Everything only gets worse when Brittany hands us all lighting orbs to use as props. We’re supposed to run electricity through them at specific moments to light them up. Electricity generation is a basic magic skill—anybody with a magic level over 20 can do it. But the problem isn’t lighting up the orb. It’s that I can’t manage to coordinate the electricity with everything else. Every time I light it up, I lose track of where I am in the choreography. I keep dropping the stupid thing too.

Of course freaking Ana does the choreography flawlessly. Wearing a pleased smile I’ve never seen on her before, she spins and shimmies and salsas, her hair whipping around her. Her orb flicks on at all the right moments, and she deftly catches it every time she tosses it into the air. I hate myself for doing it, but I watch her so I can remember what to do once Brittany stops dancing with us.

Where was Ana hiding this secret talent? I thought I knew her fairly well. I know which types of potions she’s good at brewing. I know what classes she takes—she likes to make fun of me for taking one less AP class than she does. (Stupid language requirement.) I know what part she sings in choir, and how many solos she’s had since freshman year. But I apparently didn’t know that she was a trained dancer.

Brittany puts us in small groups to perform, and Ana and I end up together. By this point, I’m so mad that I’m actively glaring at everything in sight.

“Smile!” Brittany calls, tapping the corners of her mouth.

That was definitely directed at me. Or maybe it wasn’t, and I’m being too self-absorbed about all of this. Glancing at Ana standing gracefully in front of me, I grit my teeth and smile. Brittany presses play on the boom box, and my group launches into the dance. I manage to drag my body through the moves, though I think it’s obvious that I’m watching Ana to do it. When we finish, I leave the stage with my group, my face burning with embarrassment.

“Okay, thanks so much, everyone!” Brittany says once every group has gone. “That’s just a little taste of what the choreography is going to look like for the show. Mr. B and I have some cool stuff planned for manipulating the set during that number too, so look forward to that.” She giggles and tucks a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear, turning to glance out at where Mr. B sits in the audience. Everyone claps for her. I join in, though I have no idea why we’re applauding her. I feel personally traumatized by her right now.