The Secret Science of Magic

by Melissa Keil

  I even made myself re-watch The Lake House. It persists in being awful and offensive. The thing that bothers me most? The fact that not one person is curious enough to investigate a miraculous time-travelling mailbox, instead using a staggering anomaly of physics to exchange letters about the smell of flowers in the rain. Despite knowing how it ends, I remain disappointed that Keanu does not get hit by that bus a second time. Even on repeat viewing, Elsie’s adoration still makes no sense. The fact that I can’t see what I’m missing, no matter how hard I try, makes my stomach hurt even more.

  Elsie always did tell me that I wilfully missed the point. She never explained how to fix that, though. What if my problem isn’t determination or willpower, but some innate defect there’s no fix for?

  I have sent half a dozen emails to the St Petersburg Steklov Institute of Mathematics, and one letter to Playboy, after I stumbled on an article about Grigori Perelman in an online magazine. A hand-drawn portrait sits alongside the feature, Perelman’s face sketched in scribble like some cheap pencilled Picasso, the pieces warped and disjointed. I guess that’s how most people would see him – the broken genius with the crazy eyes, a quirky aside in a magazine primarily devoted to half-naked women. I’m not sure what my mum concluded when she walked into my room with a sandwich only to find my screen filled with breasts. I’m not exactly operating on full capacity, and have zero means of interpreting her malleable expression, or the hand that lingers for a moment too long on my hair.

  I’m plagued by this urgency to talk to Perelman. What made him retreat from the world? What happened to his work? Did the one thing he was passionate about let him down in the end? Did he ever find someplace where he belonged, other than inside an equation? Or did his messy, ill-fitting pieces prove impossible for anyone else to understand? Did he discover, finally, that there was nowhere at all in the world where he fit?

  Is he happy? Does it even matter if he is?

  If nothing else, my Cyrillic improves a lot. But no-one responds. I do receive an automated response from Playboy, however, telling me that an autographed print of Miss August has been sent to me in the mail.

  I sit at my desk, surrounded by books. A cup of tea materialises beside me, delivered by my father, I think. It’s in a novelty mug that Dad bought me a couple of years ago. It has a picture of a guy and a girl on it, vector graphics like the ones on public toilets, and underneath is the caption: Statistics. The discipline that proves the average human has one testicle. I think it’s supposed to be funny. At least, Dad has a good chuckle whenever he’s making his Milo.

  I catch my parents exchanging a few furrowed glances as they rush from work to family events and back again, but neither of them asks me anything but the most perfunctory questions. I don’t know; I think maybe they see what they want to see. I’ve always suspected that they gave up trying to decode the inner workings of my brain a long time ago. Or perhaps they truly do think that I’ll be okay? Maybe I’m a much better actor than I’ve been giving myself credit for.

  At some point I pick up my Drama homework. I’m meant to be working through some exercises aimed at ‘demechanising physical and emotional behaviour’. From what I understand, this primarily involves me spending an hour trying to pick up a shoe. The thought of attempting to untangle it all makes my insides feel scraped. I don’t think I can cope with any more uncertainty, not one more fragment of failure.

  So I curl up in bed with my books, and I stick to maths. That – at least for now – I understand.

  And then, just like that, the calls stop.

  Of course. It makes sense. Given time to weigh up the evidence, what else could he conclude? It’s what I wanted – space, and time, to unscramble and reset. It doesn’t explain why I keep staring at my screen, though, thankful for its silence and dismayed by it too.

  This is why I avoid people. There are too many things I should be focusing on; staring at my phone, unable to decide whether or not I want it to ring, should not be one of them. Christ, maybe I am Sandra Bullock. Constantly frazzled, unable to manage the simplest of life decisions – disregarding the mailbox that transcends space and time, while being obsessed by shitty love letters and a dog.

  But the fact is, outside of my family, there are only two people who matter to me, just two people who have ever bothered trying to see the me that I am afraid of. And somehow, I have failed them both.

  Maybe Perelman had the right idea.

  Maybe retreat is the only option.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Good timing is invisible. Bad timing sticks out a mile.

  – TONY CORINDA

  I stopped calling her only when Camilla threatened to flush my phone.

  I probably should’ve stuck to my guns and stayed under my blanket in the dark till my decomposing flesh became too tempting for Narda. But nah, I had to be the sucker who gets browbeaten into going to a gig at a craphole bar called – I’m not even kidding – the Heartbreak Hotel. Why I agreed to inflict myself on the world, in a fat-Elvis themed cafe, is anyone’s guess. I think, subconsciously, I just can’t handle letting anyone else down this weekend. But I plan on sitting in silence for half an hour and then vanishing back to my cave.

  Camilla takes one look at my face as I slouch in and uses whatever magic she possesses to extract the whole story. I don’t even know where my verbal spewage comes from, cos it feels wrong, and sort of disloyal, invoking Sophia’s name in this place of beer and hipster shirts. But I’m worried about her, and freaking out that I’ve done everything wrong. And I really need someone smarter than I am to tell me what to do.

  Camilla, I notice, is carefully quiet. At some point the chick on stage launches into a ukulele solo of the crappest, saddest Shins song ever, and I bury my face in the couch cushions and groan. The couch stinks like arse. In fact, the entire bar stinks like arse. Maybe everything stinks, and I just haven’t noticed before. That’d be about right – the whole world reeks, and I’m the one git walking around with his face buried in a fantasy bouquet. Bloody hell, am I really that big a dick?

  ‘Jesus, Joshua, morbid much?’ Camilla says, bashing me on the arm. ‘Get your face out of the cushions. Adrian found half a ham sandwich and a condom in there a few months back. Seriously, do you even want to imagine what someone was doing with both of those things at once?’

  I sit up. I adjust my glasses, then throw them onto the coffee table. Right now, there is nothing in the world I need to see clearly. Funnily enough, though Sam is still perched on an armrest, the rest of the group have made themselves scarce.

  ‘Camilla, I just want to know what I did wrong. Why won’t she answer the phone? Do you think … should I go find her?’ I peer at my now-blurry mobile, but it is snatched out of my grasp before I can dial.

  ‘Joshua Bailey,’ Camilla says, managing to sound both gentle and unyielding. ‘Give her some space, and time. She’s not testing your persistence. She needs to not talk to you, at least for a while. Just back off. For your own good. And hers. Trust me on this. Do not be that guy.’

  Bammo. And there it is. Have I really become that guy?

  But, see – aren’t you supposed to want to make someone’s life better when you care about them? Was I being too pushy? Where is the rule book that explains how that works? And without it, how am I supposed to figure this out?

  Houdini would’ve just teleported a thousand roses or, like, a gazillion doves into her bedroom.

  But I am not Houdini. Or Dai Vernon or Thurston the Great, or even stupid douchehead Copperfield. Copperfield wouldn’t find himself sinking into a whirlpool of failed expectations. Copperfield would’ve just sawed himself in half with his stupid oversized buzz-saw, or, you know, made the Statue of Liberty disappear just for her.

  What I am is some lanky doofus who can pull a coin out of his nose, a sad party magician with a lingering speech impediment, the lamest non-person in the universe. I am a loser with no ambition and no goals, whose greatest achievement so far is learning how to pull
off a one-handed Faro shuffle. While I wait, desperately, for any sort of inspiration, my prospects are fast reducing to being a sad street busker or Damien’s underling at the crappy pizzeria he’s bound to end up working at.

  Of course I’d never be enough for her. I’m barely enough for myself, and hey, I’m not even that picky.

  ‘Joshua,’ Camilla says, clasping my hand in hers. She retrieves my glasses and sticks them crookedly on my face. Sam looks on with sympathy. ‘You are so great. And Sophia seems pretty great too. But have you ever thought that maybe it’s just not supposed to be … your time?’

  I close my eyes. Suddenly, all I feel is tired. ‘Maybe, Camilla. Maybe you’re right. Can I please have my phone? I’ll back off. I promise.’

  Since I am out of options, I will do as I am told.

  I won’t call her. I’ll leave her be, if that’s what she needs. I just need to know that she is okay.

  And there’s one place I can go to find that out.

  I’ve prepared a speech, but I don’t think it’s gonna help. There’s a snag in my voice that I can already sense, my tongue thick in my mouth, sibilants lying ready to be misarticulated all over the place. Stuff it. It’s not like she can think I’m any more of a giant loser.

  It’s a nice house. The lawn’s a bit overgrown, and has a whole bunch of chew toys strewn across it. The front door has a cool brass knocker in the shape of a Great Dane’s head. I step over and around a giant pile of guys’ shoes, mostly Chucks and New Balance sneakers.

  I give the dog head a few raps, shoving my other fist deep into my jacket pocket.

  Elsie Nayer throws open the door. She is wearing an unzipped Hawthorn hoodie over a thin pink nightie. The silk slip just about conceals her torso, and she’s, um – well, she’s not exactly un-endowed, and the expanse of brown skin and curves that fills my vision is, well, momentarily startling. But then I notice that her eyes are puffy, and her hair is bunched up into a tangled bird’s-nesty bun. She looks me up and down. Her eyes narrow.

  I adjust my glasses, wishing I’d found the energy to put my contacts in. ‘Hey, hi, Elsie. Ah, sorry to just show up at your house. Look, I know you don’t know me, but my name’s Josh. Joshua Bailey. We’re in Mr Grayson’s Bio class together? I, ah, wanted to talk to you because –’

  ‘It’s you,’ she says softly. She steps onto the porch, heedless of the wet tiles beneath her shoeless feet. She’s a little shorter than Sophia, but she walks right up to me and stares me down, and I find myself shrinking beneath her glower. ‘You’re the guy. The magical mystery boy.’ There’s a vague tinge of sarcasm in her voice, but I’m more concerned that her chin is all wobbly, her red eyes filled with unhappiness. She zips the hoodie up to her neck, somehow making the gesture look pissed and sad, too.

  I swallow. ‘So I guess she told you about me? I kinda had the feeling that she maybe hadn’t mentioned me before?’

  Elsie snorts. ‘Yeah. Seems like I don’t know jack lately. How fricking unobservant can one person be. Man, and I want to be a doctor. Oh yeah, dude, sorry about the face cancer, guess I missed that giant oozing tumour growing out of your forehead. My bad.’

  My brain must have become used to playing catch-up from all the time I’ve spent with Sophia. I put two and two together and the answer I come up with makes me cold. ‘Elsie, I’m really sorry if I’ve done something to upset you too –’

  ‘What do you have to be sorry about? You’re not my friend,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  The misery chorus that’s been following me cranks up a couple of bars, like it’s added in a few depressed backup singers and a moaning sax solo from one of those eighties hair ballads Camilla likes so much.

  Elsie stares at me, radiating fire and something else, something raw and hurt. My hands are drumming frantically inside my jacket pockets. I take a breath and force my eyes to centre on Elsie. I clench my fists to stop my fingers moving.

  ‘I know we’re not friends,’ I say slowly, hearing the catch in my voice, which is flying of its own accord now. ‘You have no reason to trust me. But I think I’ve upset her, Elsie. I don’t know what’s happened between you guys, but you’re her best friend and I just thought –’

  ‘You just thought I’d be up for playing matchmaker? Sorry. Out of the three of us, I’m now apparently the least qualified to offer romantic advice.’

  I take a step back and consider Elsie. Sophia’s guardedness is more cautious than cynical; despite all her reservations, there’s always been something kind of candid about her, and open. But Elsie wears her caution like a shield, thick with wariness and suspicion, an invisible coat of barbed wire wrapped around her. And right now, Elsie Nayer is looking at me like she’d love nothing more than to string my nuts on a necklace.

  ‘You’re mad with Sophia?’ I say.

  She crosses her arms. ‘Good observation, Criss Angel.’

  I sigh. ‘God I hate that guy,’ I mumble. ‘I mean, eye make-up doesn’t make you a bad-arse. And put a shirt on, man. No-one’s coming to your show for the nipples.’

  Elsie blinks. She looks like she can’t decide whether to snicker or deck me. Her eyes are still damp, but her clenchyness seems to have unlocked a bit. Despite the elephantine weight on my shoulders, I feel myself relaxing just a little bit too.

  A skinny dude sticks his head around the door. ‘Heya – everything okay out here?’ he asks warily. He tries to give me a hard-arse stare, but it’s kinda diminished by the mint-green Adventure Time Beemo T-shirt he’s wearing, and the fact that he is sucking strawberry Big M through a straw.

  I think back over a conversation Sophia and I had once about Elsie’s family. ‘Hey – it’s Raj, right?’

  Both the skinny kid and Elsie look at me incredulously.

  He steps out onto the porch. ‘Ah, yeah. And you would be?’

  Elsie waves a hand. ‘So apparently Joshua here and Sophia are – what phrase did she use? Oh, right, having a thing that might be a something.’

  Raj looks back and forth between us. ‘No way! Our Pinky and this guy?’ he says, gesturing at me with his thumb. ‘Ohhh,’ he adds, his face lighting up. ‘So is that what’s going on with you and Sophia? You jealous?’ Raj looks me up and down, an uncanny echo of his sister. I’m starting to feel irrelevant, like a sideshow exhibit under review. ‘Elsie, seriously? This wally? Wouldn’t have pegged your thing as the reject-from-Slytherin type. No offence, dude.’

  Elsie groans. ‘God, can you piss off, Rajesh!’ she says, but there’s no real animosity behind it.

  Her brother rolls his eyes at me. ‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ he says, before scampering back inside as a shoe flies in his direction.

  Elsie sits with a thud on the wet concrete steps. I hesitate, till she gestures at the spot beside her. I sit, cautiously. She hugs her legs to her chest and tugs her hoodie over her knees.

  I stare out at the expanse of heavy grey sky. It’s started drizzling again – not enough to need an umbrella, but a light mist coats my skin. It couldn’t be any more appropriate for my mood; not unless it started raining tiny bleeding hearts, or a shower of dead doves.

  I sigh, then give Elsie a weak grin. ‘So. You’re not, are you?’ I say, picking up a random black Converse from her doorstep. ‘I mean, “Jealous, or whatever”? Cos really, I’m not that awesome.’

  Elsie rests her chin on her knees. She gives me a vicious side-eye. ‘Yeah. I doubt you’re my type. I prefer my guys to be a little less lamppost-shaped.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Because I’m tall. And really, not hot. Definitely neither awesome, nor hot, and yes, way too tall. You dodged a bullet there, Elsie Nayer.’

  Elsie snorts. ‘Settle down, funny guy.’ She rocks lightly, chewing fitfully at a hoodie string. ‘So. Sophia. You like her?’ she says eventually.

  I let out a sad laugh. ‘Yeah. I like her, Elsie. I like her a lot.’

  She looks at me for what feels like an age. ‘Huh. How did I not notice that?’ she says, almost to herself. She nud
ges my shoulder, an unexpectedly genial gesture that almost sends me flying off the step. ‘You got that look in your eye that I should’ve seen a mile away.’

  ‘What look?’ I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.

  ‘That look that says you’re halfway to picking out cat names and matching dinnerware. It’s obvious.’ Her eyes flicker across my face. ‘I mean, now that I know what to look for.’

  The disordered pile of shoes behind me is screaming my name. I half turn and grab a few from the pile, setting them side-by-side in their proper ordered pairs. ‘Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want me.’

  Elsie is watching me, her chin resting on her knee. I should probably leave this pile of grubby shoes alone, but I don’t think I can sit here for much longer unless I do something with my hands, put right at least one thing that’s out of whack. She doesn’t look bothered. She just watches me, shrewd dark eyes containing a dash of sympathy.

  ‘Listen, Joshua? Lemme tell you something. Sophia doesn’t need us. She doesn’t need anybody.’ She waves a hand in the air, a defensive swat against imaginary flies. Her face crumples, then rights itself, then crumples again. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone work so hard to fight off tears. My instinct is to throw a comforting arm around her, but everything I’ve observed about Elsie Nayer suggests it wouldn’t end well for me. ‘Sophia Reyhart just humours regular people. She’s sure as shit just been tolerating me.’

  ‘Elsie, you don’t really believe that. Do you?’

  She shrugs. ‘Why not? Most of our lives, I’ve just been flailing around behind her while she does her thing. She’s never needed friends. I always thought I was different, you know? But I’m not. Rey doesn’t want anybody.’