“There’s no exact formula that we use to determine that. We do tend to more strongly consider candidates who are engaged with a variety of activities here on campus, but we also appreciate that you all have lives beyond this school.” He frowns thoughtfully before continuing. “So we want to hear about your achievements outside of here in your application, but if it comes down to two similar candidates, we’ll pick the one who is more involved on campus. It ends up being a tiebreaker category most of the time.”

Ana’s brow wrinkles and smoothens out so quickly that it’s almost unnoticeable. Is she bothered by that answer? I think through what I know she does on campus. It’s mostly the same as what I do. Potions club. Choir. National Honor Society. She’s vice president of the Spanish club, which I’m not in. I’m the potions club vice president, though, so it’s not like she’s really one-upping me there. I also play terraball in the fall, and I’ve volunteered for the homecoming committee for the past two years. If we’re comparing the two of us, I think I come out ahead in sheer number of T. K. Anderson activities. Plus, I’m more well-rounded, because she doesn’t do anything athletic as far as I know.

Still, it’s not clear to me which one of us will win. For every achievement I have, she has a roughly equivalent one. I won the Most Magically Promising Student award last year, but she won the Student Philanthropist prize. Her GPA is better than mine—ugh—but my magic level is higher. Every time I think I’m pulling ahead, I learn about some new, infuriatingly amazing accomplishment of hers.

Brittany takes the next few questions, which tell me nothing I don’t already know. I don’t end up thinking of a question to ask. But some other witch asks a stupid, rambling one about the average SAT score for applicants, and I, like an asshole, feel better about myself.

Once the meeting wraps up, Ana stands and leans idly against the edge of the stage in front of us, staring directly into my eyes as she does so. I wait for the inevitable dig. She crosses her arms over her chest and cocks her head slowly to the side. “So you’re the face of diversity at T. K. Anderson, huh?”

I guess that moment with Mr. B wasn’t all in my head. “Jealous?” I shoot back.

“Maybe,” she says noncommittally. She turns and saunters away, because she’s too cool to end a conversation like a normal person.

Chapter 4

And that was the moment I knew—magic is the way to the American Dream!

—We the People: Patriotic Monologues for High School Students