“I pick my battles at work,” she says, looking resigned. “Sometimes I just say what Travis wants to hear and move on with my day. It doesn’t feel great, but they fire people who are ‘too disruptive.’ ” She doesn’t actually do air quotes when she says those last two words, but I can hear them in her voice. “I want better for you. You are smart and powerful and educated. You deserve to be treated right.”

“You’re all of that too,” I say. “And people still aren’t treating you right.”

“But you,” she says, giving me a little smile, “have me on your side. So tap me in if you need help, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

How can I possibly tell her that things are the same for me? It’s better to pick your battles like she does. One day I’ll have my magical license, and I’ll be the boss. Then nobody will be able to mess with me. But for now, I need to say what Mr. B wants to hear so I can move on.

Chapter 29

Engaging in magic sharing outside your family poses a risk to your emotional and physical health. The connection created by magic sharing will allow people with magic levels more than fifteen points above your own to magically influence your emotions. Once the connection has been formed, it is also possible for connected magic users to draw upon your magical power at any point until the connection fades.

—Your Magical Body: A Health Textbook for the Magical Teen

Rehearsal on Monday is even more torturous. Mr. B stops calling me out every five seconds but instead wears this wearily amused expression whenever I do anything onstage. I slowly shrink into myself over the course of the afternoon, watching that amusement shift to flashes of annoyance. Meanwhile, he throws several effusive compliments Ana’s way. Her polite responses are tinged with confusion. She keeps darting glances at me, but I don’t meet her eyes.

As the end of rehearsal approaches, I steel myself. Today is the day I fix this.

“Okay, everyone,” Mr. B says cheerily after we finish our run of “Bronxtown Broom Race.” Our rehearsal was supposed to end twenty minutes ago. Ana has gone so stiff that she resembles a statue more than a person. I can tell she’s counting down the seconds until she can run to her car and get to her dance studio. “That wasn’t our best work, but it wasn’t our worst. I’ll take it. It’s starting to look like we might be making some art.” He tilts his head from side to side thoughtfully, a sly grin growing on his face. “Maybe.”