“But we could be friends for now,” Willow says. “What do you think, Ava? Friends for now?”

I can’t remember the last time someone just flat-out asked me to be friends with them. It’s the kind of innocent phrase you hear only on a playground next to the tetherball. Even as a little kid, I can’t remember anyone saying the words to me. I was the kid in secondhand clothes, sitting on the stone wall in front of the swings without the nerve to get up and wait in line. Part of me must have wished someone would throw those words in my direction, and now I have to resist the urge to shout yes and grin like a fool.

For now. I latch on to the one negative part of her statement, using it to pull me down and back into myself where I belong. Only one of us can win and join. Our new friendship already has a short life span. But I’m used to things not lasting.

I stare at Willow across the table, assessing her with new interest, evaluating her long and lithe limbs. She’s beautiful but probably not quick. I don’t know what the contest will be, but I file away the information like a skilled warrior.

A slow smile spreads across her face as she does the same to me.

I smile back, enjoying my ice cream just as much as her honesty.

“Friends?” She holds out a hand across the table.

“And competitors,” I answer, grasping her hand in mine.

She nods and laughs, letting go and leaning back in her chair. Her eyes are a warm, liquid amber. “What’s your specialty?” she asks, licking a drip of ice cream from her finger.

Roman’s vanilla ice cream melts in his cup. He hasn’t taken a single bite.

“Oh, umm… I do coin tricks,” I say, and wince.

“Nice.” Willow smiles like I’ve given the perfect answer.

“That’s not good enough,” Roman growls. His spoon snaps in his clenched fist.

I jerk back. I know it’s not as cool as what the rest of the troupe can do, but they haven’t started training me yet. Roman’s anger is not really directed at me, though. He’s glaring into his cup.

“I’m sure I’ll learn other stuff,” I add.

“With what time?” He drops his broken spoon on the table.

I thought we had time to practice—not a lot of time, but enough. I turn to Willow. “How long have you been practicing?”

Willow hesitates. “Ten months.”

My mouth goes dry. My ice cream runs down my hand in sobbing streams now, and if I had any sense left, I would try to stop it. I don’t.