I want to tell her everything. To have her reassure me that it’ll all be fine and fix everything for me. I open my mouth to spill my guts before I consider it too deeply. “I’m just . . .” I trail off, not sure how to explain what’s happening with me. “I’m just having a hard time with Mr. B.”

Her eyes narrow. “A hard time?”

Okay, roll back, Shay.

She can’t fix this for me. I need to say something that will get her to give me advice but also keep her out of Berserker Mom mode. I can’t deal with a repeat of what happened with that horrible assembly back in middle school. If she shows up at the school and makes a big stink, everything will be permanently ruined.

“I think he’s just frustrated that I’m not as good of an actor as he wanted me to be,” I say eventually. Or maybe he’s homophobic, I add in my mind. Honestly, it’s probably both.

“He’s a teacher,” Mom says. “It’s his job to help you if you’re not doing as well as he wants.”

“I guess so,” I say. “He’s tried to help me out a lot so far, but he probably got annoyed that I’m still messing up so much. It’s just so close to the scholarship being awarded. I feel like him being annoyed with me right now will hurt my chances.”

“Do you want me to meet with him?”

“That’s okay,” I say. “That’ll seem like I’m making a big deal out of nothing.”

“If he’s expecting something of you and he hasn’t told you what it is, that’s not good teaching.” Her eyes dart over to look at me for a moment before returning to the floating road ahead of us. “You need to stand up for yourself, Shay.”

“I don’t need to make a big fuss every time something kind of annoying happens.”

“Maybe not, but you can’t let people treat you however they want either.”

“How do you deal with Travis?” I ask. That’s her manager at work, the one who’s super annoying and thinks he’s better than her because he has a magical license. “I know you don’t fight him on everything, even when he’s wrong.”

She shakes her head. “That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“It just is.” Her tone is sharp, knifelike.

Great, I guess this conversation is over. I slump in my seat and practice generating sparks of electricity at my fingertips. Pointer finger. Middle finger. Ring finger. Pinkie. Thumb.

A group of broom riders swoop above us, whooping loudly as one of them does tight loop-de-loops in the air. I’m surprised Mom doesn’t immediately come out with a biting comment about broom safety.