“No. I’m not talking about this anymore,” she says, and I can tell from her tone that I need to give up my broom crusade for today. She shakes out a particularly wrinkled shirt, then takes a handful of LaundrEase potion dust from the little bucket by her feet. When she sprinkles it on the shirt, the wrinkles disappear. “How’s school going?” she asks. “Your magic level is so high now that everything should be pretty comfortable for you.”

“I mean, it’s fine,” I say, picking up a pair of my leggings from the unfolded pile. I fold it and start a new pile by my feet. “I should feel good about the whole magic-level thing, but some people were jerks about it, and that kind of ruined it for me.”

She sits up. “Who was a jerk about it?”

“Just some guy in my class,” I say, shrugging. “Nobody really thinks I could actually be as strong as I am. Other people have said stuff before too.”

“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”

Suddenly, I regret bringing this up. “Just stuff.” She gives me this expectant look when I try to leave it at that, so I reluctantly continue. “Like, I’m only strong because I have a big family . . . or because I’m Black.”

I tried to say that in a super-casual tone, but when I glance at Mom, I think she’s about to bust a blood vessel. Her eyes have gone wide with fury. “I’ll go talk to the school, see what they have to say about their students saying things like that.”

“No, you don’t have to do that!” I shake my head furiously. The last thing I need is Hurricane Mom descending on the school. What will it even do? Nothing. People will keep saying the same stuff, but then I’ll be the weird kid whose mom made a big fuss. “It doesn’t matter. I have them all beat anyway.”

“Shay, you’ve got to use me. I don’t mind looking like the crazy mom for you.”

“I know,” I say. My mind flashes through all the other times she’s gone to fight for me at school or at other activities that I’ve done. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I do. It’s just that it doesn’t always work.