At the end of the summer the sea always seems to be railing against the thought of another long, fierce new England winter. The waves hurtle themselves against the rocks with blind rage. Fishermen think of August as a terrifying month, but for me, it’s the most thrilling. Maybe it’s because my family has lived in Gloucester for generations. OR maybe it’s because we’re Wiccans, and that puts us in greater tune with nature.

It’s ironic to think that my family settled so close to Salem—we were very lucky to survive the witch trials. It’s strange to think that Wicca could inspire such terror when it’s such a gentle, loving, nurturing religion. I guess people are always afraid of power that they don’t understand. And Wicca does deal with raw power, although the way my family practices, it’s never destructive. Both Mom and Dad are very into responsible uses of magick, which they drummed into me before my initiation three years ago. Now they are teaching the same thing to my younger brother, Sam. He won’t be initiated for another seven months, but already I can see the energy beginning to spark n him. I know he’s going to be a powerful witch. I’m looking forward to his rites, but it’s hard not to envy him sometimes. My own power is more fickle, although I like to think that it is growing ad I continue to study and practice.

Every day I pray to the Goddess to make me worthy of my family.

— Sarah Curtis

Calm down, I told myself as I gazed into the bathroom mirror and struggled to pull my long brown hair into a tidy French braid. This is going to be fine. I glanced at my watch. My boyfriend, Hunter Niall, was due any minute. Normally I would have been thrilled to be spending an evening with him, but tonight was no ordinary night. No—tonight was the official meet-the-parents dinner, and I was beginning to feel sick with tension.

I was distracted by a quick tap on the door.

“Come in,” I called.

My sister, Mary K., walked into the bathroom. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked, staring at my faded blue jeans and soft purple fleece shirt.

I looked down at my outfit. “What’s wrong with this?”

Mary K. just sighed and marched through the bathroom to the door that led into my bedroom.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To find that shirt Aunt Eileen gave you for Christmas,” Mary K. said. “I know it’ll look great on you, and besides, she and Paula are already downstairs, waiting for us.”

“That shirt is practically see-through!” I argued as Mary K. rummaged through my drawers.

“Which is why you’ll wear it with this,” she countered, holding up a pale pink tank top. Mary K. pulled the sheer, stretchy shirt off a hanger in my closet and handed it and the tank top to me. “At least you’re wearing low jeans,” she said as I yanked off my fleece. “You’ve got the body for them.”

I pulled on the new outfit and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. The slate blue shirt did make my dark eyes seem warmer, and the pink tone of the tank made my skin rosy. Once again, I was amazed at my sister’s ability to pull together an outfit based on clothes I hardly ever wore.

Just then the doorbell rang. “Showtime!” Mary K. said brightly.

I stifled a groan. For the hundredth time, I wanted to kick myself for letting my parents invite Hunter over for dinner. It had seemed like a good idea when Mom suggested it, but now that the night had arrived, my heart was racing. It didn’t help that my mom had decided to make a big event out of it, pulling together an ambitious dinner menu and inviting my aunt Eileen and her girlfriend, Paula, over, too. What if they don’t like him? I worried as I stared at my reflection. My parents had met Hunter before but only briefly, in casual settings. Comparatively, this felt more like a college entrance exam.

I could hear the muted sound of greetings in the front hall. Mary K. pulled on her sweater. “Let’s go,” she said.

I followed her into the hall and down the stairs. Hunter was in the front alcove, shaking hands with my father and smiling at my aunt and her girlfriend. He was holding a paper cone of roses—they were such a delicate pink that they seemed to glow with their own light, like a bouquet of pearls. I stopped on the steps, and Hunter looked up at me with his steady green gaze. I smiled, and he smiled back, the edges of his brilliant eyes crinkling in a way that was both exciting and familiar.

“Hey, Morgan,” my aunt Eileen said with a grin. “That shirt looks great on you.” Her back was to Hunter, and she waggled her eyebrows at me, as if to say, “He’s cute.” I laughed nervously and gave her and Paula a hello hug.

Hunter gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful,” he whispered, and I felt a blush rise to my face.

Mary K. took a delicate sniff. “Is something on fire?” she asked.

My dad looked at me in alarm, his eyes huge behind his glasses.

“I think I’d better go see how Mom is doing,” I said quickly. “Shall I put these in some water?” I asked Hunter, taking the roses from him. “They’re gorgeous.”

“Do you need help?” Hunter asked.

“Oh, no,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “I’m sure everything is under control.”

Hunter smiled, and I knew he wasn’t fooled for a second.

My dad led everyone into the living room as I hurried into the kitchen. My mom was frantically waving her arms in a desperate attempt to force the smoke pouring from the oven out the open back door.

“Should I do something?” I asked.

“Oh, Morgan!” Relief swept over my mom’s face. “Would you put on the fan before the fire alarm goes off? I have to pull this roast out of the oven—I think some of the drip-pings caught on fire.” My mother is a real estate broker and doesn’t spend a lot of time in the kitchen. The fact that my parents had both volunteered to cook for Hunter—Dad made his famous black-bottom pie for dessert—was just evidence of how special they wanted this night to be.

I put the roses on the countertop, flipped on the fan, and turned the flame under the carrots on the stove to low as my mom wrestled the roast from the oven and fanned the smoke away from it. She shook her head. “We should have ordered out,” she said mournfully, pondering the blackened mess.

I tried not to groan out loud. “Maybe we can make some gravy to cover up the black parts,” I suggested.

Mom nodded, straightening her red sweater while I pulled some instant gravy out of the cabinet. “Thank you,” she said, giving me a wry smile. “I guess I’d better get out there and say hello to Hunter.”

Something in my mother’s voice made me look at her. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that my mom might be as nervous about tonight’s official meet and greet as I was.

My mom picked up the cone of roses. “These are beautiful, ” she said. After a moment she added, “Hunter really is nice, isn’t he?”

“He really is,” I agreed. My mother smiled, and I had the sudden urge to hug her. She and my father knew that Hunter was into Wicca (although they didn’t know quite how deeply). For lots of reasons, they were incredibly uncomfortable with the thought that Wicca was a part of my life. But here they were, making an extra effort to get to know Hunter, to be open-minded.

My mom hurried out to say hello to everyone. I made the gravy as Mary K. and my dad came into the kitchen. Dad did his best to carve up the roast. He really had to put his shoulder into it, but eventually he cut it into slices thin enough to be served. I put it on plates and poured gravy over each serving, then added the side dishes, and Mary K. carried the plates to the table. The roast didn’t look too terrifying once it was disguised.