“We’re moving on with our metals unit, since you all have mastered the aluminum-to-silicon transfiguration,” Mrs. Lee says. I see that she set up a new demo at the front of the classroom while I was asleep. “This time we’re going to be transfiguring copper . . .” She pauses and waves a hand at the reddish-brown block of metal. The metal shrinks slightly and flashes brightly before turning a silvery-white color. “Into nickel.”

She turns to write on the ElectroBoard, sparks of electricity leaping from her outstretched finger to the board. The sparks sink into the board, and letters form in their wake. She writes out instructions for the basic steps of the transfiguration: reach for the magic in the metal, picture the end product, and push that mental image into the magical threads.

“Who’s going to be able to transfigure this first? You or me?” Ana whispers.

“Is that even a real question?” I say. “Obviously me.”

“I doubt it,” she says, amusement shimmering in her eyes. “But I’d love to see you try.”

In an infuriating turn of events, she does a partial transfiguration first. But by the end of class, I’ve managed to transfigure more of my lump of copper into nickel. When I point that out, she smirks at me. “I thought we were competing to see who could do it first,” she says breezily. “But if you want to change the rules so you can win, go right ahead.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I scowl at her lump of copper and nickel.

Despite Ana’s relentless sarcasm and Brittany’s torturous choreography, I drag myself through another week and a half of school and rehearsal. I start the free MAT prep class at the library that Saturday, so I wake up early despite my body’s protests. Between MAT prep, work, volunteering, and studying for my precalc test on Monday, I won’t have much time to relax this weekend.

Mom drops me off at the library on her way to Publix for groceries. When I get to the activity room where the class is being held, it’s empty except for a single person, who sits at the front table with her familiar curls draped over one shoulder.

“You have to be kidding me.” Ana turns around in her seat, and my jaw drops like I’m in a Saturday-morning cartoon. It actually hangs open for a second.

She makes long, slow eye contact, then lifts her hand and gives me a single wave. I stand there stupidly. Despite my frantic mental pleas for her to spontaneously disappear, she saunters over to me.

“Are you stalking me?” Ana asks.

“Um, no,” I say, still reeling from her existence in this room.

“Very believable. I think you need to work on your acting skills.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m pretty sure you can figure that one out.” She flashes me that smug grin I hate so much.