Probably a glitch, Binx thought with a shrug. The security-alert enchantment was brand-new; she’d recently started using it on the recommendation of her online friend ShadowKnight, who was a technomancer, too, the only boy witch Binx knew personally. She quickly disabled the enchantment (so it wouldn’t keep false-alarming). She would ask him for advice re: debugging the next time they communicated.
Although… she hadn’t heard from him in days, despite her leaving him a bunch of (encrypted) messages. Last week, he’d said something about his parents almost learning about his witch identity (which he’d kept from them since discovering it himself at age twelve… apparently, they were super anti-magic). Was he okay? Had he gone even deeper underground to avoid their scrutiny? It was bad enough having annoying parents (Binx could so relate); but it would be terrible to have parents who were not down with the witch thing and might kick their kid out of the house or whatever. (Binx’s mom and dad didn’t know about her being a witch, and she planned to keep it that way. Not that they’d disown her, but she didn’t like confiding in them about anything because of their general obtuseness.)
Or maybe ShadowKnight’s parents had found out about his activism group? He’d mentioned to Binx that he was part of a new, top secret political movement. He hadn’t said much about it, just that they called themselves Libertas and that they were working to try to get the anti-witchcraft law, 6-129, overturned and replaced by an anti-witch-discrimination law. Which would be amaaaazing.
Lately Binx had been wondering if she should maybe join Libertas; 6-129 was vile. She could use her technomancing talents to help bring an end to it and protect the rights of witches. Also, maybe the Libertas people had ideas about how to make the Antima go away?
But… nah… Binx wasn’t big on groups. It was hard enough being part of a coven and having to follow Greta’s “rules,” like “Stop hexting Mira and Aysha in public!” and “No magical bagels at school!”
Still, she reminded herself to try to reach ShadowKnight again.
4 A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
Magic in others is not always obvious.
(FROM THE GOOD BOOK OF MAGIC AND MENTALISM BY CALLIXTA CROWE)
By the time the second-period bell rang, Ridley was in her seat and all ready for class. A mint-green notebook labeled US HISTORY was open to the first page with the spine carefully pressed flat. She loved new notebooks—the clean fields of white, the faint blue horizontal lines. She always opted for the narrow college ruling versus the wide ruling; it looked cooler and, of course, more collegiate.
She picked up her mechanical pencil (because she didn’t like making mistakes in indelible ink) and wrote the date at the top of the page. The first day of her second year at Sorrow Point High. Her first day freshman year had been way less… distressing. Sure, it had been emotionally challenging in its own way—a new city, a new school, a new life—but there was a different (and less anti-witch) US president back then, and the Antima movement didn’t exist yet, at least not openly, and Ridley had felt relatively safe practicing the craft in secret on her own. And soon after, she’d met Greta and Binx, and they’d been able to practice the craft together… still in secret, but together.
But this first day of school was different. Greta’s account of the two guys wearing Antima shoulder patches had been jarring. Ridley had never seen Antima members in Sorrow Point.
And despite Binx’s occasional rebellious flouting of the law (as in this morning’s bagel incident), their coven had (knock on wood) never gotten caught. Neither had Div’s. They had all managed to pass as regular old non-magical humans.
Until now. That disturbing shadow message. Was it just another Triad prank, as Binx had suggested? Or were the Antima onto Greta? To their whole coven? And if so, what were the Antima going to do with the information? Report them? Torment the girls with more threats? Show up at their houses in the middle of the night and spray-paint hateful words on their doors? Attack them (and then would the police look the other way, like they had in Texas)?
Callixta’s descendant had suggested that the Antima hated witches because they hated powerful women. But did they hate girls like Ridley even more because she was Black and also trans? Or did the Antima hate all witches equally? (In the last presidential election, the other candidate—a Black lesbian—had almost defeated David Ingraham, creating a ripple effect of increased racism and prejudice against the LGBTQIA community.)
Not for the first time, Ridley wondered if she should just give up witchcraft. It wasn’t worth it if it might bring more pain and hardship to her family; they’d already been through so much. Too much. Plus, there was her future to think about, especially college. (She’d been dreaming about the Columbia-Juilliard double-degree program since forever, and it probably didn’t accept applicants who were known witches.)
But if she gave up witchcraft, it would really, really complicate her life. Not that her life wasn’t already complicated, but still.
Quandary, Ridley wrote in her notebook. Dilemma. Conundrum. Predicament. Catch-22.
“Good morning, everyone!”
Ridley erased her word salad and turned her attention to the front of the room. But wait… where was Ms. Hua? The person standing at the blackboard had a buzz cut and retro rhinestone glasses and was not Ms. Hua.
“I’m Ms. O’Shea,” she announced to the class. She picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard: O’SHEA. “I’m filling in for Ms. Hua while she’s on maternity leave for the next few months. In the meantime, I’ll be taking you on the awesome journey that is the
