“Maybe it’s not the pizza place that’s cursed, maybe it’s me, because look what happened, Hannah,” I moan lying on my bed, talking to my best friend.

It’s 9:17 a.m. Monday morning. I called in sick to work to hide from the world and decided to call Hannah. Thank goodness her salon doesn’t open until noon on Mondays.

“You’re not cursed.” Hannah’s voice is stern on the other line to drive her point home. “I’m sorry you were outed though. That ...