Can I…?” He used his key to point at the row of boxes I was blocking. I tried to work up the mental energy to open the mailbox-I really did-but my arms were still acting broken. He spun his key ring on a finger as he walked my way. One boy peeled away from the group with a wave.
My instincts said a letter was waiting if and when I worked up the courage to check.Ī pack of kids a couple years younger than me jumped off the school bus laughing. I should’ve retreated to the apartment, but instead I pulled my hoodie’s drawstrings so tight that only my eyes and nose peeked through the hood. The high school bus pulled to a creaky stop. The screech of brakes knocked me out of my everything-depends-on-this staring match with the mailboxes at the front of our apartment complex. If this letter was another rejection, my whole future looked like a dead end. Mostly, I wanted to learn from the pros and make myself into something more than a decent home baker. It would open up better jobs and maybe even help me prove that the with stereotypes were garbage.
A degree was the only way to break the cycle I’d been stuck in. I tried to wet my lips, but my tongue was milk-powder dry. Mom and I would have to pack the car and start over yet again. The second my power sparked at work, I’d be booted from yet another bakery. So, keeping my witchcraft under wraps was my best chance at both safety and sanity. People were both fascinated with our magic and terrified when we moved in next door. I’d never use my power to harm-and I didn’t even believe in the devil-but other than the few celebrity witches who’d made it into the mainstream, the rest of us were outcasts. We were supposed to be power-hungry, manipulative hags who used our devil spells to curse law-abiding citizens. In a perfect world, I’d work my way up from part-time cake decorator to bakery manager to maybe owning my own shop. Ten pastry school applications and nine rejection letters later, I had one last chance to escape the future where I decorated grocery store sheet cakes for minimum wage forever. It felt like a big dough ball was proofing in my stomach, the pressure building and building until I wanted to hurl.
My key jutted from the lock to Box 13, but I couldn’t twist it yet. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. First Published by Ink Monster, LLC in 2018Īll rights reserved.
0 kommentar(er)
