And then, working in concert, Lex and I both reach for the threads of magic in the air around us and chill the auditorium. Just for a few moments—we can’t sustain that effect for longer—the room is noticeably colder. That change in temperature triggers the Unseen Objects potion I brewed earlier this week to stop working.

In an instant, all the copies of the article we wrote, which Lex and Ana doused in the potion and taped to the backs of the auditorium seats, appear.

Chaos breaks out in the auditorium. People start talking loudly, and I see them grabbing the papers off the backs of the seats.

“Someone get her off the stage!” a man shouts from somewhere off in the darkness. “Are we supposed to sit here and listen to these—these obvious lies?”

“Let her speak!” Mom shouts back.

I continue speaking into the pandemonium, for anybody who’s listening. “You’ll find the details of what I’m talking about in that article,” I say. “The most important thing, though, is that this happened to a witch here at T. K. Anderson years ago, and the school didn’t do anything about it when she reported it. Trust me, I wouldn’t be doing this publicly if I didn’t think that the school would ignore it otherwise.”

The lights go out onstage.

“Guess we’re having some technical difficulties.” My mic has gone off too. I reach into my thigh pouch and retrieve a big pinch of Lightflash powder, which I throw into the air. It forms a cloud above my head and emits a soft light.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. B appear in the wings off stage right. His brow knits together as he looks at me. Everything slows down for a moment as I stare at his face, lit by my Lightflash powder. I watch as the first inkling of fear creeps into his expression. Then I turn back to the audience.

“Witches should be able to trust that people in power have their backs. It’s ridiculous how much stuff wizards can get away with when everyone just accepts that ‘that’s how things are,’ ” I say, projecting my voice as much as I can. That guy is still yelling in the corner, and I can see the principal pushing through my castmates in the wings to get onstage with me. “That’s all I have to say, really,” I say. My gaze flicks back to Mr. B, whose face has sagged into an expression of horror. I deliver the next sentence right to him. “Oh, and I’m bowing out of the competition for the scholarship.”

I give a thumbs-up to the crowd—not sure why I do that—and walk off the stage toward my parents.