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.

“Your life would be way more exciting if you spent more time with

me,” she says, dodging a stray volleyball.

I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on my gym shorts. I look at Rishi

again. Her hands are decorated with the burned-amber swirls of henna

from her cousin’s wedding this past weekend. She smiles like there’s

sunshine inside her and walks like she’s ready to fly. I wish I had a

fraction of that. Sometimes when I’m with her long enough, I forget

about all the things I can’t tell her-the fear, the cantos, the

ghosts. I forget and let myself just be.

The right corner of her lips tugs upward, revealing a tiny dimple.

The crystal of her nose ring twinkles with the same brightness in her

rich-brown eyes. When she looks at me, I feel like she’s seeing right

through me. Like she knows I’m hiding a big part of myself.

“What?” My stomach flutters and I fidget with the hem of my

uniform shirt.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

My cheeks burn. There are lots of things I’m not telling lots of

people. Rishi. My sisters. My mother. Even myself. Sometimes I’m

afraid I’ve put on so many masks that one day I won’t be able to

recognize who I am. Still, I smirk to play it off because I can’t

think of any other way to be.

“I didn’t finish reading Romeo and Juliet ,” I say.

“Alex, you know I’m totally psychic. You won’t be able to hide

from me much longer.”

That makes me smile. “Of course you are.”

“Speaking of psychics,” she says, “they’re supposed to have a

bunch at the Ghoul Ball next weekend. Do you have a costume yet?”

“Can’t I just go as a really stressed-out high school sophomore?”

“Alex, you are not allowed to bail on me. If you’re not having a

birthday party, then we will celebrate early with a thousand

strangers.”

“I’ll be there.” Damn, my guilt is at an all-time high today.

First my family. Now Rishi. Since I can’t invite her to my house, I

lied and told her there’d be no birthday party at all.

“Want to walk around the track?” Rishi starts to stretch. The gym

teacher isn’t here yet, as evident by most of my classmates sitting

around on their phones and a handful of guys failing to slam-dunk

basketballs.

I start to follow Rishi out of the gym when I hear, “Duck, you

freak!”

I don’t generally answer to “freak,” but I want to see the source.

When I turn around, Ivan is holding a volleyball over his head. He

throws it as hard as he can in our direction. I hold my arms up as a

shield, but it wasn’t meant for me. The ball slams into Rishi’s face.

Her head snaps back and the force of it knocks her on the floor.

Ivan holds his belly and laughs. Some kids laugh with him. Others

are too embarrassed for Rishi to say anything, so they look away.

“Dick!” Rishi shouts at him. A tiny trickle of blood starts to

flow from her nose.

“Are you okay?” I ask, even though it’s a stupid thing to ask. Of

course she’s not okay. She wipes the blood away with the back of her