By the time I get to the auditorium, about fifteen people are already there. Everyone has crammed themselves into the first two rows. The room smells faintly of desperation—like fancy magical clothing trying to mask people’s sweat with floral scents.

I want to sit in the front row, but the only seat left is by Ana Álvarez. I would rather sit on a bed of needles than attend this meeting with her next to me. But I also want to be right in the front so Mr. B can see I’m here.

As if she can sense me thinking about her, Ana tosses her stupidly perfect curls behind her shoulders, making eye contact with me in the process. I realize I’ve been standing at the end of the aisle staring at her, and my face gets hot.

This is stupid. Ana Álvarez is not going to keep me from making a good impression at this meeting. Mustering up my most confident air, I plop myself down in the seat beside her.

She makes direct eye contact with me before she says anything, which is a weird habit of hers. “Nice hoodie,” she says. Her expression stays blank, so I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic. “I hear obvious is the new subtle.”

Cool. Definitely sarcasm. “Whatever. At least I don’t look like I’m going for an interview at Ann Taylor.”

It’s a weak comeback. Actually, I’m not even sure it was an insult. She looks great. She’s wearing these fitted dress pants and a blue-and-white-striped button-down with suspenders. Even the black loafers she wears most days work with her androgynous business casual look. I look like a true plebian in my jeans and orange Willington hoodie next to her. Maybe Mom was right about dressing nicely for this meeting.

Ana Álvarez has been my nemesis since freshman year. People used to get us confused because we’re both smart brown girls in choir and the potions club. Sometimes they still make jokes that we’re the same person or that we’re related, which pisses me off. We don’t look alike. We’re not even the same type of brown. I’m half-Black, and she’s Cuban.

Our body types are different—she’s slender, while I’m on the stockier side. She also has long dark curls, which contrast with my stick-straight do, and thick eyebrows that she always raises condescendingly. She does that now. Then she smirks at me, which shows off the dimple on her left cheek. That dimple always throws me off. It’s totally at odds with her harsh attitude.

“There are freshmen at this meeting,” Ana says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know why they bother coming.”

She’s right. There’s a gaggle of girls filing in four rows behind us, and there are a few other fresh-faced people sprinkled throughout the crowd.