“Hey,” I call out, but they don’t look my way.

“Burn,” Courtney says, punching the pulse button on the blender.

“Why don’t you finish up here, and I’ll see you tomorrow?” I hate the pleading in my voice. I want to leap over the half-door and never look back. But I need this job. I need Mom to know that I’m trying.

Courtney eyes the Grays. They’ve broken out of their circle and they’re laughing at something. June spins, arms tilting wildly. “Tell them to stay away from me, okay?” Courtney says. “I heard what that one girl did for Ana Viramontes, and I don’t want them doing any of their . . . you know.”

“Magic?” I ask, and watch her flinch.

My smile comes out, strong as black coffee.

As I leave, I look back at blondish Courtney with her endless supply of identical yoga pants and her T-shirts that probably cost fifty dollars each, plus the makeup that’s supposed to make her look ten years older. The whole effect is one of intense blending in. High-school camouflage. I wonder what happened to make her that way.

But I don’t wonder for too long, because the Grays are waiting.

“Let’s go,” Lelia cries across the parking lot. When I get closer, she threads her arm through mine, drawing me into the circle. “I have something I want to show you.”

“Can I get there and home in an hour?” I ask.

I can see the Grays wanting to push back against my pre-sunset curfew. I can feel their nervy, collective need.

They want Imogen back. My mom’s rules are not a priority.

“I get it,” June offers. “My parents are protective.”

“So is Ora,” Hawthorn declares, as she toes the parking lot gravel. “She’s protecting me from being a boring, non-magical girl who can’t take care of herself.”

“My parents used to be hard on me,” Rush says, her arms tight around her middle. She looks tired, her eyes underlined in old makeup.

“Used to be?” I ask as we start walking, Lelia at the head of the party. “Past tense? Is there a spell I can use on Mom so she trusts me again?” Even though I maybe don’t deserve it, I add in my head.

A stray ray of sun blinds me as we pass between the shadows of the buildings. I’ve agreed to this field trip without actually saying it. We walk behind the line of shops, revealing the backside of Tempest. There are dumpsters and shady-looking back doors and rust-laden staircases.

“Magic isn’t an emotional Band-Aid,” Hawthorn says. “Anything you do comes back to you threefold.”

“So if I mess with someone’s trust, I’ll end up with three untrustworthy assholes in my life?” I ask.