I blink at her, unsure of how to respond. Giving up on the idea of going to a licensing college after only one gap year makes no sense. I would understand if she was on her third or fourth try, but giving up at this point feels like such a waste after working so hard at T. K. Anderson. And if she doesn’t eventually transfer to a licensing college, her career options will be seriously limited.

“Non-licensing colleges aren’t bad schools,” she says. “You know the whole licensing system is total bullshit. The licensing colleges are so rich they just, like, pay off the government to make sure it’s hard for new schools to get licensed.”

“Maybe it’s bullshit, but that’s how it is,” I say helplessly. “You just have to work really hard. You can’t go all dropout witch and give up.”

“You’re so black-and-white, lady. Like, my only options are going off the grid and living in a commune or killing myself to get into a licensing college?” She laughs, but it sounds forced. I open my mouth to protest, but she suddenly jumps to her feet. “Let’s do change-of-state drills again.” She cracks her knuckles and rolls out her shoulders. “I’m feeling good. I think I can beat my best time.”

I feel the moment dissolving, and I hope I didn’t upset Lex. “You sure?”

“Yup,” she says, turning her attention to the water again. “Ready, set, go!”

Chapter 10

Though modern stereotypes tell us that women’s contributions to the potionworking field are limited to the brewing of “frivolous” housework and beauty potions, the practice of crafting potions in the United States was pioneered by women during the Civil War. For example, Clara Barton was a prominent early witch who invented many potions to care for soldiers during wartime.

—“Women in Potionworking” essay by Shayna Johnson

The first day of rehearsal comes sooner than I want it to. When I get to the auditorium, Ed, Mikey, and Mateo are playing a game of stinkball onstage. Stinkball is a game where you work scent magic on balled-up pieces of paper to make them smell as horrific as possible. Then you throw them at each other. The goal is to magically incinerate the paper balls midair before they can hit you with their stink.

I thought stinkball was something we all collectively decided to leave behind in middle school. But here we are.

“Hey,” Ana says, sliding into the aisle beside me.

Hello, Satan. Fancy meeting you here.

Ana nods at the stage, her nose wrinkling up in disgust. “This is . . .”

“Embarrassing?” I finish.

“I was going to go with disgusting, but embarrassing works too.” She sits in the seat next to me, because she’s obviously not picking up on the anti-Ana vibes I’m sending out with every fiber of my being. Or maybe she’s ignoring them because she likes messing with me.