by Melissa Keil
‘My dad, unfortunately, read about this thing in the school newsletter,’ he says offhandedly. ‘So I kinda got browbeaten into it. But then, like, only four other people showed up, and Peterson launched into this diatribe about the “cavalier attitude of youth”, which I think might’ve been a bit much even for my dad. So I ditched them. I was just checking out the Society for Creative Anachronism. It’s a medieval club. They have some awesome clubs and societies here. It’s like, the future leaders of Australia need to be prepared to drink beer in an organised manner, and, you know … joust.’
‘Juggling also seems to feature heavily,’ I say absentmindedly.
He glances at the juggling guy and chuckles. ‘Yeah. You’d be surprised how popular that is.’
Joshua is rocking on his heels, backwards and forwards, long fingers still tapping. I’m not sure if his movements have had some kind of hypnotic effect, but even though my stomach still feels sketchy, the fight-or-flight response has dissipated a little.
I hug my bags. ‘Okay, well, I should go –’
But Joshua is looking over my shoulder. His face contorts. ‘Uh-oh,’ he mumbles, that swish of colour emerging across his cheeks again.
The breeze has picked up, sending pamphlets careening past us. Joshua shifts his empty showbag from one shoulder to the other.
‘Look, I know this is a weird thing to ask, but do you think you could hang here for one sec? I could use some backup.’
‘Backup? What –’
An older guy, his windswept hair streaked with grey, appears from behind me. His hands are laden with course guides and bags.
‘Jeez, this place has changed. I was trying to find the spot where the gang used to play hacky sack, back in the day. Can you believe they actually have a KFC now? My friends would have been apoplectic.’
The man clasps Joshua on the arm with a big, bright smile. Joshua shoots me a look of desperation – one that I recognise only because I’ve seen it in my own face, most recently in the Drama room mirrors when I was forced to read Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
The old guy beams. ‘Hey there! Are you a soon-to-be Augustine’s alumna too? We never get a chance to meet Josh’s friends.’
Joshua turns those pleading eyes on me. Christ. Like my own issues aren’t enough to deal with.
‘Yes. I’m Sophia. It’s nice to meet you, Mr, um …?’
The crevasses at the corners of the older guy’s eyes deepen as he smiles. He holds out a hand, not seeming too fazed when I look at it without shaking. ‘It’s Alex. Mr Bailey is my father.’ He winks. ‘Give me a heads-up if you see a misanthropic old man ranting about the Boer War in my vicinity.’
I look to Joshua for further direction, but he seems to have become fascinated by something behind my head.
Alex – Joshua’s father, I’m going to take a stab at inferring – glances around. ‘Gillian?’
Joshua gestures with his head. ‘Skulking in the art gallery. She said she’ll text me when she’s done.’
‘Right. Hope you confiscated her Sharpies?’
Joshua grins. It doesn’t seem forced or fake, as far as I can tell, but then his smile wavers as his dad passes him the handful of brochures. ‘So I’ve been checking out the Arts faculty. Do you know there’s eight different first-year History subjects you can pick from? How cool is that?’
‘Cool,’ Joshua answers. He shuffles his feet, two small scuffs for each foot. But then he smiles at his dad again, and his dad smiles back. I’m not picking up anything hostile; nothing to account for Joshua’s oddness, or the need for my presence.
‘So, Sophia,’ his dad says cheerfully. ‘What are you applying for?’
Joshua gives me a cryptic look.
I swallow. My standard answer is that I plan to study mathematical physics and then specialise in Riemannian geometry, which is generally a safe answer as hardly anyone I meet understands what that is. But when I open my mouth the words that tumble out are:
‘I don’t know. I have no idea.’
Joshua’s dad’s smile seems to dim. ‘Right. Well, I’m sure you’ll … figure it out.’
Joshua looks at me for a long moment. ‘That makes sense,’ he says simply.
I stare back at him. ‘Are you being sarcastic? I can’t really tell.’
He gives me a faint smile. ‘Nope. No sarcasm.’
His dad’s eyes bounce between us. ‘Well, I should go find my daughter before she incites a riot in the gallery. Nice to meet you, Sophia. Josh – meet you at the Law talk?’ He thumps Joshua on the shoulder before walking away.
I shake myself out of my daze. ‘Okay, I really need to go now. There’s, ah, a lecture in the Statistics department I want to catch.’ I have zero intention of attending a stats lecture. I do have every intention of going home and crawling into bed with Doctor Who, the Patrick Troughton years.
Joshua glances at his watch. I hadn’t noticed it before, though I don’t know how I managed to miss it. It’s huge, a thick leather band with a chrome face full of pulleys and gears. ‘I should go too. I guess Dad’s waiting. And I’m meeting some friends in a bit.’
‘From school?’ I say, scrambling for small talk.
‘Nah. Not from school. I don’t have friends at school.’ I don’t think he’s embarrassed or wistful. Just, like, it’s not a big deal at all.
The breeze picks up, and I’m suddenly enveloped by the cold that I seemed to have forgotten.
Joshua tips his hat, long hair billowing around his face. ‘And all Washoe managed was “hello” and “please give shoes”.’ He steps away. ‘See you later, Sophia. I think I heard your phone ring.’
I whip my mobile out of the pocket of my jacket, but I have no missed calls or messages. I slide the phone back, and my hand closes around something else.
It’s a coin, but not any coin that belongs in my pocket.
It’s large and bronze, and weirdly smooth, like someone has run their fingers across its surface over and over again. It’s American, if the Abraham Lincoln face and the word ‘Liberty’ are any indication, but it’s of no currency that I can decipher. I flip the coin over. The severe Lincoln face and the ‘Liberty’ inscription are mirrored on the other side.
I spin around, eyes travelling over the laughing, smiling people.
But when I turn to the space where Joshua last was, there is nothing but a lone girl in a soggy panda suit, and a giant pile of course guides stacked neatly in the mud.
CHAPTER FOUR
There is nothing worse than
good magic at the wrong time.
– DAVID ROTH
I show up late to work, after jumping on the wrong tram and then almost walking face-first into a lamppost. It’s one of those awesomely awesome winter days, all clear skies and crisp, chill breeze, and it kinda feels like the whole world is smiling. A cute kid in front of me turns around and giggles, probably cos I’m whistling a song from Frozen. I tip my hat and sing the chorus at the top of my lungs. The kid cheers before his laughing mum bundles him away.
My boss has just about finished setting up our stall. Not even her face, as murderous as if someone blowtorched her favourite Doc Martens, can dampen my mood. The smell of coffee and sugary donuts hangs in the air. Behind the market, the medieval buildings of the Abbotsford Convent loom.
Amy nods at me as I make my way behind the stall. She’s sporting a heavy fur coat that kinda looks like wildebeest hide, and a giant bruise on her right cheek.
‘Josh. Nice hat.’
I dip the cap I inherited from my grandpa. ‘Amy. Nice bruise. Should I even ask how the game went?’
Amy sighs. ‘Yeah. We lost again, and our best jammer’s gonna be out for months thanks to a dislocated knee. I’m scheduling extra training on the off-chance it might mean we start sucking a little less hard. You free to work Wednesday arvo?’
I grab a box of juggling batons and start stacking them on the table. Vaguely, I remember that I’ve got a paper thingy due on Thursday for L
egal Studies that I haven’t even looked at yet. Or maybe it was a test. Man, was it even for Legal?
‘Sure. Wednesday? Can do.’
Amy gives me the hint of a smile. ‘You’re a superstar, Joshua Bailey. Let no-one tell you otherwise.’
Amy Avril – who also goes by the roller derby name ‘Avrilla the Hun’ – has been my boss since year ten, when I took a gamble and dropped my résumé at her magic shop in the city, the kinda distastefully named Houdini’s Appendix. Amy has Cleopatra hair, which this month is dyed a sweet shade of blue, and tattooed arm sleeves that feature, among other things, a lady with the words ‘hell on wheels’ underneath. In skates she stands almost a foot taller than me, and can pull off a Two-Card-Flight trick faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. Needless to say, she scared the living bejesus out of me when I first met her. Although we’ve been known to lose hours discussing the finer points of prestidigitation, I dunno if I would exactly call us friends. I’m almost certain she no longer wants to bludgeon me to death with a rollerskate, though.
I yank the cape out of my satchel and swing it over my shoulders. Yeah, I’m aware it’s dorky, but Amy insists it’s ‘ironic’. I really don’t have the guts to argue.
‘Nice,’ she says. ‘A bit of hair gel and some glitter and you may yet pass for David Copperfield.’
I close my eyes. ‘Seriously? Do you want me to quit?’
Amy shrugs with poker-faced evilness. ‘Just sayin’.’
I wouldn’t claim there’s anyone I truly hate; mostly cos I think it’s bad karmic juju to put that out into the universe. But if there’s anyone on the planet who I – intensely dislike, then David Copperfield, with his douchey hair and overblown showmanship, would be number one with a bullet. I’m not a fan of ‘extreme magic’ under most circumstances – real magic shouldn’t need cameras and helicopters and a few gazillion bucks behind it to be impressive. Also, the leather pants really piss me off. And the giant forehead. David Copperfield is first on the very short list of gits I’d like to smack in the head.
I know, I know – bad karmic juju.
Amy nudges my arm. ‘Look alive, Joshie. Mama needs a new pair of Brass Knuckle PowerTracs with Atom Poison Wheels.’
I’m pretty sure only half those things are proper words. Still, maybe I should focus on the task at hand. It beats the other thing I could be obsessively running through my head, like the replays in those ice hockey games Dad likes. I reorganise Amy’s chaotic side of the stand, my mind drifting to Sophia. Those piercing dark eyes, that guarded, heart-shaped face, the low, raspy voice that’s indescribably captivating. Then the breeze catches my cape, and one tasselled end billows up and slaps me in the eyeball.
I focus on the task at hand.
I love working at Houdini’s, but the markets are my favourite days of the month. The Convent has a really cool, villagey vibe; take away the hipster beards and organic coffee, and it could be anyplace in medieval Europe. And all I have to do is keep people engaged while Amy works the stand. I stick to simple stuff – classic cards, coins – nothing super challenging, but I usually manage to hold a crowd, and it gives me the chance to test drive some tricks of my own.
Business is awesome today. Our juggling sets are big sellers, and Amy manages to not get in a smackdown fight with anyone, which is a rare and glorious event. The day is cold but the blue sky has brought out the crowds, and by mid-afternoon our stand has an audience three people deep. A row of kids huddle in front as I talk at them while executing my version of a Hollingworth Reformation trick. It never fails to get a couple of really good gasps from the little guys.
I love performing for kids. Adults seem to feel this need to remain, like, stoically un-wowed, but kids don’t ever bother hiding their excitement. They ask a billion questions, true, but they’re mostly happy to not fully understand how illusions work. They get – better than most grown-ups – that the mystery is half the fun.
I finish my last cup trick with a flourish and the little guys at the front applaud madly. I even get a few polite claps from some parents before they hustle their kids away, presumably before the idea of tipping occurs to anyone.
‘Nice,’ Amy says as she rings up a set of Christopher Plover books. ‘I’m liking that spin you’ve added to the tear- and-restore. You gonna show me how you do that?’
‘Nope,’ I say happily as I drop my coins into my pocket.
As the audience clears, I recognise a couple of familiar faces hovering at the back – or rather, I recognise a mop-head of hair even more disastrous than mine, and a yellow bouffant that stands in an atmospheric zone all of its own.
I’m not exactly sure how I became friends with the English guys whose band plays here on market days. I recall a urinal conversation being involved, but I’ve never brought it up. I don’t get normal guys at the best of times, but I’m guessing that making friends with other dudes while semi-pants-less is generally frowned upon. Regardless, Jasper and Ethan were the first cool people I’d met in ages, and their circle of friends have quickly become some of my favourite people in the world.
Jasper waves at me, then grunts a hello and scowls at Amy, who scowls a hello back.
‘Hey, Jasper,’ I say as I restack some card boxes. ‘How goes? You guys on soon?’
He ruffles a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah. Fecking nightmare. I swear, if I get one more request for Taylor Swift I might actually go ape-shit and pitch an amp into the crowd.’
His bass guitarist, the aforementioned yellow-haired Ethan, shrugs. ‘But we can buy food this month. And toilet paper. I’m choosing to view toilet paper as a good thing.’
‘Can’t believe I let you talk me into selling out,’ Jasper growls.
‘Yeah. A regular, paying gig, versus spending another winter turning my undies inside out to save on washing powder –’
‘You are a fecking musician!’ Jasper yells. ‘Go home to mummy if you’re so hung up on clean knickers –’
‘Jesus, will you take it somewhere else!’ Amy bellows. ‘I can’t think with you bleating in my ear!’
Jasper looks like he’s about to say a whole lot of something elses, but he catches Amy’s eye and the two of them suddenly seem to find the ground and the sky equally mesmerising.
‘Whatever,’ Jasper mumbles. ‘We’re on next.’ He shoots a glance at Amy. ‘Come check us out. If you feel like it. Whatever.’
‘Maybe. Whatever,’ Amy says.
Ethan gives me a sneaky eye roll as he and Jasper walk away. I keep my face averted to hide the smirk that’s making its way across it.
‘Shut up, Joshua,’ Amy snaps.
I stretch my hands over my head with a yawn, catching a glimpse of another familiar person skipping towards me.
‘You still need me, Ames? Can I clear out?’
Amy grabs some juggling batons and tosses them deftly into the air. ‘Nah. Get out of here,’ she says distractedly.
I wave at the girl bounding towards me, who gives me an enthusiastic wave back. Her long hair bounces under a purple beanie, and with her red jacket, green cords and happy smile, she kinda reminds me of a Dr Seuss character. Totally crush-worthy, if I was remotely that way inclined.
‘Joshua the Magician!’ she calls out in her lilting British accent. ‘We missed you last Sunday!’
I stuff the cape into my bag. ‘Camilla the Chanteuse – nice to see you too. And yeah, had to bail last week. Turns out I had an assignment due Monday that I kinda forgot about. How are you? Is everyone here?’
‘Nah, not today. Too many family events and other minor crises. Speaking of crises – did you see Jasper? He really needs to get off this family-event circuit soon. Cos I’m not sure that “frustrated rock star throws jumping castle into river” is the sort of headline he’s looking for.’
She gives Amy a salute that passes for hello. ‘What I can’t work out is, why is he still showing up here? I’ve known Jasper for ages, and I’ve never seen him this committed.’ She smiles sweetly at Amy. Amy’s rhythm
splutters, and her batons crash to the ground.
Camilla winks at me as I choke back a laugh. ‘So. You done?’ she says.
‘Almost. Although I can’t stick around for long.’ I feel the edges of my good mood curl. ‘Dad dragged me to MU open day this morning. Pretty sure I’m expected home for discussion and analysis.’
‘Yeah? I have a couple more months before Conservatory auditions. A couple of months to get my head into a not-going-to-give-myself-a-stroke state.’ She shudders.
I’ve seen Camilla perform a couple of times now, and she’s really great, but she also tends to twist herself into a bit of a stressed-out mess before going on stage.
I swing my satchel over my shoulder. ‘Hey, you’re talking to a guy who once upon a time would have chosen death by a thousand toothpick stabs over having to talk to another human. But, you know, I got over it. Eventually.’
‘I know, I know,’ she says, sighing. ‘Hey, I’m a billion times better than I used to be. You didn’t know me back when even the idea of being in front of an audience would make me puke. Good times,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I’m doing a cupcake run. The guys are in the usual spot.’
She skips away as I amble towards the bandstand. I see two guys I recognise sprawled on the grass, and they wave as I walk towards them.
Adrian fist-bumps me as I drop onto the lawn, and waggles his fingers through mine in a gesture that’s either a Star Trek sign or a signal to his mothership. He’s kinda short, and a bit odd, but also one of the most good-humoured guys I know. Just looking at his guileless face is enough to make me laugh.
‘Joshua! Dude, you should have been here last week – Jasper got so pissed with these guys he tried to hit one of them with his mic and almost fell off the stage. It was awesome!’
The guy beside him sweeps his blond hair out of his eyes and leans over to shake my hand. ‘Yeah. I think the Annabel Lees are shaping up to be the first band in history whose fans might need bodyguard protection from them.’
Sam isn’t as big a history nerd as me, but we’re both taking the same Revolutions course, and he’s mega-smart and doesn’t find talking history as dorky as most people. We chat idly about our essays, which I will be starting sometime soon, and the dozen Creative Writing courses he’s applying for next year, a conversation that I manage to side-step through some nimble verbal misdirection. And then Sam leans back on his hands and raises an eyebrow.
