Part of me hates that I could be the “diversity” applicant they’re looking for. I’ve worked my butt off for this scholarship for years. I don’t want anybody to tell me I’m just in the running because I happen to be Black. On the other hand, I would sell my soul to have a better shot at the scholarship. I can swallow my pride and sell myself with my race as a bigger part of the package if that will help me get into a licensing college quickly and not have to burden my parents for another few years.

Onstage, Mr. B beams out at all of us. “I can’t wait to see which one of you heads off to Willington—or some other college”—he winks, and everyone chuckles dutifully—“in two years.”

The Brockton family historically has gone to Willington University, which is the third-best licensing university in the country, so most students who get the scholarship end up going there. The scholarship doesn’t officially mean that you’re definitely going to get in, but every person who has ever gotten the scholarship has been admitted. Guaranteed admission to a licensing college and a free ride? That’s life changing.

Willington is my dream college. I mean, any licensing college would be fine, because I don’t want to be forced to work under people with magical licenses forever just so I can legally do higher-level magic work. But I’ve wanted to go to Willington since fifth grade. I wear this Willington hoodie so much that parts of the neckline are tragically starting to fray.

Mr. B claps decisively. “So let’s open this up to questions,” he says. “You can ask me or Brittany anything you want. And if you don’t feel comfortable asking something with me here, I totally get that. Brittany will be sticking around afterward to chat with people, so you can get all the dirty details from her then.” He grins.

Ana raises her hand, and I regret not having a question prepared with the fire of a thousand suns. He calls on her first because the universe hates me.

“How much value do out-of-school activities hold compared to extracurriculars at school when you’re making decisions?” she asks.

Damn, I wish I had asked that. I glare at her fiercely, then remember that Mr. B can still see me and rearrange my face into a pleasant smile.

“Good question,” he says.

Rage burns quietly in my heart.