But Sorrow Point was a different story. Nothing was chronological or manageable. Lots of streets had almost identical names, like Loma Linda Avenue, Loma Linda Drive, and Loma Linda Boulevard. Others dead-ended unexpectedly. Others looped in on themselves so that Iris kept returning to the same spot like a rat trapped in a maze.
Her street, too, had many variations on its name: Sycamore Street, Sycamore Lane, Sycamore Crescent, and also North Sycamore Road, South Sycamore Road, and South Sycamore Road Extension. Iris had been fine up until she’d accidentally turned onto Sycamore Crescent, which had dead-ended in a cul-de-sac (which was not a thing in New York City). So she’d had to retrace her steps, get back on Alameda (Road, not Street or Drive), and keep going. Along the way she’d found herself on a street called Junipero Serra, stopped in front of a peach-colored bungalow with a cute little VW bug (the place made her feel inexplicably safe), and consulted Ravenscroll.
Finally, she was on Sycamore Street. She could see her grandmother’s house down the hill, just past the little bodega with the mean lady who’d yelled at Nyala for touching a candy bar without buying it. Iris had been this close to casting a hex on the nasty storeowner, Mrs. Poe.
Ravenscroll made a tiny ping! sound, and a message lit up the screen. A reminder about an upcoming appointment with her new therapist. Oh, joy. Iris didn’t know why she couldn’t just keep seeing her old therapist, Francesca, by Skype or FaceTime or whatever. (Maybe a virtual reality videochat spell? Was there such a thing? Obviously not in Callixta’s time, but maybe some modern-day witch had invented one?) Iris had been with Francesca since she was seven. Nine whole years. She seriously didn’t want to start with some stranger who didn’t know anything about her or her life. Iris’s mom was also in the process of finding her a new occupational therapist and maybe a new social skills therapist, too. Moving across the country seriously sucked.
Of course, lots of other things seriously sucked, too. Like having anxiety and sensory processing disorder to begin with. Like needing magic to find her way home… to not throw up on the first day of school… and other basics.
Like not having her dad around. That super, royally, infinity sucked the most of all.
Iris was almost at Poe’s Market. She wanted to pop in to buy some gum—it helped with her SPD-related need to bite and chew—but she wasn’t in the mood to deal with mean Mrs. Poe right now.
In front of the store, a skinny, scruffy black cat sat on a wooden bench licking its paws. Its fur was matted, and its right ear was just a stub.
“Hey, kitty,” Iris called out. “Do you live here? Can I pet you?” She extended her hand and approached it slowly.
Just then, three guys burst out of the bodega, slamming the squeaky screen door behind them. One of them was ripping open a bag of Doritos. The other two were swigging from cans covered with brown paper bags.
The Doritos guy was from school. The nasty one who’d bumped into her and kicked her lip gloss. The one with the Antima shoulder patch.
Iris ducked behind the bench.
“—yeah, and she was playing all hard to get at first, but a few drinks loosened her up,” he was saying.
The other two fist-bumped him and nodded in agreement. “Way to go, Orion,” one of them said.
“Thanks, Brandon.”
Orion stopped in front of the wooden bench and hurled a couple of chips at the black cat. It hissed and leaped off the bench and skittered away. The three of them laughed uproariously.
Iris waited until they were looking the other way. Then she stood up and attempted to proceed unnoticed toward the store entrance. She’d rather face mean Mrs. Poe than these cretins.
But Orion saw her and cut her off. He stepped in front of her. He was standing too close.
“You again! Where’re you going in such a big hurry?”
He seemed to grow even taller and broader—or maybe it was Iris shrinking into herself. His breath reeked of Doritos and beer, like hot garbage. Her brain buzzed and crackled in confusion. “Um… excuse me… I have to…” Dizzy and frightened, she backed away.
But Brandon and the other guy were right there; they’d flanked her while her back was turned. Oh no. They were both wearing Antima shoulder patches. Iris’s gut clenched. They were all Antima. They must know she was a witch. There was no easy way to slip away from them.
The third guy waved his drink through the air lazily and eased forward even closer to her. “What’s your name, babe? I’m Axel, but you may call me the Ax. Wanna party with us?” He quirked an eyebrow and smirked at his friends when Iris remained paralyzed.
Brandon had crept even closer and was lightly running the knuckles of his free hand along her upper arm. “Yeah, what’s the matter? We’re not scaring you, are we?”
Iris’s skin screamed. She wanted to punch and kick, but her overloaded brain wouldn’t cooperate. Everything had become too confusing. Too much was happening, more than she could process. She tried frantically to think of a spell to make it stop. What would Jadora from Witchworld do in this situation? But Jadora’s magic couldn’t help here in the real world.…
An ammonia odor filled the air.
“What the…”
Orion and Brandon and Axel fanned out and stared down at their shorts.
They had all peed themselves.
Suddenly they were swearing and blustering and covering their crotches with their backpacks. Mumbling various excuses, they rushed away—Orion and Axel on foot, sprinting in opposite directions, and Brandon to a silver SUV parked nearby.
Safe. She was safe. Apparently, they’d been too drunk to exercise bladder control. Iris sank down on the bench, trying to corral her spinning thoughts and ease the itchy-crawly screaming of her
