her like a ton of bricks.
Everyone kept telling her what she had to do, but where was Calamity’s accountability in all this?
Dropping her hands to her hips, she narrowed her eyes at the cat. “Says who? I didn’t ask for this job. I wasn’t born a familiar. I didn’t inherit this title like you and the rest of your kind. You did this to me, Calamity. You! I was minding my own business, doing what I do, until you showed up at a party you weren’t even supposed to be at, if you listen to your keeper Nina. Then you have the balls to tell me I have to sign my life away to a guy who’s clearly a douchecanoe when I was given no choice in the matter to begin with! I wonder what would happen if Familiar Central knew about that? What do you suppose they’d say?”
“You’re panicking,” Calamity said with quiet calm, her wide eyes blinking.
Maybe she was. Maybe all that stoic bravery she’d been feeling earlier had evaporated like one's adrenaline after realizing, sure, you’d climbed the side of the mountain, but now you were dangling mid-air while you clung to a flimsy limb.
Wanda and Marty came to stand behind Calamity, but Poppy held up her hand to stop them from interfering. She was sure they meant well but now was not the time.
“Who wouldn’t panic when they’re being asked to give up their entire life to cater to a man who obviously doesn’t want to be catered to?” she asked on a screech.
“Because you had a life before this, Poppy McGuillicuddy? Please,” Calamity spat. “I used my magic to dig around a little into your past. Is working temp jobs as Bo-Bo the clown at kids’ parties and getting paid per pound to shovel dog poop while you mourn the fact that you’re still not Broadway’s next Kristin Chenoweth really a life? You’re just livin’ the dream, aren’t you?”
Okay, so she hadn’t found what she was meant to do just yet.
At thirty-four.
She’d been sure she was destined for Broadway when she’d moved to New York at nineteen. Fifteen years later, her destiny was murky and ill-defined. But scraping by the way she did had taught her to be scrappy and, above all, creative.
Though, nowhere in all the pounds of poop she’d shoveled, or the stupid cheeseburgers she’d slung had she been expected to give up everything.
But poop, though. You shovel poop for cash, Poppy… What do you go back to if you don’t do this? An upset landlord who’s been nothing but kind and patient with you, overdue rent on an apartment you can no longer afford, and a worn-out pooper scooper. That’s what.