“I want you to know how proud I am of all of you. I know we had a rough last rehearsal on Thursday.” That’s a vast understatement. He gave us a terrifying speech that heavily featured the phrase you’re better than this after our last run. “But I know you’re all going to rise above that here. You know what they say about a bad dress rehearsal.” The smile that appears on his face is the least convincing one I’ve ever seen him wear. “I want you guys to put it all out there on the stage tonight. Make me look good, okay?” He laughs as if this last part is a joke, but it is clearly not a joke at all. I think of his dad in the audience while everyone else nods at him like they’ve been hypnotized.

When the group huddle breaks up, he pulls me aside. “This is your night, okay?” he says quietly, angling his body away from the nearest group of people.

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for all your help. I wouldn’t be here without you.” I almost choke on the words because I’m not that good of a liar.

“Wasn’t easy, but we got here!” He laughs like we’re sharing a private joke.

I laugh and extricate myself from him as quickly as possible.

The ceremony feels excruciatingly long. There are presentations highlighting each of the scholarship nominees, which alternate with performances from the student groups here. The one about me is last. While the principal talks onstage about my “many artistic achievements” and “notable passion for potionworking,” Ed stands next to me in the wings and whisper-chants my name. He manages to rope several people, including Mikey and Ana, in on the chanting. It only stops when Mr. B shoots the entire group a death glare.

Our performance goes right after the presentation finishes. After taking our Light as a Feather potions, we walk onstage in darkness. I try not to hyperventilate. The music starts and the lights flash on, blindingly bright in our eyes.

“It’s the Bronxtown Broom Race, baby!” Ed yells, pumping his fist in the air.

The whole cast cheers, and I launch myself toward the broom props in the air above us. Mikey lands on the broom ahead of me, then holds his hand out to catch me. I grab hold, and the two of us execute a spin around the broomstick shaft. Then I boost him up in the air, where he hangs dramatically for a moment before the broomstick prop is pulled upward to meet him.

As we perform the song, I’m so nervous that I’m barely aware of my body moving the entire time. Muscle memory does most of the work for me. The song flashes by like some sort of musical theater fever dream, and it’s over almost before I register that it’s begun.