I wrinkle up my face in the mirror, groaning under my breath, and reach for the magic in the lights to flick them off. Think about the scholarship, Shay. You can deal with having bird’s-nest hair if that’s what Mr. B wants.

When I walk into the kitchen, Mom immediately stops scrambling the eggs she has cooking and stares at me critically. She pulls on the magic in the stove, turning down the heat on the burner, and crosses her arms across her chest. “This is new,” she says, using the same tone I imagine she would use to say “Your hair looks like shit.”

I clench my teeth, swallowing my immediate annoyance, and sit at the table across from Dad. “Yeah,” I say. As if to spite me, a clump of my frizz falls into my eyes. I push it back behind my ear violently.

Dad, who has been busy healing some shriveled patches on a potted sparking shrub, looks up at me. “You look nice,” he says, smiling at me kindly. The shrub flashes with electricity between us.

“Yeah, sure,” I snap.

“Excuse me, Shayna?” Mom says sharply. She takes a threatening step toward the table, her face darkening into an expression that reminds me that I have not—and will never—age out of being whooped.

I drop my gaze to my lap. “Sorry.”

After that auspicious beginning to my day, I tie up my hair. It looks more acceptable in a ponytail. Still, I can’t help but sigh with jealousy when Ana walks into our first class, her curls looking as impeccable as always.

“Hey,” she says, sliding into the desk next to me. “How’s my favorite enemy doing today?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, please never call me that again.”

“I like it,” she says, and I can tell from the devilish glint in her eye that the nickname isn’t going anywhere.

“I don’t,” I grumble.

“Well, you still owe me for your declaration of hatred,” she says matter-of-factly. I hate the phrase declaration of hatred even more than my favorite enemy, but I check my impulse to argue with her about it. We’re friends now, or something like it. Still, I give her my most withering stare because she looks so damn smug. She laughs, then narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “So you’re going natural?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, frowning. I pull on the frizzy ends of my ponytail self-consciously. “Mr. B wants me to wear my hair curly for the show.”

“I’ve never seen your hair curly,” she says, reaching down to dig in her backpack.

“I haven’t worn my hair curly in, like . . .” I pause, watching her pull out a worksheet from her bag, because I can’t remember the last time I wore my hair natural. “Like, five years?”