Forget the plan? How can she say that? The American Magical Way wasn’t originally made with us in mind—that image of the perfect family with great magical jobs and a floating house in a good neighborhood is a white one. But we made the plan so that I could get there too. I would work myself to death if it meant I could give my parents that picture-perfect life.

Looking at the hard expression on Mom’s face, however, I know this is a lost cause. I chew on my lip for a minute, stewing on what to say next. Frustration pulses between us. “I can take off volunteering until the show opens,” I grit out. “And I’ll ask Pilar to cut one of my shifts.”

She doesn’t respond right away, which I hope is a good sign. At least she didn’t say no immediately. “I’ve already volunteered at the home for more than two years,” I add, hoping to win her over. She loves me volunteering at the home—it was her idea originally. But if I’m going to give up anything, that’s the thing I care about the least. “I have so many community service hours already that taking a little time off won’t affect my application.” I watch her drive in silence while she mulls over my suggestion.

“All right,” she says finally. Thank god. “But if this schedule is still too much for you, you’ll have to quit working,” she adds, because she obviously couldn’t just agree with me.

“Fine.” I give Mom the silent treatment for the rest of the car ride. As we get closer to the library, I sense a flicker of sadness from her, but I ignore it because I’m too annoyed. She can be such a dictator. I know she wishes that I didn’t have to work, that I could be like my classmates who get allowances from their parents, but I actually like my job at Pilar’s.

When we arrive at the library, I flee the car as quickly as possible. I’m still steaming mad when I slide into the empty seat beside Ana. The activity room, as usual, is empty except for her when I get there. We’re both early to everything. After greeting her hastily, I rip open my backpack and dig out my magic practice tools. The potions bottles in my bag clink against each other.

“Having a bad day?” Ana says, watching me grunt in frustration when I can’t find my temperature gauge.

I yank out my practice cube instead and drop it loudly on the table. “How could you tell?”

“Lucky guess.”

Finally, I find the temperature gauge. I pull it from my backpack forcefully and drop it in front of me.