The music dies, and so does the little applause. Her boots click as she turns and walks to a table set up on the side of the stage.

She picks up three red balls and holds them out for us as if she’s asking for our approval before launching them in a couple of lazy arcs.

Some jerk boos and the crowd snickers.

She gives a small, mocking bow while raising her eyebrows. Her smile is back, but it’s different now, sharper.

Twisting and grabbing two more balls off the table, she launches all five in the air as she takes a few steps toward the center of the stage.

She’s flawless. The balls rise and fall in a pattern that looks effortless but can’t be. But it’s not enough to lose myself. It’s not enough to forget about Parker and Jacob laughing back at Deb’s without me.

And then, as if she can read the audience’s growing boredom, a single ball catches fire as it passes from her hand and back above her head, and then another and another until they all burn.

The audience applauds, finally satisfied.

They rise and fall like fireworks, the kind that explode downward like a wilted daisy.

I catch myself leaning forward in my seat before pulling back. The rest of the crowd is in awe with me. The boy next to me has his jaw ajar.

She completes a spin. The balls fly effortlessly like she never moved. She spins again, leaving two flaming balls in her hands and three flying through the air. Her purple dress blossoms like a flower.

Only this time, when she faces the crowd again, one ball slips below her grasp, and she catches it with the tip of her boot, kicking it out above the audience, where it erupts into ash like it was nothing more than a runaway wisp of paper from a bonfire. Before the audience can react, she lets ball after ball connect with her boot and soar above our heads only to become nothing.

She’s left with two flaming balls she tosses up and down in each hand. She stares at us impassively as she lops each one to the side, into one of the stage curtains.

The curtains blaze to life in green fire as she turns and stalks off the stage. People in the front row rise to their feet. My face heats in the second row. The fire is real.

Some people shout and others clap—the green flames don’t touch anything but the curtains.

Spike-hair turns toward me. “Amazing,” he breathes into my face, along with the overpowering stench of beer.

I wave him away, leaning into the heat wafting off the unnatural flames. This. This is what I was waiting for.