To prepare for the grand opening of my sham business, I dress in a greige skirt, a button-down cardigan, and crisp white sneakers—basically, as far from “Salem attire” as I can find in my luggage—and stick Bulan deep in a canvas tote. Armored with a pet head and a laptop in my bag, I open Grandma’s shop at 8 a.m. sharp.
Outside, the sidewalk teems with oddly dressed hordes, all doing their best to pillage Salem, robbing it of any historical Puritan temperate decency. Whether or not they’re of the paranormal variety is unclear, but what’s important is that none of them enter through the front door. After half an hour, Bulan gives up waiting and whines at me until I set him up with an iPad and a high chair we found in the back alley.
Following that, I slide my laptop from my bag. I don’t want to waste any more time waiting on customers, or waiting to hear from the concerningly silent world of EFG, or daydreaming about an upcoming date with Hanry. Nope. Definitely not. Much better to focus on the one part of my life still fully in my control: my CPA exam prep.
By midafternoon, right as I’ve maxed out on the amount of information my brain can hold about tax compliance, Baldy attempts to hand-deliver me a copy of Grandma’s will. Once more, I ignore him until he leaves, and only afterward retrieve the documents from thedoorway. I flip through the pages, searching for answers. Grandma’s will is handwritten, her penstrokes characterized by a swoopy and loopy mess. As far as I can tell, Baldy read that part of the will about her spirit ascending accurately. It’s almost impossible to know for sure, because Grandma’s writing looks more like bunnies and mice leaping over each other than actual words.
“Bulan,” I call. The head rolls to my table obligingly. “Do you think this looks like ‘twice’? Do you think it might say ‘thrice’? If it’s thrice, maybe all Grandma’s spirit needs is another few days of moon observance. And then I’m off the hook.”
He pops up on the table, scans the page.
“Oh, is this a visual will? That’s unusual.”
“Those are words, Bulan.”
“I see. It appears Rosie was about as talented with writing as she was with numbers. It was, of course, her personality that kept her so well-resourced to the end.”
Ignoring the misguided opinions of Grandma’s personality, I sit back and speculate: “What if the spell put on the will overrode her words with what sheintendedto write, instead of what shedidwrite? Is that a thing?”
“It could be. Magic can be delightfully zany!”
I roll my eyes. What could possibly be delightful about unclear guidelines with potentially disastrous consequences? It sounds like the only way I’ll know for sure when Grandma has ascended is by making more attempts at leaving. And probably failing.
Great.
With hopes of a reasonable solution to my magical curse dashed, I resort to escapism. I’m scrolling wedding TikTok when someone pounds on the shop door. It’s not Baldy, but a short blond woman.
I jump to my feet, the picture of customer service.
“Hi!” I say, unlocking the door. “I mean, welcome. To my shop. To my wedding planning… business.”
The woman bursts inside. She doesn’t notice my awkwardness, or the fuzzy purple spiders dangling over her head. She’s too busy panting.
“Hi,” she wheezes between exaggerated gasps. “Whew!”
She’s in her early twenties, with a glazed-over expression and a tight, chin-length blond curl stuck to her bottom lip. Her skin’s eggshell-pale. It emphasizes her cheeks, red as fire hydrants. She gives off Marilyn Monroe vintage-blond-bombshell vibes, but she’s coquette too. She looks like she was born in her pastel-pink Mary Janes.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
The woman all but explodes with syrupy delight. “I’m Mandy!”
“No, I was asking if you’re all right.”
“I’mfantastic! Thanks for letting me in! I ran the whole way here.” So much for the “running from trouble” theory. “Wow! What is that? Is that—THAT IS AMAZING.”
She’s fondling a dried lotus. Why,whyis that plant so popular with weirdos? Finally remembering my customer service script, I shut my laptop with an exaggerated arm-sweep.
“How can I help you?” I ask.
“SO many ways,” Mandy bursts out, beating at the ruffles of her pink skirt. I suspect this is her standard way of expressing herself: like Bubble Wrap, popping again and again. In the process of the fabric abuse, I can see that she’s wearing a thick piece of silk ribbon on her wrist. Familiar magical shapes have been embroidered into the design, marking her as nonhuman. “You see, I had to come as fast as I could! Because I’m looking for a job. My landlord kicked the bucket, and I have to pay rent to this machine now. It’s terrible. And working isteeeerrible.”
The sunniness with which she says it nearly distracts me from her words.
“You’re in here because you want to work? For me?”
“In your wedding business. Yes!”
“Even though you think working is terrible?”
