“This potion is no joke,” he says, grabbing hold of a seat a few paces down the aisle. Then he launches himself back into the air, and I have to move out of his way again. He catches himself on the opposite bank of seats.

My brow furrows. I still can’t figure out how to make the Light as a Feather potion, and it’s really bothering me. I tried to research it last week, but the recipe is under copyright.

“I think you took the wrong concentration for your size,” I say, pulling myself down to sit in one of the audience seats. I can feel the sense of weight returning to my body as I slowly sink farther into the seat. “You’re floating, like, two feet higher than everyone during the song.”

“I guess you’re the expert on recreational potions, huh?” Ed says, waggling his eyebrows.

I snort. “Not like you.” I don’t mess with brewing potions that are classified as controlled substances. Not unless I have permission to brew them legally at Pilar’s.

He nods sagely. “Well, if you’re ever in need, I’m your man.”

“Oh, I know,” I say dryly. “Everyone knows.”

“What can I say?” He raises his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “My services are widely talked about.”

“I’m not into that. I’m too brown to be messing with that stuff.”

“I get that. My mom would kick a fit if she knew. But I’ve got that white privilege, so it’s not as big an issue for me,” he says. “I’m just out here doing the Lord’s work, scamming white kids into overpaying for potions.” He pounds his chest, which sends him flying backward.

“Okay, Ed.” I laugh.

“It’s easy money. This is how I pay for comics.”

“Hey. Tell me when that wears off,” Brittany calls from a few aisles over. Her lip curls scornfully. “You obviously didn’t take the right amount, so I guess we’ll have to wait for you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ed says, sweeping into a dramatic bow as he propels himself up into the air. Brittany rolls her eyes and goes back to examining her nails. Ed throws her a withering look. “Dude, she needs to get that stick out of her butt.”

“Seriously,” I say.

“Your parents getting divorced doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole forever. No-ope.” He makes the word two syllables. I would make fun of it, but Ed is confident enough in his brand of weird that he somehow pulls it off. I nod instead, filing away this new Brittany fact. “She keeps ragging on you too, which is bullshit. Don’t let her get to you.”

“I guess I’m, like, threatening her queen-bee status or something,” I say.