My stomach swooped. It was the first real invitation I’d ever gotten that didn’t have strings attached. “Okay,” I said, trying not to sound as terrified as I felt. “But, um, waxed?”
She waved her hands as if it were nothing. “Yeah. You’ve had your brows waxed?”
I nodded. “My mama waxed mine every couple of months.”
She smiled. “It’s like that. Only it’s not just your brows.” She waggled her own eyebrows. “I’ll be here at six. You just bake your magic and get ready to let loose.”
I almost wished she’d insult me instead. This was worse somehow. Nice made me nervous.
The rest of the morning went by in a rush: a steady stream of regulars, a couple of teenagers on a donut run, one old manwho always asked for plain white bread even though we didn’t make it (“No time to fix what’s broken,” he’d say, and I’d just nod like I understood). I liked the blur of motion, the constant focus on flour and measurements, and the comforting rhythm of the kitchen.
But around noon, something changed. A man walked in, not unusual in itself, but there was something off about him. He was tall, but not in the way Papa was—his height was stretched, too-thin, like a willow sapling that hadn’t found the sun yet. He wore a heavy green jacket even though the bakery was warm, and his hair was a nondescript brown that looked like it’d shed the moment you ran a hand through it.
He didn’t speak when he came in. Didn’t even look at the menu or the case. Just walked up to the counter, eyes flicking over the pastries, then up to me. There was no warmth in his gaze, just a weird, assessing hunger. He pointed at a scone—cranberry orange, still warm from the oven.
I bagged it up, forcing a smile. “You want coffee to go with that?”
He nodded, never breaking eye contact, and handed over exact change in coins. Then he took the scone, walked to the corner table, and sat down. He didn’t eat, just set the scone on the paper bag and folded his hands, staring at me every time I turned my back. I tried not to look, but the feeling crawled over my neck like cold sweat.
He stayed there for an hour. Then, as quietly as he’d come in, he got up and left, leaving the scone untouched on the table.
I waited until the door closed, then walked over to clean up, fighting the urge to check the street through the window. The scone was still there, but the paper bag had a smear of ink on it, a shape like a triangle or maybe a stylized A. I didn’t think anything of it, just threw it out with the rest of the trash.
The rest of the afternoon was busier, but that unsettled feeling clung to me. Every time the bell over the door rang, I flinched. Every time a stranger came in, I checked for the green jacket.
It wasn’t until close that I saw him again, across the square by the gazebo. He stood perfectly still, arms crossed, eyes fixed on my bakery like he was memorizing the window pattern. I ducked behind the cash register, heart racing, and when I looked again, he was gone.
I told myself it was nothing, just someone new. But I still made sure to lock every bolt on the bakery door before heading upstairs to the apartment.
When I hit my apartment, I saw Oscar sitting on the couch.
“Did you see that strange man in the green jacket who came in right before closing?”
He tilted his little head.“I did, and that was no man. I’m not sure what he was, but he was either spelled or possessed. We’ll need to figure out who he is and who sent him. And you need to be extra careful tonight with your friend.”
“I promise I will.”
It wasn’t until I started running the bath for a quick soak that I remembered Maddie’s invitation. I had three hours to figure out how to look cute and not like a terrified shut-in.
I sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the condensation curling down the mirror, and wondered if this was what normal girls felt before a big night. Maybe the difference was, normal girls didn’t have to worry about witches or curses or green-jacketed men who left triangles on paper bags. Maybe they just worried about lipstick and whether the boy they liked would notice them.
I thought about Big Papa, about the way he’d looked at me like he actually saw someone worth looking at. I wondered if he’d be at the bar tonight. I wondered if I wanted him to be.
I stood up, checked the lock on the window, and told myself, “You are not prey. You are not a victim. Not here.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed it. But I was willing to try.
I peeled off my work clothes and dug through my tiny closet for anything that didn’t scream “hiding from the world.”
In the end, I settled on a black and white plaid skirt that hit just above the knee (too short, maybe, but Maddie had said “cute”), a black v-neck sweater that I hoped showed just enough cleavage, (with my boobs there was always cleavage), and a pair of thick black tights I’d bought but never worn.
Before getting dressed to go out, I pulled on some leggings and an oversized shirt and ran to the salon next door. I’d never allowed myself to be pampered by anyone but myself, and I thought if they had the time to do it, I would take advantage.
Inside, the air hummed with the sound of blow dryers and local gossip. A wall-length mirror reflected three stylists in matching tie-dye aprons, each one mid-hustle with a client in their chair. I hovered by the front desk, already feeling a sunburn of regret for ever agreeing to Maddie’s “just go get a quick wax, it’ll change your life” advice.
The youngest stylist—maybe twenty, with purple ombre hair and a septum ring—gave me a once-over, then brightened. “Oh, you’re the new bakery girl, right? Maddie said you might come in today!”
I nodded, not sure if I should admit I’d never had my eyebrows done by anyone but my mom. “I don’t really…do this,” I confessed, motioning at my long hair and generally unplucked face. “But I have a thing tonight. I guess I need a wax, maybe clean up my hair a little?”
