“How’s your APUSH essay going?” she asks.

I scrutinize that question for a hidden snarky meaning but don’t find one. Is she going to follow up by telling me how much better she is in APUSH than me? “Fine,” I say.

“I’m writing mine on the spread of magical training during the Civil War,” she says. “I’m assuming you’re writing about potions again?”

“Maybe,” I say stonily. “So what if I am?”

She chuckles. “How many of your essays can you write about potions?”

I give her my best glare. “Okay, there are a lot of interesting historical topics about potions.”

“I’m aware,” she says. “You’ve written papers on all of them.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I fantasize briefly about how I’m going to absolutely destroy her when the magic-level test results are released this week. Maybe she’ll be less smug once it’s clear that she can never compare to me magically.

“Do you dance?” Ana asks. “You were surprisingly good at the dance call.”

Surprisingly good? Wow, she didn’t waste any time reminding me why I was horrified to do this show with her. Also, were we at the same dance call? I was terrible.

“No, I don’t dance,” I say stiffly.

“Mm, of course not. My bad.”

“What do you mean ‘of course not’?”

“I just remembered the Great Sophomore Choir Choreography Crisis.” She arches an eyebrow. “ ‘If you’re blue and you don’t know where to go to, why don’t you go where fashion sits,’ ” she sings. Then she waits a few seconds and awkwardly flails her arms from side to side. “ ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz.’ ”

“I did not look like that!” I protest, heat rising in my cheeks. I hope she can’t see me blushing. Brown skin, don’t fail me now.

“Mm-hmm, no, definitely not,” she says, mock serious.

I suck my teeth, crossing my arms over my chest. “And we’re not a show choir. I don’t know why Ms. Mooney insisted on us doing choreography.”

She snickers, a smirk ghosting her lips. “Yeah, not exactly our strength as a group.”

“I’m fine at dancing. Just because you’re, like, freakishly good at it—”

“Thanks?” she says, her dimple deepening as her smirk gets even smugger.

“No—yeah, I mean—whatever.” I huff angrily and stomp away, because I’ve definitively lost this round of Ana vs. Shay. Better to cut my losses and retreat.

“Shay!”

I turn to see Mr. B ambling down the aisle, holding a box piled high with scripts in one arm. Once he reaches me, he claps me on the arm cheerfully, then leans in toward me. “I’m pumped to have you as part of the team.” His hand feels hot on my bare skin. Why is everyone in theater so touchy-feely?