“I’m sorta surprised your grandmother’s letting you use that book,” I comment lightly. “Aren’t your parents, like, dead set against you becoming a witch?”

“Adults.” Adriana snorts derisively. “I’m already a witch; my parents just don’t want to know about it. Maybe they can forbid me from joining Abuela when she meets with her coven, but I know what I believe. They think the Church is the answer because vampires are scared of the crucifix, but witches have, like, half a dozen charms that repel the undead!” Her expression hardens. “I’m pretty sure they think the Church is going to un-lesbian me, too, but let’s not even get started on that.”

Leaning over, I give my best friend a hug, because it’s the only thing I can do. I wasn’t raised with religion—Christian, Pagan, or otherwise. Coming out was hard, but only because it felt an awful lot like saying “Please look at me and consider all the sexual activities that society has trained you to think about when you hear the word gay.” Straight kids never have to experience that; they never have to sit down across from their parents and make a peremptory declaration about what gives them a boner.

“Look at this.” Adriana points now to some notes scrawled in the margins, made by different hands. “There are adjustments to each original spell, added by generations of witches in our family line! I mean, this is field testing in action. ‘In cases of acute stress, double amount of holy basil and use lemon balm grown close to subject’s place of dwelling.’” She gives me a look of abject wonder. “I can’t wait to show this to Hope!”

“Will your grandma really let you take the grimoire home?” Shifting uncomfortably, I have another missed-the-bus moment, fear and jealousy corroding my self-confidence. I hate this. I hate this feeling, and I hate myself for feeling it—this resentment because my best friend has found someone and I haven’t. Out of everyone in this hellhole town, she deserves happiness, and I want it for her. So what’s my problem?

“Ha! Not a chance. And anyway, my parents would freak.” Picking up her phone again, Adriana captures another snapshot of the book. “That’s why I’m doing this. I don’t know if Abuela keeps forgetting I can take pictures with this thing, or if she knows and that’s the point, but I’m gonna have every spell in this book memorized by graduation.”

When dinner time rolls around, the subject matter hasn’t changed. The table all but sags beneath a spread of my favorite dishes, but my plate is still dominated by an absolute mountain of guacamole, and I have no regrets. As I stuff my face, Ximena observes, “Sounds like Hope has made quite an impression on you, mijita.”