Sign Here(6)

“Katherine,” she answered.

“Don’t worry, Katherine. I’m here to help.” I tried a new smile I had been practicing: bored pity. I had gotten feedback during our last evaluation that I could be a little overeager, especially with teenagers, which was a big target demographic. Get ’em while they’re young, KQ always says.

The new smile seemed to work, because I could feel Katherine move from fear to thirst.

“What can you do?” she asked.

“Well, let me see what we have here.”

I put my hands on the mailbox and closed my eyes. I could go a few ways with this one, but given her palpable insecurity, I figured I wouldn’t have to work too hard with the Lil’ Nibbler, and it was too nice a day out to work hard. I often lingered during my deals, another one of the points off during my evaluation.

“Oh wow,” I said, frowning. “You’re lucky I showed up.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, spiking the frozen butterfly down to the lawn.

“Oh God, it’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Aren’t there plenty of community colleges in this area? I bet your mom would love the opportunity to keep you home another couple of years. Think of all the bonding time during the commute!”

Katherine winced. She had freckles across her nose like someone blew all the punctuation off the page of a book.

“Listen,” I said, softening my boredom into pity. “If it’s what you really want, I can get you into Stanford.”

“Are you serious? How?”

“Actually, it’s pretty simple. You just need to sign something,” I said, pulling out my tablet.

“What is it?” she asked, but the stylus was already in her hand.

“Oh, nothing, just a basic agreement. I’ll hold up my end of the bargain right now, and then eventually, way, way down the line, when you’re old and have accomplished everything you and your mother have ever wanted for you, I’ll come find you and ask you for a tiny little favor.”

The favor, of course, was not a favor; it was a demand. And it wasn’t tiny; it was an eternity. She would know that if she read the terms and conditions. When people say dealing with legal contracts is a great introduction to Hell, they don’t know how right they are.

“And you promise I’ll get into Stanford?”

“And so much more. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I want to be a veterinarian.”

“Done,” I said.

“What? Just like that?”

“Well, you’ll have to try a little bit in school so it’s not suspicious, but yes, just like that.”

It was true. She would go to Stanford, and then the best vet school in the country, and she would be very successful. Here, at least.

She dragged the stylus along the document, skimming.

“If you want to run it by your mom first, I can wait. I know there are a lot of big words in there.”

She looked from the tablet to her house and back again.

I had her.

After she signed, I slipped the tablet back in its case and put both my hands on the mailbox once more. I closed my eyes and started slowly shaking until I reached a fervor a notch too dramatic, even for me.

“You will have everything you’ve ever wanted,” I said as I stepped back and snapped my fingers. The air around us flickered back to life.

“I got in?”

Katherine pulled out the mail, flipping through it madly. She landed on one envelope and tore it open.

“Oh my God, I got in!”

I heard a screen door slam, and out came a woman who looked like Katherine after children and too many skin treatments.

“I got in! Mom, I got in!”

Her mom ran down the walkway and grabbed the envelope. Then they were both screaming and hugging, and I knew my work here was done, even if I wasn’t quite ready to leave that sweet, sweet atmosphere.

“Thank you!” I heard right before I pushed the button. I looked at Katherine as she twisted around, no longer able to see me. “Thank you!” she said again.

“You’re welcome,” I said while the air turned the kind of foggy it does right before you go back to Hell.

The truth is I didn’t actually do anything to the mailbox. The rest of her life, sure. Vet school, good paychecks, nice feeling of purpose—I took care of that. But I didn’t touch the envelope.

People should really open their mail before they call on us.



* * *



—

THAT EVENING, I WAS filing the paperwork for Katherine when I heard my computer ding with a different sound. Something lighter, more jovial.

It was a message.

    CALAMITY GANON: Burning that midnight oil, huh?



I peered down the hall and saw the glow of a desk light.

    PEYOTE TRIP: Paperwork is 75% of the gig.



All of the lights between us were out. It was quitting time. I thought about my apartment. I hadn’t done dishes in so long, I was eating food off other surfaces: magazines, old books I got from the dump. That’s right; we have a large collection of hardcover books in the dump here. Don’t act like that’s a huge surprise.

I typed.

    PEYOTE TRIP: Are you about to head out? Want to grab a drink?