I speed along California State Route 1 in my 1980 Toyota Celica, music booming on the radio. Well, I'm not speeding, really. But with the windows open, allowing the sea breeze to rush in to meet me, it feels like I am.

The nighttime air, fresh and salty and smelling of seawater, blows full-force through my hair. I love it. But next to me in the passanger seat, I'm not so sure Jeremy does. He's looking a little irritated and there are goosebumps on his arms, which he's folded across his chest.

On my right, the lights of west Los Angeles spin past me. On my left are the colorful buildings of Marina Del Rey's Fisherman's Village, where little boats rest calmly in the harbor's glassy water.

"Too much wind for you, Jeremy?" I finally ask.

"Yeah, a bit," he replies. He sounds cold and uncomfortable.

"Fine." Unable to completely repress an amused smile, I shrug and roll the windows halfway up. "I told you you should have brought your sweatshirt."

Jeremy makes a face like he's saying, I know, you were right, then puts his arms down and reclines in the passenger seat.

I turn up the music a little louder and start to sing along.

Only when I'm dancing can I feel this free

At night I lock the doors, where no one else can see

I'm tired of dancing here all by myself

Tonight I'm gonna dance with someone else.

The synthesized beat and Madonna's vocals fill the car and surround me with perfect clarity to every reverberation. Why is it that music sounds so much better on a car radio than anywhere else?

"Oh, Tabs, you like Madonna?" Jeremy almost groans.

"Course I do. Doesn't everyone? This song is the best."

"It's annoying."

"If you say so," I respond. But I'm not about change the station or stop singing along.

Madonna's newest single, released just months ago, has exploded onto everyone's radios, record players, parties, and dances. Everyone digs it- I'm no exception. Jeremy's just being a stick in the mud as usual. For this moment, I'm high on the music, high on this seaside air and the thrill of being out here at night.

"Um," Jeremy says a few minutes later. We're passing an offramp into Brentwood. "You missed our offramp. Joyce lives on Bundy Drive, remember?"

"I know."

"What?"

"I said I know. We're not going to Joyce's party just yet."

"Wha- What do you mean we're not going to Joyce's party just yet?! Where are you taking me?"

I smile. "You'll see." I reach down for something, then hold up a bottle of two-buck-chuck. "I brought wine."

"Wine? Tabitha, you'll get us arrested!"

"Relax, you worry wart. We'll be fine."

"Aaaagh… Okay, fine! As long as we still get to the party in good time. I wanna get there before it ends."

"The party's gonna go on all night. We're fine," I reassure him.

Jeremy shakes his head. "You're a crazy woman, Tabs."

We drive some more minutes until we cross into Santa Monica. It's here we finally get off the freeway. Before long we're cruising up Ocean Avenue with the dark Pacific Ocean stretching alongside us on our left.

"I don't know where you're taking me," Jeremy comments in a sing-songy voice. I just smile.

It may be after dark, but the area is alive with nightlife. Numerous patrons of restaurants, bars, and dance clubs walk the streets. Despite the chill in the air, people dine al fresco at establishments' sidewalk or patio seating. Gaggles of girls- with some guys mixed in- roam the sidewalks, chatting boisterously, toting plastic shopping bags. No doubt they've just visited the nearby outdoor Santa Monica Mall, where I've spent many a weekend with girlfriends, and are out for a stroll after their shopping sprees.

None of these places, however, are what I have in mind for Jeremy and I tonight.

I drive us a few more blocks up Ocean, past the bustling heart of the nightlife. Where we are now, it's quiet, all big ritzy hotels and apartment buildings. On a street corner outside one of these sprawling apartments, I finally park.

"Here we are." I turn the radio off and point at the seemingly perpetual stretch of green grass across the street. "Palisades Park."

"Palisades Park? What are we doing here?" Jeremy seems confused, but finally, a little intruiged.

"Oh," I say, getting out of the car, "Relax a bit, drink a little wine. Then we'll head to the party. Here, catch. I have an extra." I toss Jeremy a grey Loyola Marymount University sweatshirt I had folded on my back seat. His mouth opens in surprise as he catches it.

"It's illegal to drink in public! And we're still underage! If the police see us, we're dead."

I tuck a rolled-up blanket under my arm. "It's dark. They won't see a thing. Here, take the picnic basket."

Wearing my extra sweatshirt, Jeremy follows me through the crosswalk to the grass on the other side.

Palisades Park. It's just as lovely to be here after dark as I imagined. The park, an iconic Santa Monica landmark famous for its views of the ocean, spans over a mile in a strip along the coastal bluffs parallel Ocean Avenue. The wide length of lawn isn't all the park has to offer. There are walking paths, benches, landscaping in native flora, even a couple sculptures. Palm trees and old-fashioned lampposts intersperse the grass.

It's amazing how the place gives you the impression of being so close to the beach, when really, you aren't. It looks so close that when I came with my friend June, who'd just transferred from out of state and never came here before, she saw the flight of steps going down the palisades and said, "Let's walk down to the beach!" Then I pointed down the bluffs and showed her the wide and busy highway below. On the other side is a long, dense row of big houses- most vacation homes, and past that, well, there is your beach. You'd probably get run over trying to walk there.

I lead Jeremy through the park, scoping out a good spot. Our sandaled feet leave temporary imprints in the spongy grass and patches of clover. I can feel the lawn breathing its cool oxygen into the air.

"Tabs," Jeremy says quietly, "Aren't there winos in this park at night?"

"We're safe," I assure him. My powers will keep us safe.

Finally I settle on a nice spot up near the fence lining the cliffs, nestled among palm trees, not far from the park's rose garden. Before long, we're both sitting back languidly on the blanket, sipping from disposable plastic party glasses and gazing seaward. The view of the water is great from this spot. If it were daylight, it would be stunning. Neither of us says a word. During the day, Palisades Park is a constant hub of joggers, dog walkers, picnickers, and- I won't lie- homeless, but now, it's nearly deserted.

The ocean breeze stirs and gently glides to greet us. I breathe deep.

"Smell that ocean air, Jemmy," I exhale, then take another sip of wine. Truth be told, even with the wine opener I brought, I still had trouble opening the bottle. I'd had to resort to twitching my nose while his head was turned. I look back out at the ocean. "I always wanted to do this."

"It's cold, but it is nice," he admits, and I can tell he genuinely means it. "I didn't think I'd be outside long enough to need a sweatshirt tonight. But you know what? I think I'm actually glad you dragged me out here."

So Mr. Stick-in-the-Mud is finally loosening up.

"So am I. I didn't feel like being stuck at Little Miss Rich Girl's party quite yet."

"I thought you liked Joyce."

"I do. But her parties can be so… meh."

Jeremy laughs. "Well, don't tell anyone, but…" His voice drops. "…I kind of have to agree."

We enjoy our surroundings in silence a few more minutes before Jeremy asks a question.

"Why did you choose Loyola Marymount? You're not even Catholic."

Jeremy himself was raised Catholic and hailed from Covina, California, worlds away from my New England hometown of Westport, Connecticut.

Gazing out at the lights of Santa Monica Pier in the distance, I shrug. "I liked the location. The vibe. L.A., the beach… You know? So different from the world I grew up in."

"You have beaches in Connecticut too, don't you?"

"Yeah. But not like this."

Indeed, life here at college in L.A. is about as different as different can be from where I grew up- and not just the location. Back home, my dad wanted nothing more than a normal, mortal life for us and flat out forbade witchcraft- though he'd loosened up a bit with time. But living in a house with two witches- and our witch relatives who often dropped in- it was completely impossible to keep magic out completely. Part of the reason why I'd gone to school so far away was because I wanted to experience the straight-up, authentic mortal life- no disturbances. Oh, I haven't turned my back on the witch world. I'm still a witch, and proud of it. But college only lasts four years.

"That makes sense," Jeremy nods, then changes the subject. "Hey, Tabs. Guess what Danny told me the other day. You know Alex? The guy in your history class?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"He likes you. He told Danny he's gonna ask you out tomorrow after class."

"Oh, my stars…" I flush with a sudden rush of embarrassment and- I'll be honest- delight. I'm glad Jeremy can't see my face go pink in the darkness. "For real?"

"For real. So, what do you think? Are you gonna accept?"

I turn away and gaze at Santa Monica Pier below in the distance, a flash of festive lights and rides in motion. My dizzy delight has suddenly gone cold, replaced by more somber thoughts.

"I… I don't really know. Maybe not."

"Why not? Don't you like him?"

I do like Alex. He's handsome and polite and thoughtful and all the girls like him. He's well-liked by students and teachers alike. He plays soccer. But still…

"You'd make a great couple," Jeremy drawls coaxingly.

I think of my mother, still so much in love with my father after all these years. That statement goes both ways. My father is mortal. My mother is a witch. My father ages so much faster than my mother and I ever will. And although she never talks about it, I know my mom is scared. Scared and sad and waiting to be broken. Because give a few more decades, and she will be alone. I don't want to end up like my mother.

"What about your mom, Tabs?"

I hadn't realized I'd said that last thought aloud.

"Oh…" I fluster, a little embarrassed. "Nothing. I was just thinking, I guess."

I can tell that Jeremy knows it wasn't "nothing", but to my relief, he decides to leave the subject alone.

"Speaking of your mom," he says, "How old is she? The first time I saw her, I thought she was your sister."

I chuckle. "She looks good for her age." In twenty years, forty, fifty, I'll look good for my age. "I don't know how old she is. She never tells anyone. I don't think even my dad knows how old she is."

"Huh. Well, I guess she must take pretty good care of herself."

"You could say that. You know, when I was growing up, I think my parents wanted me to end up with Jonathan Tate. Ugh." As I say the name, I make a face like I've just bitten into a sour grape.

"Jonathan Tate… He's your folks' friends' son, right?"

"Right. Larry Tate was my dad's boss. He's retired now. And his wife has been my mom's best friend forever."

"Right," Jeremy says, "I remember you talking about the Tates. Why don't you like Jonathan?" He smiles a little as he asks this, like he's trying not to chuckle at a child's antics.

"Conceited," I respond. "A poster child. Mr. Perfect. He dated homecoming queens. Owns a closet full of one-hundred dollar shoes. He works at his dad's advertising agency now, with my father."

"A closet of hundred dollar shoes? I don't like him already."

"Yeah. But he wasn't so bad when we were little. I used to play with him sometimes."

Jeremy takes a quick look at me.

"I bet you were cute when you were little. You know how some people, you can look at them and immediately tell what they looked like when they were a little kid? I can see that in you."

We're both quiet for a minute. It isn't an awkward kind of quiet, but a mutual, comfortable quiet. I sit comfortably with my chin propped on my drawn-up knees. Jeremy reclines on the blanket, supporting himself on his elbows. Behind us, a couple, a few years older than us, walks hand in hand up the dirt trail, heading toward the picnic area with its huge fig trees and pretty lampposts. He's wearing a dark green sweatshirt with tailored jeans, she a fluttery floral print dress. I guess they had the same idea as us. (Correction: Same idea as me.) Santa Monica's Palisades Park really can be magical at night.

"Here," I say at last, picking up the conversation where it left off. "Let's see if your guess is right."

I reach for the wallet in my back pocket, take out a black and white photo the size of a business card, and show it to him.

It's me and my mom, a professional picture taken at a photography studio. My mom is sitting in a big chair with eighteen-month-old me standing propped in her lap. I'm wearing a poofy little jumper over a white puff-sleeve blouse, smiling like the happiest kid in the world. Already at this age, rosy-cheeked as a cherub with a tiny rosebud nose, I sport a full head of golden curls. One of my little fists is latched onto a lock of Mom's hair, which I'm pulling mischievously back from her face. She's smiling too, her mouth open, the look of surprise and adoration forever captured in that snapshot. The dress she's wearing- can you believe that I remember that dress? It was the one with the almost psychedelic pattern that looked like flowers, a pop of bright pinks and greens.

Reverently, as if it's an injured bird, Jeremy takes the photograph from me. He fingers the edges.

"My God… She looks exactly the same. Your mom. And you, Tabs… You were adorable." He turns the photo over, notices my mother's cursive in the corner, and reads aloud. "November 1966."

After one last observant look at the picture, he gives it back to me.

"Well?" I ask. "Do I look like what you thought?"

"Almost. Almost got it right. Your mom, though- she has to share her secret!"

That contented silence that seems to naturally ebb and flow between us comes back again. My mother's secret, I think, my secret, is one we can never disclose with the world. Jeremy has no idea. But it's okay.

"Hey," he says after a while with fresh perkiness. He sits up and stretches. "You wanna go to Rudy's tomorrow after class for pizza?"

I shake my head. "I can't. I start my internship at KXLA tomorrow."

"Oh, that's right! What are you gonna work as? A weather girl?"

"No, goofball!" I give his shoulder a gentle punch. "I want to be a production assistant, remember?"

"I know, I was just kidding ya. Hey, now that you're going to busy at the TV station a lot, you won't forget about me, right?"

"Of course not!" I turn and look at him, and then, I drape my arm around him. "Of course not. You're my best friend."

He smiles at me. "Good."

"Come on. Let's head to the party."