It's not smart to be awake like this, far into the night with school on the horizon with the sun. But even as the music tugs at my tear ducts like threads of blue lightning, something is bothering me.
It's unusual for my male friends to chime in on my love life, but I feel like I've just heard a glockenspiel symphony. And all in harmony, a major key.
I'm considering (agreeing with) their opinion, even as a part of me knocks on my internal camera lens.
"Hold up," she says, one eyebrow raised, "you don't have enough information."
Which cues a flashback to Tamora, leaning against her desk, laughing.
"If I have enough information, you have enough information."
Right. That settles (nothing) that, then.
The internal me rocks back on her heels and examines her nails, like she's already won out against the glockenspiels, even though her victory is far from assured.
"I don't need victory, witch," she informs me coolly, not glancing up. "I only need to get you to ride your own broomstick."
Her eyes pierce me through the camera, cold and dry, brighter than the dawn.
"Especially through the lightning storm."
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