Eleanor swallowed. Her heartburn was cooking her alive. Her grandmother had given her a gris-gris to keep it away (she sent it every year, like a sickly fruitcake made of chicken bones, mint leaves, and old-man sweat), but Eleanor had sworn off voodoo when she left Louisiana for the other LA: Los Angeles.

That is, until Twila Thornburn stepped into the restaurant.

Twila looked good, in that funhouse-mirror LA way. Four years and twice that many surgeries had been surprisingly kind since graduate school: Twila Thornburn had evolved from a sweet (if overweight) poet with an MFA in film production into a sleek glass jaguar of a woman, all sharp curves and teeth now. Whatever was round on her was artifical, whatever was flat was missing something.

Eleanor squeezed the bit of muffin top under her white waiter’s outfit. The freshman fifteen had taken root, and had a lively business going. She had three shelved screenplays and a stageplay that was doing “really well, Eleanor, honestly, really well for what it is.” A lease that felt like a noose at the first of the month. Not much else. Twila had produced three blockbuster films in four years (though what she actually did on any of them was tough to pin down).

Eleanor considered pretending she didn’t recognize Twila — Twila certainly seemed not to recognize her — but something wouldn’t let her. It would be rude, and besides: Eleanor had a career to think of, too. Maybe Twila did remember her. They’d gotten on all right at college. An airy feeling filled her up inside: maybe this was her chance?

She smiled big, grabbed two menus, and: “Twila! It’s been years!”

Eleanor saw the recognition in Twila. And she saw Twila bury it. “I’m sorry?” said Twila.

“From — from school –” The words stumbled on their way out, and vanished just as quickly. The airy feeling went sick and greasy and died. “My mistake,” she said, and, “This way,” leading Twila to a table. Her pride burned when she saw Twila’s relief.

Eleanor nodded and heard nothing when Twila ordered a seventy-year-old bottle of Merlot and a Diet Coke. In LA, tacky is tacky unless it’s expensive. Then it’s called “fashion.”

Eleanor stormed back into the kitchen and snatched the first dish she found waiting: a piping hot creme brulee.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck all. She yanked out the gris-gris from her purse. Fuck everything.

She used chocolate and raspberry syrup to mark the necessary charm circles, muttering quietly the words of power her grandmother had told her to save for emergencies, “in case of rapists and Democrats.”

The creme brulee bubbled only once, soft as a kiss, and Eleanor had it sent to Twila’s table immediately. Eleanor took a five-minute break, pulled out her spec script, and started angrily making notes. After a moment, a waiter burst into the breakroom, amidst screams of terror and sounds of crashing tables.

“Twila Thornburn’s table just exploded! There’s a seven-headed dragon tearing the place apart!”

Eleanor pulled the pen from her mouth. “She’s a bitch and she deserved it.”

“What’d you DO?”

“I summoned the Devil into her creme brulee.”

“Well, it’s too late to do anything now. She just signed him to a four-year deal in reality television.”

Goddammit.