Paula-Jean sat silent and still — a little off to my left side, like she was worried the spell might go haywire and ricochet off the walls and onto her by accident. Cyrus was lying in his usual spot at my bedside. He raised his little eyebrows and then buried his snout deeper between his front paws as though he was avoiding certain disaster. The air was thick with anticipation, while the faint aroma of dwarf winterberry euonymus whispered into my nostrils. I gripped the branch tightly in my right hand and then closed my eyes. I did my best to picture Jordan’s goofy grin. I thought of all the millions of mean and nasty comments he’d made over the years. I thought about the time when I was seven and he got gum stuck in my hair. My parents had to practically shave me bald to get it all out. And the time he knocked me into a sea of mud — on photo day. I was a mess and although they let me do a retake for my personal portrait, there was nothing I could do about the class picture.
