Zatannagami

Zatannagami

By OrigamiLuke100

The Job Interview

By Eleanor Borkoshavski

I don’t know what to do. This could make or break my potential as a BETA Club member. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I break a rib the moment I walk in?

Wait, wait, wait, wait. Okay, Eleanor, just keep scribbling this crap in your AP Chemistry class.

Atomic Masses – oh my goodness, you’re a strong woman, stop getting so scared like this – the mass of an isotope of an element measured in units formerly based on the mass of one hydrogen atom.

But you need to ace this, this is something you need to have. It’ll look neat on a resume, a volunteer magician for an after school activity, it’ll look great.

Gases… support life or something, I don’t care. All that matters is in t-minus nine minutes you’re walking into the bathroom to give yourself a pep-talk, and then you’re walking yourself to the second floor of Capullo and you’re going to-

To measure atmospheric pressure, you use a barometer.

What room was it? C213? I think that’s it. Hold on.

Okay, I just got yelled at for having my phone out.

Then the bell rings, thank goodness, I’m out. Bye.

*Eleanor’s note: I was allowed to record this dialogue between my boss. I decided to transcribe it and add a touch of what I saw.*

I opened the door to the classroom, which was in the very far back of the hall. I guess teachers didn’t have much interest in using this room, or, ever since that Novick School opened up, it went unused.

My soon-to-be boss was standing on a ladder, hammering a sign into the top.

“Uh, excuse me, are you allowed to do that?” I asked. He shot a glance at me. Slender in build, but confident in how he moved around. He was probably a freshman, which was the last type of person I’d want to work under. He had blonde hair.

Suddenly, his face turned into a smirk.

“Ah, Eleanor Borkoshavski, a pleasure to see you.” His voice was slick, quite charming, really. He stepped down from the ladder and stood beside me. Above the wall was a sign, reading “Complicare.”

“Complicare? What does that mean?” I asked him. He looked at me, that smile never wavering from his face.

“I’ll tell you in the interview. Now, why don’t you step inside, make yourself at home.” He opened the door, ushering me forth to take a seat. A desk was set up with two chairs on opposing sides.

“I know this is a bit unorthodox. My school-sanctioned club is being set up by little old me, all by myself. Say, what’s that?” He pointed at my cam-recorder. My father gave this to me, I would use it to record my practice tricks.

“Oh, this is just a camera. I want to record my interview.”

“Neat.” He told me as he pulled the chair out. I placed my camera down to face me.

“Wait, wait, why can’t that thing see my face too? Am I unappealing? Unattractive? Why do you get to steal the show, miss Borkoshavski?” He asked. He placed a hand to his heart, as though this was tugging at his heartstrings.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to-” Quickly, he got up, opened the teacher’s desk, and took out a tripod.

“You know what they say about boy scouts, right, miss Borkoshavski?”

“No, what do they say?”

He perked up, cracked a smile and said, “Usually they’d say boyscouts are always prepared. I say that I don’t need a badge to prove that.” He took out a tripod and set it up. I was in awe of his charisma. It was out of left field. He quickly set it up, locked it down, and placed my camera so that we were both in frame.

“Yoo-hoo! Hello, Youtube!” He announced, “Welcome to my vlogging channel, today I’m doing an interview with Miss-”

“Eleanor. I’m Eleanor.”

“Oh,” he laughed, gazed at the camera, and then back to me, “Feisty. Anyways, Eleanor, I prefer if we just did this interview with origami. Do you have one?”

Origami? Is this an Alan Wade joke? Origami Users have been in this limbo for a while.

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t have an origami puppet or anything.”

He laughed in my face, then looked at the camera, sighing.

“Then we can’t do the interview!” He got back up, and walked out of the room.

I put my face in my hands. You have to be joking. I don’t even know this kid’s name, I’m not hired, and I don’t know how I’ll get service hours now.

Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry. That was the only thing running through my head when he opened the door again, with stacks of paper and sharpies. 

“Hello, my world!” He announced upon entering. He tossed the papers down in front of me, then sat back.

I stared at him.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“I’m not doing the interview until you fold me a puppet.” This guy was so weird, “here, let me show you mine.” He held up his finger puppet, this dude with blonde hair and a suit, with devil wings.

“He’s Foldifer Morningpleat.”

“Okay, Foldifer.”

“Yes, Miss Borkoshavski?” 

“What is it that you want me to make?”

“Dear, the real question is who is it that I want you to make. Open up Google.”

I opened Google on my phone. 

“Now, look up ‘Zatanna.’ You’re a magician, right? If not, this would be so awkward.”

“Yeah. Want to see a trick?” I asked. He laughed.

“No, not until you put a puppet of her on your finger.” He cupped his hands together, and I stared at him.

“You’re joking… right…?”

“Does the Devil deal in jokes? Well, yes, yes he does, but like, Foldifer doesn’t.”

I rolled my eyes, and started to fold. I don’t know how to do this, and Foldifer (I never got his real name) just stared at me. With each wrong crease, he started to tap his fingers on the desk. I caught on quickly, unfolded that wrong crease, and did another. My camera footage showed that I was working on this for an hour.

Then, I started coloring, looking back and forth at the image on my phone.

This was so stupid.

“Perfect! You’re done.” He said, holding his puppet.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Okay, now, talk to me. Let’s start this interview, Zatannagami.”

I sighed and held my puppet up, “I guess the best thing I can tell you is that if you were to let me work for you, your patrons would get enjoyable entertainment.”

Foldifer’s wielder sat back, and his puppet moved back with him, “What can you do, Zatannagami?”

“I can-”

“Can you sing? Oh, can you sing ‘We got the Beat’ by the Go-Go’s?”

“No, but I can do magic.”

The Test

By Eleanor Borkoshavski

He smiled and turned his phone on. The puppet rested on the table.

“Well, dear Zatannagami, do take out some cards or whatever you brought for your show.”

“What?”

“It’s your audition, dear. I want to know if you could do this to the beat.”

We Got the Beat by the Go-Go’s started to play. Dad taught me that if I was to do magic to music, then I must find the drum beat.

Luckily, that’s how the song starts. I reached into my pockets, and found my cards.

I took one card out, with a very, very, very thin string attached and tied on it. I showed it to Foldifer, and then I cupped my hands together, only to draw my hands out to make it look like the card was hovering. I did some other tricks, sleight of hand with making the box of cards disappear, my puppet turning into that same box, all while keeping in rhythm. Suddenly, Foldifer stopped the song.

“Ok, you’re hired.”

“Wait-seriously?”

“Yes. Do you have any questions?”

“Well, I do, Mr. Morningpleat, sir. Like… what is your wielder’s name?”

“I’m Neil. The puppet is Foldifer. Just like you’re Eleanor, and your puppet is Zatannagami.”

“Okay…” Weird, but I’ll take it, “And what does this club’s name mean?”

“‘Complicare’ is Latin for ‘Fold.’ I like that name a lot. Rolls off the tongue, like ‘Lux’ for light, or ‘spero’ for ‘I hope.’” I nodded, so some thought went into it, “Anyways, so, here’s some things: you’ll be working for me for the rest of your high school career, earning volunteer hours and the occasional income that I won’t mention when they ask me about you. You’ll be entertaining my guests, and also making the occasional milk-shake or two if I’m out and about. I’ll train you on all of this. Do we have a deal, Zatannagami?”

I was a tad antsy, but overall, fairly confident.

“Sure.” I said. He extended his hand to me, and I took it and shook it.

I just made a deal with the Deviligami to make milkshakes and do magic tricks.

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