"Jesus, will you turn that godawful shit off?" is the first thing Cassie says when she comes into my room.

  I laugh as I hit the switch on my boombox. "What? I thought you liked hardcore."

  She snorts. "That candy-ass shit wouldn't know hardcore if it punched it in the face." I flip her off, but don't retaliate beyond that. "Anyway, something you might be interested in. Apparently the white masks are gonna be down at the county fair today signing autographs. Thought you might wanna take the chance to get a look at 'em."

  I perk up. "Holy shit, really? Who?"

  She shrugs. "Dunno. Just what I heard."

  White masks come in three main varieties. First are the independents, the vigilantes, who are mostly kids living the cliche of going to school by day and fighting crime by night. They almost never last long, either because they give in and sign up with ABRA, or because they piss off the wrong black mask and don't come home one night. One of that type showed up in Franklin a couple of years ago, a boy going by Comet. He lasted two full months before Umbra murdered him, probably one of the things that bumped her up ABRA's priority list.

  Next are the corporates and the guinea pigs. Some of them hypothetically work security, but by and large, that type avoids fighting. It's an easy life as long as you don't mind ABRA hovering over your shoulder forever, and they're actually the most numerous group of magicals thanks to the low mortality rate. The downside is that they tend to grow in power much slower than more active magicals, sometimes never really growing at all. It's probably due to a combination of never pushing themselves or gaining any real experience, and Virgo finding them boring.

  Last are the ABRA strike teams, which is what most people think of when they think of white masks. Strike teams are nothing to fuck around with. They don't deploy anyone under eighteen, which means that even the greenest of them have on average four years of rigorous training under their belt. And while the big cartels and syndicates might be able to muster up a dozen or more magicals, most gangs only have one. A strike team of three to five can spank any lone magical, no matter how powerful. There aren't very many of them, though, barely a hundred teams across the entire country, and they're always stretched thin.

  Since Franklin isn't big or important enough to host a strike team, the only local white mask is a corporate. Apollo has been active for almost four years now, and true to form, he's never gotten in a fight that I know of. Of course, even psycho black masks like Umbra tend to avoid fucking with healers, because nothing else short of mass murder will bring a strike team down on you faster. Apollo mostly works out of the Gottfried Clinic across the river, where rich people travel from all over the country to fork over hundreds of thousands of dollars for miracles. He also volunteers at the local hospital, and there's a statewide lottery to choose who's lucky enough to have their limbs regrown free of charge.

  Apollo does PR events pretty regularly, so he'll probably be there. Some corporates make an entire career out of PR events; Elemental, an all-magical boy band, took the country by storm last year. It always seemed like a terrible waste of magic to me, but then, I'm probably not the target demographic. Regardless, that type always announces their events and concerts months in advance. That means the guests will probably be part or all of a strike team, since announcing their PR events in advance would be like hanging a big flashing sign saying "COMMIT CRIMES NOW." Fortunately, they're who I really want to see anyway.

  The fairgrounds are actually less than a mile away from Jess and David's place, so we just walk over. There's a big ferris wheel set up, and another dozen or so rides as well. I remember having a blast on some of those rides when I was younger, but now they'll probably just feel disappointing compared with flying. We stand in line for ten or fifteen minutes, then fork over five bucks each for basic admittance. It's hot, crowded, and dusty inside, with screaming kids running everywhere, but that's all part of the charm. Me and Cassie get snow cones to help with at least the heat, and then go in search of the white masks.

  It doesn't take long to find them. A little canvas pavilion is set up past the rides, and the line in front is absolutely packed, well over a hundred people deep. I don't bother getting in line yet, instead heading around the side so I can have a look. A pair of folding tables are set up under the pavilion, with two magicals seated at each. I recognize all of them. Back when Magic magazine first started issuing, I asked my parents if I could get a subscription, and quickly learned that had been one of those questions I shouldn't have asked. I still always read every copy I could get my hands on, though, mostly from grocery store check-out stands.

  As expected, Apollo is here, sitting closest to me. He looks like he's probably about my age, although it's always hard to tell with magicals; Sparkle Princess looks younger than me, and she's got to be well into her twenties by now. He's wearing a white tunic with gold trim that leaves his arms bare except for a pair of gold bracers, tight white pants, and gold boots. He's got short brown hair, and his mask is a simple strip of white cloth with eyeholes tied around his head. I definitely wouldn't be comfortable with a costume that did so little hide my identity, but I doubt he'll ever need to worry about getting shanked in bed.

  The other three are in fact a strike team, the one based out of Portland. Their leader is Dynamic, who's wearing a dark blue traditional skintight superhero costume with silver detailing, including a hood that covers his whole head and the upper half of his face. He's a relatively straightforward telekinetic; in practice, his power isn't that different from my own, although obviously much stronger. There's a famous picture of him levitating a firetruck up to the top of a burning high-rise. He's been on a strike team for over three years now, which probably makes him 21 or 22.

  His two teammates are both girls. Chimera's costume reminds me of Xena's outfit, except the leather is green and patterned to look like snake scales. It's trimmed with black fur, and her mask is shaped like a stylized raptor head. She's known for shapeshifting into a variety of different mythological creatures. Snowflake wears a classic magical girl dress, light blue with white ribbons and gloves, and patterned with her namesake. It's an intentionally cutsie outfit, contrasting the blizzards of razor-sharp ice shards she can summon.

  I manage to avoid fangirling, but I'm definitely squeeing on the inside. White masks have only done a handful of events in Franklin ever, and I've never managed to actually attend one before. I would've been ecstatic to be here a month ago, and it's still fun even if I'm kind of sort of maybe on the opposite side as them now. I can't help but grin as I watch Dynamic sign autographs with a floating pen, and Snowflake dust groups with little showers of ice.

  There's only so much to be gained by just watching, though, so after a few minutes, we get in line. The last of our snowcones are gone after ten minutes, and we're not even a third of the way through yet. From what I can see, groups are being let in to talk to all of the white masks one after the other, each for a minute or two at a time. I'm glad I won't just be hurried out of the way immediately after getting an autograph, but it does mean we'll be waiting a while.

  Our turn does eventually come. Snowflake is the furthest to the left, so we're directed to her first. She smiles brightly as we approach, her white masquerade mask only covering her eyes and forehead. "Hi! I'm Snowflake. Who're you?"

  "I'm Gabby," I say, grinning back. Cassie's introduction is slightly less enthusiastic.

  "Nice to meet you! Got anything you want me to sign?"

  "Uh huh," I nod, passing over a little blank booklet I brought. Am I thinking about starting a white mask autograph collection? I'm not not thinking about it.

  "I'll just take a photo," says Cassie.

  "Sure!" she says, grabbing one from the stack in front of her. "So, any questions?"

  I pretend to think about it for a moment. "What d'you think the toughest fight you've ever been in was?"

  She scrunches up her nose a little in thought. It's very cute, making it hard to remember she's actually three or four years older than me and has almost certainly killed people. "Probably just a couple of months after I joined the team. The police had tracked down a black mask in Vancouver named Jetstream, but when we went to go get 'em, it turned out he'd just joined the Columbia Syndicate. We ended up in a fight with Surtr himself, plus Lilith and Huntsman. They got away, but at least we kept anyone from getting hurt, and that's the important thing!"

  Next to us, the group who'd been talking to Dynamic has moved on, so he leans over to join the conversation. "The truth is, tough fights are something we try to avoid. A good fight is a fight that's over as fast as possible. The longer it goes, the more damage it causes and the more dangerous it gets, both for civilians and for us. Big, epic battles are exciting in stories, but like Snowflake said, the most important thing in real life is to keep everyone safe."

  We shift over to him as Snowflake hands us our autographs and cheerfully waves goodbye before turning to welcome the next group. "How do you decide when it's worth fighting and when it's not?" I ask.

  "Well, most of the time, it's our superiors making the call, not us. The whole premise of the Abhuman Registration Agency is that for magicals to live safely in society with everyone else, we need to be accountable to regular humans. In emergencies, though, we sometimes do have to judge for ourselves whether acting or not acting would put more lives at risk. Honestly, as long as a black mask isn't actively going on a rampage, it's usually better to just let them go and track them down later, on our terms. Sorry if that's not quite as heroic an answer as you were hoping for." He gives a slightly apologetic smile.

  "Don't worry, you're still plenty of hero for me," says Cassie, grinning. "Hey, do you sign anything else?" She rests her elbows on the table, leaning forward to give Dynamic a clear view down her shirt. I roll my eyes, although I suppose his suit does do a good job of showing off his muscles if you're into that sort of thing.

  Dynamic coughs, averting his eyes slightly. "We're happy to sign anything not currently being worn." Her grin widens, and he quickly preempts her. "Yes, that includes body parts, and no, removing clothing is not a loophole."

  "Oh, fine, then," says Cassie, pouting. "I guess I'll take another photo." I pass my booklet over as well.

  At the next table, Chimera snorts. "Again, really? How come cute girls never ask me to sign their cleavage?"

  "Chimera…" warns Dynamic, but it's too late; the invitation has already been made and received.

  I quickly snatch back my signed booklet and move to the next table, leaning down and resting my forearms on the table just like Cassie did. "Well, it's not every day you get to grant a magical girl's wish," I say, offering a grin and a wink.

  She blinks in surprise for a moment, then sprouts a matching grin. "Oh, I like this one," she says, grabbing a sharpie.

  "Jesus christ, Chimera, you know we've talked about this," says Dynamic, massaging his forehead.

  "Yeah, and I still say we need to show people that the good guys know how to have fun, too," she says, deliberately uncapping the sharpie. I can practically see him debating whether to snatch it away with his power, and deciding that it'll only cause a bigger scene. He turns to the next group instead, doing his best to ignore us. I cock an eyebrow, and she takes the invitation. The sharpie tickles as she signs her name a couple of inches below my collarbone, and doodles a little snake in the shape of a heart. I blush.

  Next to us, Apollo is blushing as well, and looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Is- is that appropriate? What if someone takes a picture?"

  "You gotta learn to lighten up, kid," says Chimera as she finishes signing. "We're magicals, not celebrities, they're not gonna fire us over a little controversy. Hey, you want me to sign your little book, too?"

  "Sure, thanks."

  Meanwhile, Cassie moves over to Apollo, grinning again. "I'm still in the market for a more personalized signature, if you're feeling left out."

  He blushes even harder, his eyes darting around as though looking for an escape route. "I, uh, I'm not- Please just- just let me get you a regular autograph?"

  I come up beside Cassie, putting a hand on her arm to stop her from teasing him more, and study Apollo for a moment. He's embarrassed, yeah, but it feels like more than that. It feels like… panic. The kind of panic that's never too far from the surface, that you get when your entire life is a tightrope. I lean forward, not like I did before, just to get a little closer. "Hey. You okay?"

  "W-what? Yeah, of course I'm okay, w-why wouldn't I be okay?"

  Next to him, Chimera snorts and shakes her head. "Never seen a civvie ask a magical if he's okay before. You really need to grow a pair, kid." Then she turns to smile at the next group.

  Even though I've got her signature right over my boob, I feel a flash of irritation. "Hey," I say quietly, leaning even closer. "You're a magical. That means you don't have to take shit from anyone. Anyone. Remember that, okay?" Then I push myself back, passing over my booklet with an encouraging smile.

  He gives me a nervous smile back and signs my book. He signs a photo for Cassie as well, breathing a small sigh of relief when she doesn't make anymore comments. "Um… Thanks again for stopping by!" he says, clearly glad to be back on script.

  "Our pleasure," I say, giving him a final smile before leading Cassie away.

  "So what was that all about?" she asks after we've cleared the crowd.

  I chew on my lip for a minute. "Probably nothing. Just… a feeling I got."

  "Well, you wanna share with the rest of the class? We don't all get magic feelings."

  "It's not about that," I say, shaking my head. "I think… maybe his home life might be a little like my old home life."

  "Oh," she says, her cheeky expression fading away. "Damn."

  "Yeah."

  We stop by a concession stand that's not too busy for a pair of sodas, but neither of us are real interested in any of the other attractions, so we just stake out a spot on the grass under a tree near the edge of the fairgrounds. I slowly turn my first meeting with the white masks over in my mind as I sip on my drink. "Hey," I say eventually. "Wanna help me rob an electronics store?"

  Cassie's grin is all teeth. "Absofuckinglutely."

  It's not quite as easily done as said, of course. When I get home, I borrow Jess's phone book and spend a while browsing through the yellow pages. Apparently there's a big box electronics store way the hell on the other side of town across the river, near the mall. That'd be my first choice, assuming they have what I'm looking for. Robbing a smaller specialty store would feel worse, and probably also draw more notice.

  We take the bus out there the next day. I don't strictly need Cassie to be here, but two pairs of eyes will make things a little easier. Also, it's more fun this way, and it makes the long trip less boring as well.

  "Hi, welcome to Superior Purchase, can I help you find anything?" asks the guy by the door as we walk in.

  "No thanks, just browsing," I say cheerfully.

  We take a leisurely circuit around the store. I am actually looking for the music section, but that's not the only thing I'm looking for, and I don't want to draw any extra attention to it anyway. We eventually find it up near the far corner of the store, and I start looking around. They do end up carrying DJ mixers, not a huge selection, but plenty for my needs. Their selection of turntables and speakers is much larger, but I decide to hold off on the latter for now. I'll want to get some good high-quality speakers eventually, but that'll be the most expensive piece and the hardest to explain away, and it should be the easiest piece to find at some second-hand store, as well.

  I end up shelling out forty bucks for a pair of decent headphones just to be less suspicious, since I'll need that anyway. "So," I say as we walk away. "I counted one security camera watching the doors, and four more in the corners. You notice any others?"

  "Nope. If you can get in through the back, there's an employee's entrance in the corner right by all those TVs, that should hide you pretty well if you stay low."

  I nod. "They've gotta have some kind of roof access, right? To do maintenance on the AC and stuff."

  "Probably," she says, shrugging. "You gonna do it tonight, then?"

  "No reason not to."

  "Sweet. I'll wait up for you."

  The trip is vastly shorter when I make it by air that night. I hover over the roof of the store, floating back and forth until I find something that looks like an access hatch. There's no way to open it from this side, and it doesn't move when I reverse gravity either. Examining it for a minute, I figure out which side the hinges are on, and then go to the other side and randomly mess with gravity until something clicks. Like I'd hoped, it wasn't locked, just latched, and swings open when I reverse gravity again. I don't bother with the ladder, instead floating in upside-down so I can have a look around without showing my whole body. The back room is mostly big industrial shelves stocked with extra products, but I'm looking for cameras. I only see one, and it's pointed towards the loading dock. Nodding in satisfaction, I float down to the floor.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  I make my way over to the employee's door Cassie noticed earlier, finding it unlocked. I turn the handle and ease it open maybe half an inch, just enough so it's not latched anymore. Then I lay down, floating horizontally just a couple of inches above the floor. Another gravity field pushes the door open, and I shoot through, closing it behind me in less than a second and pressing myself up against the row of big screen TVs. The only camera that could have seen me is the one in the far opposite corner, and security cameras are always terrible quality; the entire sequence can't be more than a brief smudge for a couple of frames.

  Taking care to keep myself hidden, I float over to the music section. I don't even bother actually physically grabbing what I want, I just settle onto the floor and then float a DJ mixer and a pair of turntables over to me. When I have them, I rearrange the other boxes, shuffling them forwards so it's not obvious anything's missing. Unless I'm very unlucky, they won't even realize they've been robbed, or at least not until the next time they do inventory. And even if they do somehow realize it happened tonight, they'd have to go over the security footage with a fine-tooth comb to notice anything; they're much more likely to just assume that an employee stole it.

  With my haul floating above me, I retrace my steps, so to speak, making sure the roof hatch is latched behind me. My second robbery done, and it was just as easy as the first. Honestly, I could get used to this. No, I can't let myself get complacent. That's how you get caught. I need to keep my heists careful and low-key, avoiding making patterns. When I make my public debut, I don't want anything that could be tied back to my civilian identity.

  I fly back to Cassie's with my haul. It takes me a little while to figure out which house is hers from the air, but I manage it eventually. Feeling a little nostalgic, I tap on her window. She opens it quickly. "God damn, I forgot how fucking cool you look like that," she whispers, grinning.

  I grin back. "You know it. Here, take the screen out." She does, and I float my loot through.

  "Good shit," she says, shoving it under her bed to hide it for now. "See you tomorrow, then?"

  "Yup."

  The trickiest part of the plan isn't even the robbery itself, it's justifying where I got the stuff. The next day, I head back over to Cassie's, this time by bus. We spend an hour unwrapping everything, then repacking it in old cardboard boxes. She borrows her mom's crappy old Accord (finally fixed), and we drive over to Good Will. Their electronics selection is pretty limited, but I find a pair of mediocre speakers for sixty bucks. Piling everything in the trunk, we head back to Jess and David's place.

  Since it's not like I'll be able to hide any of this, I go the exact opposite route. "Dude, check out what me and Cassie found at a garage sale!" I shout as soon as I come in. "Fucking insane, I can't believe no one already grabbed it!"

  We find both of them sitting in the living room; they look up as we enter. "Whatcha got?" asks David after a moment.

  "Take a look," I say, pulling back the flaps on the cardboard box. All the cables are intentionally piled on top of the equipment, obscuring how new it really is.

  "Oh, you found some DJ equipment? Nice. How much was it?"

  "Like a hundred and fifty bucks for all of this shit!"

  "Damn, not bad. Glad you managed to work that out."

  I hesitate for a moment. It's useful that they seem a little uninterested, but it's also out of character. "Something up?" I ask.

  They look at each other. "Could be," says Jess. "Hopefully just nothing, but I guess you should probably hear about it too, just in case. Why don't you put your stuff away first?"

  Me and Cassie glance at each other, shrug, and do as suggested. After we've put everything in my room, we head back to the living room and sit across from them. "So, problems?" asks Cassie.

  "Maybe," says David. "Just got a call from a buddy of ours. He says there's a new magical in town."

  I keep my expression deliberately casual. "Yeah? White mask or black?"

  "Black. Some kid named Firestorm." I internally relax. "Apparently he showed up a couple of months ago, started putting together a gang. Call themselves the Wildfire Boys. They've been taking territory on the west side of town, moving this way."

  The name tickles something in my memory, but I can't pin it down. "You think they might cause trouble for you?" asks Cassie.

  "Well, we're a small enough operation that they might not find us," says Jess. "But, well… That's kind of how black masks work. Drugs are the best way for them to make money, because it's mostly passive. They don't have to expose themselves like they would for a big robbery or something, which means the white masks are a lot less likely to bother them. All they have to do is roll into town, track down the local dealers, and tell us we work for them now. Not like we can go to the cops, you know. That's how it was with Umbra, too. After she got the boot, there was room for little independent operations like ours to start growing. But that makes Franklin a juicy prize for black masks who got squeezed out of their home towns, or are just looking to expand."

  "We kind of figured it would happen sooner or later, but we were doing our best to make it later," says David. "It's why we never sell downtown or near the University, cause that's where Surf 'n Turf is based. The Columbia Syndicate is supposed to offer a better deal, but they also have their own people, and we don't move enough product for them to go out of their way for. Plus, sniping at each other has kept them busy enough that neither has made an effort to move south or west yet. But that means they won't do anything about the new kid until he starts butting up against their territories. And our buddy said Firestorm isn't being gentle about forcing people in."

  "We've been telling all our customers to keep their mouths shut, stop referring people," says Jess. "If Firestorm causes too much trouble, either the white masks or one of the other black masks will deal with him. Until then, we'll just have to do our best to keep our heads down."

  "Huh. Fuck," says Cassie. She glances at me, then asks the question that's on my mind as well. "So are the black masks just as bad as the white masks, then?"

  David shrugs. "Depends. Like I said, the Syndicate's got an alright reputation. Some of them, it's just like paying your taxes. No one really enjoys it, but they keep out the real psychos like Umbra, and help keep the cops off your back as well. Firestorm… I mean, all we have right now is friend of a friend of a friend type stuff, but if even half of it's true, he's definitely one of the ones who needs to be kept out."

  Cassie looks at me again. After a moment, I look away. I know what she wants, but it's not a decision I'm willing to make on the spur of the moment. "How likely do you think he is to find you?" I ask.

  "Hard to say," says Jess. "We're only just hearing about him now, so he's still real small-time. He's definitely not gonna kick down our door tomorrow. Give it a couple of weeks or a month, and we'll probably have a better idea what we're dealing with. The two of you should keep your ears open as well, maybe ask your friends if they've heard anything. Be careful, though."

  "Sure," says Cassie, nodding.

  "Try not to worry about it too much for now," adds David. "Could easily end up being a whole load of nothing anyway."

  Obviously I am still worried, but there's not a whole lot I can do about it that I'm not already doing. I have no idea how long Firestorm's been a magical boy, how strong he is, so I'm not about to go out and pick a fight with him. On the other hand, though, I've grown to consider Jess and David good friends, and I'm not planning on letting anyone fuck with them, magical or not. All I can do right now is keep practicing, give myself the best odds if it does end up coming to a fight. In the meantime, my other problems haven't gone anyway.

  I negotiate with Jess and David for when I can practice DJing (only in the afternoon, for no more than three hours a day unless they're not home). Then I spend the rest of the day running around every music store I can find, collecting albums. I only end up with a dozen, not nearly enough for a proper set, but plenty to practice with.

  "You've definitely gotten better," says Chris the next time I go over to his place for a lesson. "You were lucky as hell to find a whole rig at a garage sale like that."

  "Yeah, it was a real steal," I reply with a straight face.

  "Well, I think I got some good news for you," he says. "There's this spot over at the mall, X-citement, one of those family fun places, you know. It's aimed more at like the early teen crowd rather than little kids, so they've got a dance floor. A friend of a friend was DJing for them, but apparently they caught him smoking weed on his break and shitcanned him. I wasn't sure if I should mention it, but I think you've gotten good enough to have a shot at getting hired. They're gonna want you to play all pop and shit, of course, but as long as you don't fuck up egregiously they won't know the difference anyway."

  "Sweet! Thanks a ton," I say. August is coming up fast, and I was dreading having to put everything on hold to get some shitty fast food job. This is… maybe not quite my dream job, but a hell of a lot better than that.

  "Sure, no sweat. Here, I've got some poppier stuff from the 80's around here somewhere I can dig out if you wanna practice with something closer."

  The next day, I again take the bus over to the mall. I'll definitely need to figure out a better way of getting around if I do end up getting the job, but that can wait. I find the place without much trouble. It's pretty big, all a single room without anything separating the different sections. There's a food court serving pizza and burgers and stuff, a bunch of arcade games and pinball machines, some kind of big bouncy house in one corner, and as promised, a little dance floor in the other. It's a little after one and the place is pretty dead, probably no more than twenty or thirty customers total, but that's what I was aiming for.

  "Hey, welcome to X-citement," says the bored pimple-faced teenager working the entrance, probably just a couple of years older than me. "Are you with a group, or just a single ticket?"

  "Actually, I'm looking for a job," I say. "I hear you guys need a new DJ?"

  "Oh, yeah, sure," he says, bending down under the desk and rummaging around for a moment. "Here's an application, go head in and have a seat wherever. I'll let the manager know you're here."

  "Thanks," I say, taking the offered application and pen.

  I take a table in the food court, well away from the single ongoing birthday party and start filling the thing out. It only takes a few minutes, and I finish right in time to see a guy in a button-up shirt and tie heading towards me. "You the one asking about a job?" he says.

  "That's me. Gabrielle Harper," I say, sticking out my hand.

  After a moment, he shakes it, and I do my best to match his grip. "Rob Mercer, manager," he says. "You a minor?"

  "Sixteen. Is that a problem?"

  "Depends on whether you're planning on quitting as soon as school starts."

  I shake my head. "I need the money," I say, mostly honestly.

  He shrugs. "Probably fine, then. Haven't been able to keep anyone for more than a couple months at a time since we opened anyway. Can't let you work more than eighteen hours a week, but I only need you when the place is busy. Let's see your application." I hand it over, and he glances at it for a few moments. "Yeah, looks alright. So, what do you know about DJing?"

  "I'm just a hobbyist, just play for my friends and stuff, but I've been at it for a few months now," I say, figuring there's no harm in exaggerating a little. "I've taken lessons."

  "Uh huh. Well, I'm not expecting an all-star, we're just playing CDs on shuffle right now, so as long as you can do better than that you've probably got the job. Come on, dance floor's over here."

  I follow him over to the far corner. The dance floor's not too big, maybe twenty or thirty feet on a side, covered with some kind of slightly squishy rubber mat. There's a disco ball overhead, although it doesn't really do much when the whole room is brightly lit. The stage is just a little platform a foot or so off the ground, and I follow him up, stepping over to examine their set-up. The equipment looks more expensive than mine or Chris's, with some functions I don't recognize, but everything I'm familiar with is where I expect it to be.

  "Alright, go ahead," says Mr. Mercer, stepping back and crossing his arms, clearly not planning on giving me any help. That's fine, because I do actually know what I'm doing more or less. I turn to their album crates and start browsing through them. The overwhelming majority is girl and boy bands: Backstreet Boys, Elemental, Bombshell, Spice Girls. Ugh. Whatever, I knew what I was signing up for. I eventually find something not too offensive to start with, slipping the album out of its sleeve and putting it on the turntable.

  "What is love? Baby, don't hurt me. Don't hurt me, no more." I keep searching while the album plays, pulling out a few more tracks I've actually heard before and am therefore less likely to fuck up. Christ, I'm actually going to have listen to all this shit to be able to mix it properly, aren't I? The sacrifices we make for art. Thankfully, I pull the first mix off without a hitch. The second isn't quite as smooth, but nothing egregious, just a little abrupt. After the third, Mr. Mercer steps forward, waving me off.

  "Yeah, okay, you'll do. Job's yours if you want it. $6.50 an hour. Weekends are busiest, I'll want you here from 2 to 9 Saturday and Sunday, and 5 to 9 on Fridays."

  It's barely over minimum wage, but it's not like I can't make more money if I need to. "I'll take it," I say, grinning and sticking out my hand.

  "Great," he says, shaking it briefly. "Alright, let me show you around back, get you a shirt and a handbook."

  He takes me back to his office and hands me a contract; I skim it briefly, but I don't see anything about handing over my firstborn, so I go ahead and sign. Apparently I get a free meal after four hours, but he tells me to stay out of the kitchen aside from that since I don't have a food handler's license. I'm completely fine with that. Most of the other workers are a little older than me, early twenties, but they all seem friendly enough.

  Jess and David congratulate me warmly when I tell them the good news, even take me out for Chinese to celebrate. It's… nice, celebrating something I actually did for myself for once. Actually being approved of for being me, instead of for wearing a perfectly crafted mask.

  Of course, that gets me thinking about my parents, and how in the fuck I'm going to deal with them. I'll want at least one paystub before I submit my application, so I've got a couple of weeks to figure it out, but I can't afford to waste time. There's no question my parents are shitty people. The problem is that they're proud of their shittiness. They're shitty in a way that people call "respectable." So how am I supposed to use it against them, like Mr. Sterling suggested? And even though it's been an entire month now, I still get a roiling ball of anxiety in my stomach every time I think about so much as going near them.

  There's an obvious solution, of course. It scares me a little, how much it appeals to a part of me, how much I want that absolute certainty that they'll never be able to hurt me again. I could even make it look like an accident, I'm pretty sure my gravity fields are big enough to lift a car now, for example. I've already promised myself I won't do it. For one thing, every link between my two identities is a risk. The moment I go public, whether voluntarily or not, the cops are going to start digging for my civilian identity. A convenient car crash right at the moment I'm applying for emancipation is the exact sort of thing that could draw suspicion. More than that, though, it feels like a line I'm not sure I want to cross. Violence is part of being a magical, but using it to settle personal grudges feels like a slippery slope.

  In the end, I do just put it off again. I know I'm procrastinating, but a few more days to settle into my new job won't make the difference.