Club Deception

by Sarah Skilton

  But being ordinary…That was intolerable.

  “I’m kind of searching, you know? This seems like a good way forward,” he’d told his mother back in January, over flan and coffee the night before he accepted the job at Merlin’s Wonderporium and moved into Paco’s house. He’d read What Color Is Your Parachute? (well, most of it), his duffel bag was packed, and he’d made up his mind to pursue magic, but she’d tried to talk him out of it right up until the last minute.

  “You’re hopping from one thing to another like you have no choice. Baseball didn’t work out so now it’s magic all of a sudden?” she asked. “You haven’t played with your magic kit since fifth grade.”

  “That’s not true!” (It was true.) “And I loved it. Don’t you remember how much I loved it?”

  “Sí, okay, but making a living that way?”

  “Not right away,” Felix admitted. “But eventually, yeah. Why not?”

  Dad walked in from the guesthouse where he ran his acupuncture business. He stole a sip from Mom’s coffee and she swatted his backside.

  It wasn’t as though his parents were unhappy with their lives, but somehow that made it worse. They didn’t care that they were ordinary. They didn’t even notice.

  * * *

  Reinvigorated, he knocked on Claire’s door, bagels and coffee in tow.

  “Morning, sunshine,” she said, and the relaxed lilt of her voice took him back to the filthy instructions she’d whispered to him on the phone.

  She divested him of the carryout and placed it on the kitchen island.

  She wore leggings and a mint-green T-shirt for some band called the La’s. Her leggings begged to be peeled off her, and the T-shirt definitely had to go.

  She snapped her fingers in his face. “Felix? Are you listening?”

  His gaze was glued to her lips. “Hmm?”

  “I asked if you were feeling better today.”

  He’d quit the magic shop via text, and gotten cursed out in a voicemail for not giving two weeks’ notice or helping secure a replacement. A real man would’ve shown up in person and found someone to fill in. But she hadn’t given him a choice.

  Surely he deserved a little sugar for placing so much faith in her?

  “Before we get started, wanna…?” He nodded toward the bedroom, gave her his best, sexiest smile.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You haven’t earned it.”

  He deflated. “How do I earn it?”

  She handed him a deck of cards and proceeded to test him on his knowledge of card sleights. They went over Riffle Stacking, the Top Change, Palming, and various shuffles. She forced him to reveal his strengths and weaknesses while she jotted down notes in a pad.

  Her favorite phrase seemed to be, “Did I say you could stop?”

  When she brought over an egg timer to see how quickly he could perform eight Faros in a row (a type of shuffle in which the cards are interwoven perfectly, with eight being the number of shuffles required to return the deck to its original order), he felt like he was in basic training or something, trying to assemble a rifle in ten seconds flat.

  Three hours later, his patience wore so thin it ripped apart. “Why are we doing all this? Can’t we just get on with the routine?”

  “There’s a reception after the award ceremony. If anyone talks to you about sleights, you need to be able to speak knowledgably. Also, I need to know what you’re capable of, and how fast you can learn. Because if we’re going to do this, we need to really do this. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “We only get one chance to fake it. So we better do it right.”

  He nodded again, but inside he bristled. By the time the contest rolled around, maybe he wouldn’t be faking it. Maybe he’d just be good enough.

  The rest of the day passed swiftly, with only water, snack, and bathroom breaks to look forward to.

  She never softened, never let anything slide. Did I say you could stop?

  If anything, she became more demanding after he demonstrated something correctly, because that proved he must have been slacking off in the other areas. No praise, of course, because that would waste time.

  He would never have learned so much so fast without her drilling him, and in a weird way he liked having a personal trainer who showed no mercy. It reminded him of his 66ers coach.

  What he didn’t like was how sore his hands, wrists, and fingers felt on the drive home. A couple of tokes from one of Paco’s joints wasn’t going to come close to dulling the ache.

  * * *

  On Friday, Claire was even harsher, something he hadn’t believed possible. He arrived at eight a.m. and they worked steadily until midnight. Instead of cards, they focused on coin manipulation, which he didn’t have much experience with. She had him rolling coins up and down his knuckles and holding them in a variety of positions between his fingers to hide them. He also practiced Muscle Passes, the trickiest of all, in which he shot a coin upward with his left hand into his right, seemingly without moving them.

  During the drive home, his fingers tingled as he gripped the steering wheel. Closing his fist was agony. He hadn’t been in this much pain since his knees got jacked up.

  Claire told him to do his hand exercises before bed, but he couldn’t even hold a bottle of beer without his ligaments screaming in pain.

  * * *

  On Saturday, he nearly crashed his car due to exhaustion. He had no life outside his training, no life outside Claire.

  On Sunday, his car broke down. He was downright ecstatic at the prospect of a day off, but Claire said she’d drive over and pick him up.

  “Fucking great,” he muttered before hanging up.

  “Nice house. Who are all these people?” she asked upon arrival.

  Partiers from the night before trickled out the door, squinting at the sunlight and looking for their cars.

  Felix rubbed his eyes. “We had a little get-together last night.”

  Three more people exited.

  “What’s a big get-together?” she wondered.

  He thought for a moment. “Usually involves a rented trampoline.”

  “When do you get any sleep?”

  “I don’t.”

  She pursed her lips, displeased.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  He was relieved that the place was presentable. His housemates were either at work or, in Jamie’s case, at an audition, and nearly all the visitors had left. However, he hadn’t anticipated the return of Rocky.

  Claire shrieked and leapt backward onto the porch when a brown-and-black-striped blur raced past and into the house. It was the girliest he’d ever seen her.

  “What was that?” She practically hyperventilated.

  “It’s our raccoon.”

  If she hadn’t been so freaked out, he might have enjoyed the visual of her breasts rising and falling as she sought to calm down.

  “You have a pet raccoon?” she asked.

  “Not really a pet. He comes and goes.”

  “So he’s a feral raccoon.”

  Felix felt defensive. “Well, I mean, he’s a city raccoon. He likes Marshmallow Fluff.”

  “He eats Marshmallow Fluff inside your house? He’s probably diseased, Felix.” She backed out farther, down the stone steps. “We need to leave. Right now.”

  “Agreed,” said Felix, closing the door behind him.

  Just then Jamie strode up the front walkway, carrying a grease-soaked bag of fast food. “Dude, Rocky’s back!”

  “We know,” Felix replied in a warning tone, which Jamie ignored.

  “I brought him a burger, think he’ll like it?”

  Felix drew a line across his throat, and Jamie dropped the subject, only to change his focus, giving Claire a quick once-over. “Where you guys headed?”

  “Far, far away from here,” muttered Claire.

  Behind Claire’s back, Jamie made a thumbs-up sign at Felix and mouthed the word, Nice.
>
  “When are you coming back?” he asked, in a louder voice.

  “A few weeks,” said Claire, dead serious.

  * * *

  At first he was excited to move in with her. It would be like dress rehearsal for when he ditched the Pussy Palace, give him a taste of independence and actual, honest-to-God rest. She set him up in the guest room and explained how the shower worked and where to find clean towels.

  It was difficult to pay attention because Jamie kept texting him.

  JAMIE: what just happened!!!

  JAMIE: R U abducted

  JAMIE: i’d hit that

  JAMIE: and then steal her social security checks

  JAMIE: LOL

  JAMIE: but seriously I’d hit that

  JAMIE: unless she’s all loosey goosey down there

  Horrified, he dropped the phone and it clattered and bounced on the bathroom tile. Claire looked down at it and he scrambled to pick it up before she saw any of the messages. It vibrated again and Felix quickly shoved it in his pocket.

  “Which reminds me,” Claire droned on. “Under no circumstances are you to answer the phone. Also, since you don’t have to drive here anymore, I want you ready to work at six tomorrow morning.”

  They returned to the living room and she opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Although she sat beside him on the couch, she didn’t offer him any wine, and when he reached for the bottle she lightly slapped his hand.

  “No alcohol until after the contest,” she reminded him.

  “But you’re allowed to drink in front of me?”

  “I can do whatever I want. And you’re not much of a wine drinker, remember?”

  “I could learn,” he grumbled, eyeing the drops of wine clinging to the side of the glass. They beaded and slowly traveled down the curve to the stem. It reminded him of sweat gathering along a woman’s arched back.

  Claire patted him on the head. “You’re blossoming. Like a little flower for Algernon.”

  He wasn’t about to admit the reference went over his head, but it was obvious she was talking down to him. “If you’re going to sit there and drink in front of me, could you at least do it in your gold nightie?” he said.

  “What gold nightie?”

  “You know, ‘silk chemise…short skirt…’” he quoted from memory.

  She took a sip from her glass and licked her lips. They were pink and shiny tonight. “Right. There is no gold nightie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s an illusion. Hate to break it to you, but that’s the line of work we’re in.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Aw, man. I was jacking off to a fantasy?”

  “Masturbation is always a fantasy.”

  “But you were, too, right?”

  “Maybe.” She smiled. “Or maybe I was doing my tax returns.”

  He scooped up a throw pillow and tossed it at her. She held her wineglass out of harm’s way and laughed.

  He slid closer, so their thighs were touching. “I could buy you a gold nightie,” he suggested.

  “With what, my own money? No thanks.”

  “I feel like a prisoner,” he groaned.

  “In the lap of luxury.”

  “There’s another lap I want more.”

  The stinging rebuttal: “Cute.”

  “Luxury.” He rolled his eyes. “My place is bigger than yours. And it has a pool.”

  “Don’t forget the relaxing atmosphere. No wonder you haven’t been able to concentrate.”

  “I’ve been concentrating plenty!”

  She recorked the bottle of wine, put it in the fridge, and went to bed, locking the bedroom door behind her.

  Felix watched her go.

  Eye on the prize, he told himself. This time next month he’d have thirty-five large in his bank account, concrete proof he wasn’t like everyone else, he didn’t have to fold and give in, settle for a life spent looking backward to his glory days instead of forward to the renewed fame that awaited him.

  Not long now.

  He took out his phone.

  Jamie had text-screamed the same offensive question four times in a row.

  JAMIE: IS SHE ALL LOOSEY-GOOSEY DOWN THERE?

  JAMIE: IS SHE ALL LOOSEY-GOOSEY DOWN THERE?

  JAMIE: IS SHE ALL LOOSEY-GOOSEY DOWN THERE?

  JAMIE: IS SHE ALL LOOSEY-GOOSEY DOWN THERE?

  His jaw clenched. It was bad enough Jonathan treated her like crap; he wasn’t about to let his housemates sit around making fun of her. She was a kick-ass teacher, she was going to give him his rightful life back, and she deserved some g-d respect. At the very least she was his friend now and that meant he would protect her. He couldn’t tell Jamie, Scooter, and Paco about the contest but he could defend her in a language they understood.

  “Like a paper cut,” he typed back, and powered down his phone.

  Jessica

  Cal was gone, but his side of the bed was still warm. She never heard him leave. Jessica pulled his pillow close and wrapped her arms around it, inhaling the scent of cedar.

  Another day, another MIA husband.

  Kaimi’s pep talk the day before had soothed some of her fears, but Jessica still felt a lingering sensation of wrongness in the air, and she found her anxiety increased the longer she went without seeing him. He’d sworn up and down he’d be home for dinner, so she had ten hours to find something before he returned. This time she’d search IRL.

  She dragged one of the dining chairs into the bedroom and stood on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf of the closet. A binder labeled TAXES came back down with her. The tabs inside were separated into categories: WRITE-OFFS, TRAVEL, INSURANCE, MEDICAL, CAR PAYMENTS. Go back, go back: INSURANCE.

  Neither Cal nor Brandy had a life insurance policy (or if they did, it wasn’t contained in that particular binder), but they did have a list of personal assets. Well, Cal did. They included expensive magic equipment, a twenty-four-volume antique magic book set, and a deed to some land in Britain. Brandy’s sole asset was a yacht insured for two million. A ripple of ice shot up Jessica’s neck. Fifteen thousand dollars for Reputation Restorer was a drop in the bucket compared with two million.

  She slammed the binder shut. Stood on the chair again and felt along the top shelf with her hand. It returned lightly dusted. She tried again, reached farther, stretching her fingertips to the back of the shelf, and was rewarded with an unmarked VHS tape in a plain white box.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she returned to the house with a rented VCR and remote from a vintage store called Hooray for Hollywood.

  Ten minutes after that, she’d hooked the VCR up to his flatscreen and audio receiver.

  If you’re going to do this, you better do it now.

  With no alcohol in the house, she couldn’t fortify herself before inserting the tape in the player. She was forced to watch it sober, which made the Cal of 1995 seem even more like a stranger, since he was so often out of his gourd in the tape.

  The handheld camera work was shaky, blurry, and occasionally out of focus. Sometimes the time stamps revealed a binge of narcissism—sixteen films in a week—other times, a month would pass between updates. “Life in the ’90s on High Street in Kidlington” was the loose theme. Oasis and Blur CDs provided occasional background music. The one bedroom, ground-level flat where Brandy and Cal had apparently shacked up near Oxford contained a small, fenced-off garden out back. They didn’t grow anything in the garden. The rusted, cracked flowerpots were used as ashtrays.

  The focus was on documenting their drunken exploits, usually after the fact. Whoever was key to the story sat on a small black sofa inside, being “interviewed.” Despite Brandy’s insistence that Cal recount every detail of his recent adventures, she often grew bored with the retelling. (“Oh, my God, is there a gas station between now and the end of this story?”)

  Cal was pale, undernourished, and thin. His thick, dark hair stood on end, with sideburns that reminded Jessica of Rufus Wainwright. In the first scene he took
alarmingly generous swigs of Gordon’s gin straight from the bottle. Jessica could barely tell what he was saying; his accent was that thick.

  When Brandy stepped out from behind the camera, Jessica leaned forward for a closer look. Definitely the same woman from the photo Cynthia had shown her. Cal’s future wife was petite and gleefully evil, with a pixie haircut and sharp cheekbones. She was a cross between the dancing woman from the old Gap ads and the devil.

  Her favorite pastime seemed to be saying something hurtful and filming her victim’s reaction.

  “There’s a gorgeous new guy at the gym,” Brandy told the camera.

  “Oh, did you manage to go this year?” Cal teased.

  She ignored his dig. “I might have to dump you for him. He’s got an ass that won’t quit.”

  “Oi,” said Cal, “my arse quits halfway through. Halfway through what, I dunno, but it just up and quits, lazy fooker.”

  At that point, he pulled down his track pants and mooned the camera.

  “It’s blinding,” cried Brandy. “It’s a blinding white British ass!”

  “It’s luverly, it is,” he said, giving his own cheek a smack.

  He turned around and treated the camera to a full frontal view, swiveling his hips wildly and making his penis helicopter around in a circle. “Bet he can’t do this, though.”

  Brandy cracked up. “You’re gonna put someone’s eye out.”

  He pulled up his pants and approached the camera. “You know who’s got an arse that won’t quit?”

  “Who?”

  He pointed to her and waggled his eyebrows.

  “Gross,” said Brandy.

  In the next segment, Cal sat on the couch by himself, using a coffee table to fiddle with a deck of cards. He cut the deck one-handed, plucking a single card from the middle with his thumb and forefinger. It was the Queen of Hearts.

  Jessica smiled. It felt like he was reaching out to her from the past. I’m waiting for you on the other side, she thought. You just have to get past this phase in your life, and I’ll be waiting here.

  He was sober, his accent less pronounced, and he sounded more like “her” Cal again. Maybe the lower-class inflection only came out when he drank.