Daphne is patient with me as I stumble through my homework and her prepared exercises, too preoccupied by my growing fears to focus on algebra; and when we’re finishing up an hour later, I remind my parents that I’m supposed to have dinner with Adriana and her grandmother. All afternoon, I’ve been debating whether or not I really want to go. I’m too worried to eat, but Ximena Rosales is an actual factual witch. If there’s anyone who can help me figure out what’s happening to me, she might be it—if I can muster up the courage to be honest with her.

I came out to my parents freshman year. I’d never really dated anyone, and they’d never pressured me to talk about it, letting me choose when to bring it up. They wanted to give me space to decide if and when I was ready, which was cool; and yet, somehow, all that empty space was also terrifying. It created this enormous platform, full of reverent silence, and it gave me the worst kind of stage fright.

That’s sort of what this feels like. I can’t tell whether my fears will wreck me faster if I keep them inside, or if they’ll do even worse damage once I let them out and no longer have any control over their size, shape, and direction.

“I just don’t think I’m comfortable with you going out tonight,” my mom says, yanking the cork out of a wine bottle like someone trying to start a lawn mower. “After what happened at the café … maybe it’s best to just stay inside.”

“It’s not like Ximena’s planning a picnic in Colgate Woods, Mom.” Beholden to my nature, the opportunity for sarcasm is impossible to resist. “She’s got a whole room in her house just for eating.”

“You know what I mean.” My mother’s eyes narrow. “Anyway, your dad’s still working, and I’ve already had a glass of wine. I can’t drive you to Ximena’s place.”

“I can do it, Mrs. Pfeiffer,” Daphne offers politely as she shrugs into her coat.

“Monica.” My mother’s correction is reflexive. “And I can’t ask you to do that, it wouldn’t be fair.”

“You didn’t ask; I offered.” Daphne tousles my hair, and my glasses slip down my nose. “It’ll be, what? Five minutes out of my way? We’ll watch each other’s backs!”

“He’d still have to get home again, and—”

“Ximena can drive me back,” I report, holding up a text confirming the claim. I’m still not sure if I really want to go, but winning an argument against a parent is its own reward.

My mom crosses her arms, looking conflicted, but finally sighs. “Okay, then. Just … be careful. And text me when you get there so I know you’re okay.”