Even though I’m uncomfortable, I smile back at him. His grin is so genuine that it’s impossible not to. Also, it’s easier to swallow my discomfort when I remember that I only have a month and a half to make a good impression on him before submitting my scholarship application.

“I’ve got a good feeling about this show,” he says, letting go of my shoulder to readjust the box in his arms. “I think it’s going to be something great.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I really appreciate that you auditioned, Shay,” he says, fixing me with the piercing blue-eyed stare that so many of the other junior witches are in love with. I never got why everyone thinks he’s the hottest teacher, because I honestly think he’s kind of average-looking, but now that he’s staring me down, I realize it’s probably the eyes. Then again, who am I to judge male hotness?

“I’m glad I could try something new,” I say, which is a complete lie, but whatever.

His face lights up. “That’s—wow, you don’t know how great that is to hear. There are so many kids here who are so focused on following that great American Magical Way, you know. They work hard, pull themselves up by their bootstraps, yada yada yada. But they never try anything new.”

I am one of those kids. Following the American Magical Way—working as hard as I can, developing my magic skills, getting the best education—is the best chance I have at success. That’s how you get into a licensing college and get a job that pays real money so you can buy your parents a house in a gated community when you’re older. But sucking up to the right people is also how you get those things, so I smile at him and mm-hmm my agreement.

“I swear there’s some potion in the water here making the kids into little genius robots,” he says conspiratorially. “Makes slackers like me feel bad.”

“You went to Willington,” I say. “I seriously doubt you’re a slacker.”

He chuckles. “Flattery will get you everywhere, young thespian,” he says grandly. “But trust-fund tragedies like me get into school by greasing the palm, not by getting the grade.”

Oh. It’s depressing to remember that even my dream school works that way.

“Don’t look so tragic. I’m here atoning for my sins and helping the more deserving get into college.” He turns away, giving me one last million-dollar smile, and strides down the aisle toward the stage. “Bring it in, people. Let’s make some art!” he yells, pumping his fist in the air. Everyone cheers in response. Is this part of some drama ritual I don’t know?