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I see Janie frowning in the mirror, amber-brown eyes framed by a fluffy blonde bob. “So that’s it? We’re done talking?”
I sigh. “What’s the point in talking, anyway? You know I can’t do anything about it.”
“You could… go to your mother and ask her to get rid of this damned curse she put on you.”
“Ha,” I laugh. Because that’s never going to happen—not only do I have zero interest in seeing Mother again, she would have zero interest in removing my curse.
Janie scowls and looks down at her phone. It lights up as she texts someone. “Carlos is here.”
I’m ashamed to say I’m relieved. I hate talking about this with Janie. She always makes me feel like a hooker when we talk about my job. I know she doesn’t mean to, she just doesn’t understand. Being a model is justlike thatsometimes. All the time.
She stands up slowly, like she’s waiting for me to say something else. I don’t. I keep putting up my hair. One bobby pin after another, each one another brick in the wall I’m building.
“I’m worried about you, Pen,” she says. “It’s just… no way to live your life.”
“I’ve been living this way for going on two-hundred-fifty-years.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she frowns. Then she presses her lips together in a thin, flat line, and her eyebrows push together, and for a second, I’m worried she might cry. I hate it when Janie cries; I can’t handle it.
“I know you’re worried about me. I appreciate it, I do,” I start, hoping we’re still good.
Her phone buzzes. She looks down at it and curses softly.
“Carlos?” I ask.
She nods as she texts him back. “Yeah, he’s getting impatient.” She gives me an apologetic look. “We’ll talk later, okay? Call me after the gala’s over. Let me know how it goes.”
“I will,” I say.And I’ll lie to you about every second. Because it’ll be awful. It’ll be one long, horrible night of people staring at my boobs and asking if I’m comfortable taking nude photographs. But I can’t let Janie know that. She already worries too much—and it’s not like there’s anything else I can do. I’m not like her. I’m not outgoing and friendly—I’m the quiet one, the withdrawn one, the cynical one. And I also don’t have a handsome doctor boyfriend; I didn’t get into every Ivy League college on the face of the Earth; I’m not conducting life-saving research in university laboratories for extra credit.
She puts on her shoes in the hallway and looks at me accusingly. “Promise to call?”
“I promise,” I say. “Go have fun.”
She smiles. “I will.”
“Tell Carlos I say hi.”
“Okay. Bye, Pen. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I say. And I mean it. In fact, I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone.
Outside, Carlos honks his horn. She smiles and runs off. I hear the front door open and close. That’s the one thing in the world Janie is bad at—closing doors. She’s always so damn loud.
Almost against my will, my lips curl up into a smile. Janie, my little sister. Well, she’s actually not my sister, but we are related—distantly. Owing to the fact that I was born 1774, I can’t quite figure out what we are to each other, but once upon a time my mortal father shared a bed with my immortal mother and they had me. Then he wed another mortal woman, Janie’s ancestor, and started her line. Janie’s grown up with me and she knows what I am—the daughter of a goddess. But she doesn’t hold it against me and neither did her father, Tom—he just welcomed me in just like his mother before him and hers before her—I’m like this family heirloom that’s been passed down through the centuries, only instead of collecting dust on the mantle, I’m… well, me.
It’s a little funny how much Janie worries about me. I’m a literal demi-goddess, for whatever that’s worth. I should be the one taking care of her. It’s just that there never seems to be anything I need to worry about with her.
She’s fine. Her life isamazing. She’s amazing.
My life just kind of… is.
And Janie’s right—I do hate this job. But I don’t know what else to do—there’s really nothing else I can do because Mother cursed me so ordinary humans aren’t able to see beyond my looks,herlooks. That means no matter how smart I am, how educated I am, how much experience I might have, all mortals can see is what appears on the surface—it’s how they decide my worth. Janie and her family are the exceptions because they’re related to me, so our shared blood means they see me for the person I really am—they see beyond the beautiful face and body to the person beneath, they see Penelope Callas.
But back to Mother and her fucking curse—it was her way of throwing me a curve ball when I said I had no interest in living with her in Olympus.
My phone buzzes on the vanity. I turn it over, looking at the name.
A black hole of dread pops into existence somewhere behind my stomach. It’s Renfield. I’d told him I’d be at the gala an hour ago. He’s likely been fielding angry cameramen since he got there.
