JUPITER RETURNS - Chapter 1
Read the first installment of my debut novel
Based on my astro-personality, Cosmic Cannibal, Jupiter Returns follows the journey of a plucky, daydreamy astrologer who, during her Jupiter Return in Gemini, sets her sights on a dream horoscope job. But fierce competition, a sizzling romance, and a shocking birth chart discovery threaten to upend her plans.
I’m excited to share the prologue and first chapter—and audiobook—with you. Dive into this cosmic adventure and get a taste of what’s to come!
OK. I got this. I GOT this, I think to myself. Gripping the iPad, my slightly sweaty hands shake with nerves, and my heart thumps hard in my chest. It’s not like I haven’t been staring open-mouthed and wide-eyed at a version of this exact birth chart for eight months since Jupiter entered Gemini, and I’ve grown, matured, and blah, blah, blah. Which means I should be prepared. And I am prepared.
Yeah, I know these planetary placements like the back of my (sweaty, slightly shaking) hand.
UGH. What a stupid expression. Like, who knows the back of their hand? A Cancer or Pisces maybe (they’re sentimental like that), but we Geminis could care less about that kinda stuff. Honestly, there are at least 10 things more interesting than the back of my hand. Such as:
More celebrities are born under the sign of Gemini.
Geminis make up only 6% of serial killers in the United States—
Oh, no. No. No. These aren’t the confidence-boosting inner thoughts I need to have right now. Especially not when I’m minutes away from THE most important moment of my astrology career. This is make or break for me, and I need to MAKE IT.
The nervous thoughts continue racing through my head, and my heart does another loud round of thumps. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, half-hoping that this livestream that will be watched by God-only-knows-how-many-people will just hurry up and happen. That way, I can go back to living life without these sweaty palms, and without my heart beating like the dance song in my chest.
My breath catches in my throat. Suddenly, I realize: The only way for all this to hurry up and happen is for me to make it happen. I have to do this birth chart reading—no, I have to slay, kill, ace this birth chart reading. Even if my heart is beating like a dance song and my palms are sweaty and…
GOD. The anticipation is giving me anxiety.
You know what else is giving me anxiety? The bright lights plastered on my face, the cameras and crew standing feet away from me, the so-called co-host to my left, and the—gulp—crowd.
UGH. I don’t know how porn stars do it. I’m nauseous and shy sitting fully-clothed in front of all these people. I can’t imagine being naked in front of them, faking like I don’t care. I’d be thinking, “I hope they can’t see that one of my nipples is darker than the other.” (Not that one of my nipples is darker than the other—that’s just an example.) Just like now, I’m thinking: Why did I wear this stupid hot-pink turtleneck and this ridiculous mini skirt? Did I put too much makeup on? Not enough?
Shifting uncomfortably, I take a deep breath to calm myself. There’s no reason to freak out. I have just the right amount of makeup on! And I know exactly why I wore this outfit: I was watching The Nanny last night, and Fran Drescher had on a super-cute hot-pink turtleneck-and-mini-skirt outfit. I figured mimicking it would make me look like a serious professional like it did for her.
Anyway, who cares about my outfit? It looks fine. Just like my makeup and my bangs—
Oh, no. My bangs…WHY DID I GROW OUT MY BANGS? They’re probably lying limp and lifeless like a pair of drab curtains across the giant movie screen that is my forehead.
The woman next to me tosses back her Cher-hair and side-eyes me with contempt. She’s probably thinking I shouldn’t have grown out my bangs either. She probably took one look at my face and head, and said to herself, “Poor thing. Her forehead is wider than a movie screen. Why on earth did she grow out those bangs? They’re lying limp, lifeless, and—”
OK, STOP.
I exhale, hoping to expel my fast-moving thoughts.
Bangs don’t matter right now. The size of my forehead doesn’t matter. (However, I will state for the record, that while my forehead is slightly larger than average and bangs do help reduce its size, it is not the size of a movie screen. Anyway, it doesn't matter.) Nothing matters except this chart reading.
Blinking hard, I adjust my glasses and stare at the birth chart on the iPad screen in front of me. There are aspect lines zig-zagging across the horoscope wheel, connecting the personal planets to the outer planets like a colorful cat’s cradle. Below the horoscope wheel is a rectangle showing the zodiac and planetary glyphs–an astrological map key showing me what planet is in what sign. Suddenly, a wave of calm washes over me like hot water in a bath. I take in all the information on this map key:
☉, ☽, ☿, ♃, ♄, ♅, ♆, ♇,
Sure, it looks like a jumble of unintelligible symbols, but it’s not. At least, not to me. These symbols—the sigils representing the astrological planets and the zodiac signs—are my mother tongue. I’ve been speaking their language for 12 years now, and these particular planets and signs. Well…
Again, I scan the birth chart on the iPad's screen. There’s no name. There’s nothing but the birth date and time: Feb. 3, 5:24 a.m.. February 3rd… So, it’s obviously not his chart, but it might as well be. I mean, Sagittarius, Pisces, Taurus, Aquarius…Is the universe playing some kind of cruel joke on me with this? Sagittarius, Pisces, Taurus, Aquarius… The signs repeat like a catchy melody in my head. God, I haven’t thought of these signs since the last time I talked to him. I feel like I’m being sucked through a wormhole, hurtling back in time to when I first met him, first saw his chart, first fell…
But this time, it's different. This time, I actually know what it all means.
It’s a revelation that hits me like a ton of bricks.
I blink several times at the iPad. Huh, I really do understand this chart. Every planet, every sign. The realization is both exhilarating and terrifying. Because it means I actually can do this. I know I can.
Yes! And then, once I kill, ace, slay this birth chart reading, everyone here will be so impressed by my incredible astrology skills that they’ll all write a collective petition to Ellen Degenres to get me onto her talk show. And Ellen will be astounded that so many people would rally behind an up-and-coming astrologer from Denver, that…
“Alright, Cosmic,” says a voice nearby. Shaking away the Ellen daydream, I look from the chart and see the familiar face of the producer. She says something to the chick next to me, but I don’t hear it. All I can hear is my heart thumping loudly in my ears. Then, she smiles warmly at me. “You ready?”
I give a quick, sharp nod and gulp, but my throat feels dry as a desert.
“OK, everyone!” she says. “We are going live in–”
I take a sharp inhale. This is it, this is my moment.
“5… 4…”
Yes. I got this. I GOT THIS.
“3… 2…1…”
OH. SHIT.
Several Months Earlier
1. Jupiter in Gemini
Cosmic Cannibal (born June 5) is an American astrologer, author, and all-around bad-ass. She is best known for her witty take on astrology and for being the most famous Gemini ever (hear that Marilyn Monroe?). Her podcast, Cosmic Talk, and books, The Zodiac Abstract, Cosmic Cannibal’s Love Struck, and the tell-all autobiography, Cosmic Chronicles: My Star-Studded Life as a Celebrity Astrologer, have catapulted the astrologer to superstar status. Starting with humble beginnings, Cosmic quickly rose to prominence after being featured in every cool magazine ever, but most especially in the popular women’s magazine Combust, where she writes the most widely read horoscopes and astrology articles on…
“Um, Earth to Camille? Anybody there?” comes a woman’s harsh voice.
The image of me as a hot-shot astrologer vanishes from my mind, and I snap to attention.
“Yep. Yes! What?” I say, adjusting my glasses.
Sitting behind a computer desk in the middle of the room is the source of the voice, Jenna, my interviewer, and the steely-eyed blonde is looking none-too-happy. Next to her is the other interviewer, a guy whose name I’ve already forgotten, so I’ve mentally dubbed him Mr. Aquarius. He’s such an Aquarius, too: shifty eyes, oddball opinions, spiky red hair that makes him look like a Trolls doll. For the past 15 minutes Mr. Aquarius Trolls Doll has been talking his head off. And I’ve just been sitting in this claustrophobic, musty office, nodding and resisting the urge to ask, “what’s your sign?” Sure, I’ve tried to pay attention to what he was droning on about, but it was so boring. So, I started drafting my Wikipedia page in my head to keep me occupied.
Anyway, I think it’s Jenna who spoke. She’s got an annoyed look on her stony face that makes me also think she’s called my name more than once. Shit. What if she did call my name more than once?
“Are you paying attention?” She asks in a surprisingly curt way.
I plaster on a fake, reassuring smile. “Absolutely!”
“You sure?” She squints at me, suspicious. “Because it looks like you were…somewhere else.”
Damn, was it that obvious? I’ve got to get better at hiding my daydreaming face.
“No, not at all!” I lie brightly. “I was concentrating very hard on what you were saying and you have my full attention.” I have to keep myself from laughing, because that is bullshit. I’m a Gemini with ADHD—no one has my full attention. Not even me.
“But, uh,” I add, “if you could repeat the question, that’d be great.”
“I already repeated it three times,” Jenna says, a dead look in her eyes.
GOD. I’m ten minutes into this job interview, and I’m already bombing it.
“Jenna, don’t be so harsh!” Mr. Aquarius gives a hearty, nervous chuckle. “Some people require certain accommodations.” He winks, giving me a warm smile.
Ugh, I don’t know what’s worse: bombing this interview or Mr. Aquarius being all smarmy. What does it matter? I just need to stay confident and professional. Because this is my big and—if I’m being totally honest—only chance to get an astrology writing job, and I can’t ruin it.
“Fine.” Jenna sucks her teeth. “I said, how would you describe your approach to writing?”
“Right! My approach to writing,” I repeat in a peppy sort of way, giving a thoughtful turn of my head. “Great question! Yes, so, my approach to writing is an interesting one…”
As I launch into my loaded response, trying my best to psychically convince Jenna that I am neither an idiot nor a ninny, my eyes briefly dart around the dingy office space in which I find myself. It’s a tiny shrine of nerd decor. There are posters of what looks like Vargas-style pin-ups on silver plates, framed photos of 80s animation, a bookshelf loaded with comic books and sci-fi figurines—Swamp Thing, Wolfman, Princess Leia…This isn’t exactly the trendy place that the job description led me to believe.
Seriously, when I found the job on Indeed, it said: “Planetary Writer Wanted for Print/Digital Magazine (MUST LIVE IN DENVER, CO).” I thought: “Planetary Writer?? That’s perfect!” I mean, it sounded cool and exactly like what I needed to jump start my astrology career. By the looks of this office, though, this magazine is about as far away from cool as Pluto is from the Sun.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, right.
“In summary, I have a very original approach to writing,” I finish, punctuating the bullshit response with a gleaming aren’t-I-impressive smile.
Jenna doesn’t look impressed, though. In fact, she’s looking at me like I just peed on the carpet.
“Fascinating!” chirps Mr. Aquarius in an encouraging way.
“No it isn’t,” Jenna says with obvious attitude, “that didn’t answer my question at all.”
Jeez. Harsh much? Between you and me, I don’t think Jenna likes me.
As soon as I walked in here—only five minutes late, thank you very much—and introduced myself (“Hi! I’m Camille, a Gemini, Pisces, Leo. What’s your Big Three?”), Mr. Aquarius was all chatty and welcoming, but Jenna had that Aubrey-Plaza look on her face that said, “I hate you, go die.”
First, I thought she gave me that look because she didn’t like my outfit (lime-green blouse, high-waist jeans, leopard-print clutch). Then I thought, maybe she doesn’t like cute Geminis, or doesn’t like cute Gemini brunettes. Or maybe she hates the chopsticks in my hair… But now, I’m thinking the real reason Jenna doesn’t like me has nothing to do with my looks and everything to do with her zodiac sign. So, what is Jenna’s zodiac sign?
I know Mr. Aquarius is an Aquarius because...well, LOOK at him. But Jenna…She’s all stony-faced and steely-eyed, giving me that death stare. So, what IS HER SIGN?
I do a quick survey of Jenna. With her tattered denim jacket and Stranger Things t-shirt, buzzed blond hair, and steely eyes, she kinda looks like P!nk. Isn’t P!nk a Virgo? Does that mean Jenna is a Virgo? Because if she is a Virgo…
Jenna clears her throat, reaching for my résumé and portfolio.
My apprehension replaces all thoughts of Jenna’s zodiac sign, as she and Mr. Aquarius start scrutinizing my work materials. Ha! Yeah. Work materials, that’s rich.
So, here’s the thing: between you and me, I kind of, sort of…hastily falsified my résumé last night—I mean, I didn’t add any major lies, just a few mini white lies about my professional horoscope and astrology experience. They’re so small, though. I’m sure these two won’t notice them.
“Your résumé says that you've been interning at Vogue for the past two years.” Jenna flips through my binder portfolio, “but you don’t have any of your articles here.” She looks up. “Why?”
“Why what?” I ask innocently.
She looks at me like I’m dumb. “Why don’t you have any of the Vogue articles in here?”
Shit.
Why did I lie on my résumé? Why didn’t I just say, I’ve never worked at a magazine! Actually, you’re looking at the nine horoscopes I wrote for my college newspaper before they fired me!? It would have been refreshingly honest. But no, I had to go full Shakespeare, saying I interned at Vogue. UGH.
I adjust my glasses. “Oh, well,”–lie again, dammit, LIE– “Vogue’s astro section is…online, so they don’t print hard copies…but I wrote soooo many articles, I really couldn’t print them. The printer would’ve run out of paper. That’s how many I wrote, you know?” I give a weak chuckle.
Please don’t ask me anything else about this Vogue thing I made up, I think to myself desperately.
It’s a tense few seconds. Mr. Aquarius and Jenna stare at me. Finally, Mr. Aquarius shrugs.
“Well, I don’t read Vogue, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” he says.
I feel a weight lift off my chest. Whew.
OK. I know I shouldn’t have lied about my writing experience and I maybe should have picked a publication that wasn’t as prestigious as Vogue, but what’s the big deal? I wanted to look impressive. And if that meant telling a lie or two, well, then… Besides, everyone lies on their résumé—no one wants to admit they do it, but WE ALL DO IT. Especially people like me. I have to lie. Because getting hired as an astrology writer when you’ve got no fans, no horoscopes, and the last job you worked had nothing to do with astrology, is practically impossible.
Jenna scrutinizes me. “So, if you’ve been writing for Vogue, then why are you here?”
Because I need a real job, not an internship I made up last night, I think wildly.
“Honestly?” I say, giving Jenna and Mr. Aquarius a sincere look. “All I ever wanted was to write for a magazine like this. To be a part of something bigger, to inform readers…”
And to be famous, my mind adds. Because all I’ve really ever wanted is to be famous…
“Hmph,” says Jenna before returning to my BS résumé and portfolio.
There’s no point explaining my real dream to these two. In part because I can’t quite read the power dynamic between them, which makes it really hard for me to figure out who to suck up to. (I think Mr. Aquarius is in charge, but Jenna also holds herself with an air of self-importance…I wonder if she’s a Leo?) But mostly because they wouldn’t get it, they wouldn’t understand how popular I’m meant to be, or that the universe has big things planned for me—especially this year.
This is the year that my life’s gonna change. At least, that’s what my Combust horoscope says.
Well, OK. The horoscope didn’t exactly say my life’s gonna change, but it alluded to that.
Sorta. Basically, the horoscope said that today marks the beginning of a year’s worth of career luck, opportunity, and major recognition. And it’s all thanks to one planetary transit: Jupiter in Gemini. Ooh, I should bring that up! Just nonchalantly insert a little Jupiter talk, and Jenna and Mr. Aquarius will be so impressed by my astrological prowess, they’ll hire me instantly.
Hell, even if they don’t, I need to say something. This silence is agony.
“So, I’m sure you’ve heard the news,” I say, adjusting my glasses, “about Jupiter in Gemini.”
Mr. Aquarius and Jenna look up from my fabricated interview documents, tilting their heads.
Oh, yeah. They’re impressed. And intrigued. I better continue.
“Naturally, anyone who knows anything in this community knows about this transit.” I give Jenna a knowing look, like we’re co-conspirators. “But there’s still so much confusion, so much misinformation. When anyone talks about Jupiter, they use the words luck, abundance and opportunity, but what does that really mean?” Omg, I’m on fire here! This is SO thought-provoking. “Take my birth chart, for example. Just because Jupiter is moving through my 10th house doesn’t mean I’m going to get ‘lucky’ or ‘abundant’ in my career and professional life, does it? Well, I mean, yes it does—especially when you consider that it’s my Jupiter Return. Because Jupiter is the planet of…”
I trail off, but it’s not because I’m losing steam.
No, it’s the look on their faces that makes it impossible for me to continue.
Mr. Aquarius is blinking dumbly at me, while Jenna’s giving me a disgruntled look; the same two looks I get whenever I talk about astrology to people who don’t know—or care—about it.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jenna asks brusquely.
My face prickles with embarrassment. “Er—a planetary transit. I just…thought it was cool,” I say meekly, as Jenna’s still giving me The Look. Great. I totally ruined that, didn’t I?
“Okaaaay. Thanks?” says Jenna. “How about we get back to this? There’s no need to talk,” she adds, giving me a pointed glare before she and Mr. Aquarius return to my résumé.
Ugh, I wish I could stop these two and show them my real résumé: my birth chart.
Honestly, it’s way more impressive than anything on that résumé—hell, it’s even better than the fake Vogue job. In fact, more employers should ask to see people’s birth charts in job interviews. Because you can fluff up your résumé or pen a dazzling cover letter, but you can never lie about the stars’ divine alignment on the day you were born. Seriously, the birth chart never lies.
Come to think of it, I should’ve put my birth chart as my résumé. Like, HELLO! I have my Gemini Sun AND Jupiter in the astrological 10th House of career recognition. And not to brag or anything, but I’ve also got an imaginative Pisces Moon and tons of dynamic, dramatic Leo energy. I mean, you can’t ask for a better mix for an astrologer could you? Seriously, with gifts like these, it won’t be before long everyone will be clamoring to read the savvy guidance of the one and only—
“Who’s Cosmic Cannibal?” interrupts Jenna, her already marked eyebrows furrowed.
“What’s that?” I blink at them. Honestly, I really need to get it together!
“All your articles,” says Jenna, flipping through my portfolio binder, “they’ve got the by-line ‘by Cosmic Cannibal’ on them.”
“That’s a cool name,” says Mr. Aquarius, mostly to himself, “but what is Cosmic Cannibal?”
AH! Finally, a question I can answer!
“It’s me, actually. Cosmic Cannibal is my pen name—” I fix my glasses, sitting up straighter. “Actually, it’s more like an alter ego and a nickname all wrapped into one.”
It’s true, when I was writing for my college newspaper, I started calling myself Cosmic Cannibal because I have an insatiable appetite for all things astrology and devour every bit of info about the subject that I can. Plus, it’s like Mr. Aquarius said: The name does sound really cool.
“Besides,” I add, “most writers in this field have pen names to protect their identities.”
“We know why people have pen names,” snaps Jenna, “thanks.”
She flashes me a cold, judgmental look.
Alright. That settles it: Jenna’s a Scorpio, she just has to be.
After several more minutes of torturous silence, interrupted only by Mr. Aquarius and Jenna taking turns to flash me curious (him) and disapproving looks (her), Jenna finally tosses my portfolio onto her desk and leans back in her chair. Mr. Aquarius gives me an unreadable stare.
They seem to be at a loss for words. Ha! Guess my work impressed them. Already, I can see my horoscopes being the most popular thing in…whatever this magazine is.
Wait, what is this magazine called?
“I would love a chance to write for…this publication,” I say, breaking the silence. “And to be a part of your team. Are horoscopes popular among your readers?”
“Horoscopes?” Jenna gives a harsh laugh.
“We don’t have horoscopes,” says Mr. Aquarius.
Er—say what now?
“Of course not!” I say, reassuringly. “Not every astrology magazine has horoscopes.”
Unless it’s a dumb one. I mean, what kind of astrology magazine doesn’t have horoscopes?
“Astrology…?” repeats Jenna, blinking at me. She gives me a slightly suspicious look before triumphantly turning to Mr. Aquarius, as though I just proved a theory true.
“Have you read this magazine?” Jenna asks. “Have you looked at anything we’ve published?”
I hesitate. Tbh, I haven’t looked at anything about this job because I found it on Indeed three days ago, hastily wrote a bullshit cover letter and resume, and hurriedly applied. But I can’t say that.
“Er—no, I haven’t,” I admit, giving Mr. Aquarius a sincere look, “but it sounds very cool!”
At least, it would sound cool, if I remembered the name. What is it? Come on, Camille, think!
“We aren’t just cool,” huffs Jenna. “We’re the leader in Denver’s counterculture. We print what mainstream magazines won’t.” Jenna tosses an issue of the magazine on the desk. “See for yourself.”
Counterculture? Hm. I can dig that. Maybe this is a cool alt-culture women’s magazine for—
OH DEAR GOD.
My stomach gives a frightened jolt as I reach for the magazine. Looking at the cover, I’m… beyond words, actually. It’s that bad. No joke. It’s like a trashy sci-fi comic book that should be sold at a head shop because you’d have to be high to make sense of it.
In the middle of the cover is a woman burning a man with her pupil-less third eye. She’s surrounded by the feature headlines: “Space Balls Falling on Denver,” “11 Signs Your Neighbor is an Alien”, and: “‘I saw it, I swear!’ Mayor Yemi’s Tale about the UFO Near Colorado Springs.”
There isn’t anything about zodiac signs or planets. WTF is this magazine?
My eyes flick to the top of the front page, and I have to keep from grimacing. There, written in Butcherman font are the words: SPACE CASE. Dazedly, I look around the space. It all makes sense now: The kooky pin-up posters—which now that I look at them, are actually mutated Vargas girls straddling UFO’s and shooting laser beams out of their eyes—the sci-fi figurines, the comic books…
This isn’t a cool, alt-culture women’s magazine. It’s...well, idk what it is.
“So, uh…” I stammer, trying to make sense of all of this, “Space Case is…what, exactly?”
I look up at them.
Mr. Aquarius beams. “We’re the leader in Denver’s culture of extraterrestrial enthusiasts!”
“Right.” I nod slowly, as if he didn’t just utter one of the strangest sentences I’ve EVER HEARD. “So—just to be clear—you’re not hiring an astrology writer?”
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