“Who else is going to say it?”
If I were braver, I would tell Lula the truth. Maybe they aren’t cursed, but I am. I’m the reason our lives changed—the reason Dad left us. Instead, I look out the window, where Maks and the blue-hooded boy are still fighting. Lula hops back to the front seat and presses down on the horn.
“Maks!” she shouts. “Come on. Alex is fine. We’re late.”
Maks slams his door shut. His face is red from screaming. The impatient traffic jam starts to drive around us.
The guy we almost hit gives us the middle finger, then keeps crossing the street as the pedestrian light turns white. I watch him as he walks. He rubs the long string of blue beads around his neck, an odd length for a rosary. Then I lose him in a crowd of pedestrians.
Maks takes Lula’s face in his hands. “Baby, you’re hurt. I’m so sorry.”
He kisses her forehead, and I count the seconds before he lets go. One…six…ten…
I tap the back of his seat. “You guys know I’m still back here, right?”
He turns to me and winks. “Want one too?”
“I’ll pass. Can you park without killing us?”
Lula’s back to sister-mode. Her resting witch face silences me.
Maks smirks, but the humor is gone. “Buckle up.”
And I do something I haven’t done in years. I whisper a little prayer.
4
The encantrix walks alone,
her power too great.
Her madness, even greater.
—The Creation of Witches, Antonietta Mortiz de la Paz
At the steps of Thorne Hill High, Lula pulls me into a hug.
“I’m fine,” I groan.
“Wait for me after school. We have to—”
“Sunset,” I say quickly. I wish she wouldn’t talk about bruja things in public. “I know. I got it.”
She kisses my cheek, and I grumble because her lip gloss is so sticky it only comes off with soap. I leave her and Maks to loiter with the soccer team and race up the steps. The school’s tall gothic spires cast pointed shadows across the hordes of students hanging out front. I check my watch. I have two and a half minutes to make it to the girls’ locker room and then first period gym. At my locker, I quickly change into my uniform. I throw on my hoodie because it’s cold.
A sharp pain pulls from my belly button so hard I drop onto one knee.
“Are you okay?” a girl asks.
“Cramps,” I lie, trying to breathe through the pain. I feel a shortness of breath as my heart races. Get a grip, Alex.
The girl raises her eyebrows, like she’s positive I should be studied by NASA, and walks away.
Today is not off to a good start. I shut my locker harder than I intended. Static pricks my fingertips like needles and leaves burn marks on the metal door. The slam echoes through the changing room, turning heads in my direction. I bend my head down and concentrate on tying my shoelaces. Girls around me snicker on their way out. Their whispers echo against the metal doors and sharp acoustics of the locker room.
“That girl is so creepy. Her whole family is so weird.”
“My mom says her mom smells like garlic. She’s like a voodoo priestess or something.”
“Did you know her slutty sister is dating the goalie?”
I let go of a shaky breath. A new pain pulls at my chest. I’m used to people thinking I’m weird. Despite my best efforts at not being seen, something always calls attention. When I was a kid, my mom used to put good luck charms in my backpack without telling me, so they’d fall out at school and scare the other kids. No one likes a real rabbit’s paw strung with smelly incense pouches and seashells that jingle with every step. Even now, I keep to myself, except when I’m busy making lab-partner situations awkward. I don’t care when people say things about me. I’ve learned to take it. But I really hate it when they say things about my family. I ball my hands into fists and pull back the anger itching at my fingertips.
I exit the locker room and search the stairwell for the single familiar face that cheers me up.
“Today, loser,” a boy says behind me. Then, when I don’t speed up to his liking, he huffs and puffs and shoves me aside. He beats me to the next landing—Ivan Stoliyov, suspended for punching people and throwing a desk chair at Principal Quinn’s head. He reminds me of a blond troll. I’m mentally putting him in check with a witty remark that’ll never actually leave my lips when I, very gracefully, trip up the steps.
“You are extra coordinated today,” Rishi says.
From down here, all I can see are her purple boots, two inches of lime-green socks, and the start of a galaxy printed on metallic leggings. On top of that, she wears her standard-issue red Thorne Hill gym shorts and the black-and-red gym shirt. Somehow, she manages to make it look beautiful. Rishi Persaud usually stands at five foot four, but her chunky boots give her an extra five inches to put us at eye level.
“I like your outfit,” I say. I want to say something more. Something that conveys how relieved I am to see her face or that I missed her over the weekend or that I might be falling apart at the seams because I can’t handle family and school and my nightmares.
Instead, all I do is dust off my jeans and bask in her calming presence. Rishi has that effect on me. She’s so wonderfully bright, like when you stare at the sun and when you look away you have that spot in your line of vision. That’s how Rishi makes me feel. She’s about the only person in school who isn’t weirded out by me, and I don’t want to do anything to mess it up.
“I felt extra spacey this morning,” she says, and points at her leggings. Planets and supernovas stretch around her thighs and calves.
“Funny.”
“You’re a mess.” She bends down. Her multicolored bracelets jingle as she ties the laces to my sneaker.
“I can do that myself, thanks.”
“Clearly not today.” She stands back up. “What would you do without me?”
I smirk. Shake my head. She hooks her arm with mine and pulls me along, exiting the stairwell.
We walk into the gym where kids run around playing basketball and girls who don’t want to sweat sit up high on the bleachers.
“Want to come out today? There’s a show in Williamsburg. It’s kind of a scene, but I think we’ll survive.”
I want to say yes. I want to be the girl who goes to concerts and hangs out after school and everyone laughs at her jokes because she’s effortlessly funny and look at her hair it’s so shiny… I want to be that girl.
Instead, I’m the girl with a jar of sugar and an impending magic spell waiting for her at sunset.
“I can’t. I have boring family stuff.”
Rishi makes a face. In the two years we’ve been friends, I’ve never let her into my house. She’s picked me up, but the farthest she’s ever got is the front porch. It’s not like there’s a sign that says, “Welcome to Bruja Land! Don’t. Touch. Anything.” It’s that I’d be too embarrassed.