Ana eyes me critically, then shakes her head. “I bet you went when you were a freshman.”

I totally did. I went to the meeting last year too. My face must make it obvious that she’s right, because she laughs. “You did, didn’t you?”

“So what?” I splutter.

“I bet you sat in the front row and wore that old sweatshirt,” she says, her expression inexcusably smug.

I rub the hem of my sleeve between my thumb and forefinger, frowning. “There’s nothing wrong with my sweatshirt.”

“Of course not. You look good in it.” She pauses, her brown eyes fixed on mine. For a moment, I almost believe she’s going to leave the compliment there, intact. She licks her lips, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Like a little pumpkin.”

My eyes narrow. “For the last time—”

“It’s like Halloween came early.”

“I did not pick the Willington school colors,” I snap.

“I seriously hope you wouldn’t have picked orange and purple.”

She’s not wrong, but I’m still offended on Willington’s behalf. “If you hate the colors so much, I hope you never have to wear them,” I say, giving her a cloyingly sweet smile to punctuate the insult.

“Sick burn.” Her flat affect is comically at odds with the words coming out of her mouth. I almost laugh, but that would be what she wants.

“I’m very witty,” I say, imitating her tone.

She’s still staring me down. She must have missed the memo as a child that staring is rude. “If Willington doesn’t work,” she says, “you should try comedy.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “What’s your backup plan? Since you’re not funny.”

She settles back in her seat and shrugs lazily. “I don’t need one.”

I harrumph, which isn’t the most intelligent response, but it’s the only thing I can come up with. Ugh. She’s really the worst. But whatever. I’m sure I can make it through this meeting without rage-throwing one of the potions in my backpack at her face.

Probably.

Chapter 3

T. K. Anderson boasts the highest rate of acceptance into magical-licensing colleges of any school in Florida. 30% of our students are accepted into a magical-licensing college during their senior year, and 68% are accepted within five years of graduating.

—T. K. Anderson promotional brochure

Brittany Cohen, the Brockton Scholar from last year, walks onto the auditorium stage, and everyone falls silent. She has that effect on a room. Maybe it’s all the years she’s spent starring in every show T. K. Anderson’s drama department puts on. Or maybe it’s because she’s tall and has the bone structure of a Greek statue. She floats above the rest of us mere mortals because her future is certain. All she has to do now is spend her senior year doing charity events for the Brockton Foundation before heading off to college, free of charge.