by Dima Zales
My dread is so extreme that time flows strangely; one moment I’m still walking, the next I’m standing by the couch.
I’m glad Kacie has her nose in a tablet. I’m not ready to exchange pleasantries when I have to do something as difficult as sitting down.
Knees shaking, I lower myself onto the couch like a fakir onto a bed of nails (which is not a feat of supernatural pain resistance, by the way, but the application of scientific principles of pressure).
Time distortion must’ve happened again, because the music signifying the commercial break comes to an abrupt close, and Kacie looks up from her tablet, her overly full lips stretching into a smile.
The pounding of my pulse is so loud in my ears I can’t hear her greeting.
This is it.
I’m about to have a panic attack on national TV.
Chapter Two
“By day, Sasha works for the infamous Nero Gorin at his hedge fund,” Kacie says, reciting the intro I’ve prepared. The words reach me as if I’m in an underground bunker. “By night, she performs at the sumptuous, Zagat-rated—”
The sips of Sea Breeze churn painfully in my stomach. It’s going to be my turn to speak in a couple of seconds.
The crowd looks at me menacingly.
The cliché of picturing them in their undies just makes me want to gag, so I picture them sleeping—which doesn’t work either.
Without Ariel’s medication, I might’ve run out screaming.
Scanning the audience again, I admit what should’ve been unsurprising: Mom didn’t come. When I sent her the invitation, I knew this was likely, but on some level, I must’ve still been holding out for her to show up. I only had one invite to give out, and I now wish I’d given it to someone else. Mom has never approved of my passion for “silly tricks,” as she puts it, probably because she’s worried that my income could fall drastically if I pursued magic as a career. And since she benefits from that income—
“Sasha?” Kacie repeats, her smile extending almost to her ears. “Welcome to my show, dear.”
I swallow and choke out, “Thanks for having me, Kacie.” If I hadn’t practiced it a million times, I would’ve messed up even this basic greeting. “I hope I can add a little mystery to everyone’s day.”
“I’m certainly intrigued.” Kacie looks from me to the camera and back. “I understand you’re going to predict the future today. Is that right, Sasha?”
Damn Darian. Why did he put me in this situation? Before he asked me not to end the show with a disclaimer, I had my act and speech perfectly planned out. Now I have to tread carefully and pick only the “safe” lines from the patter I’ve rehearsed so many times.
Kacie is looking at me expectantly, so I nod and plunge ahead, steadying my voice as I say, “My day job at the hedge fund requires me to predict how the market and individual investments might behave. I do so by absorbing a lot of financial and political data and using it to make my forecasts. As it turns out, I’m very good at this.”
Though magicians often lie in their patter, every word I just said is the truth. As much as I hate my job, I do excel at the forecasting aspect of it. I’m so successful at it, in fact, that my boss Nero puts up with my crap.
Having said that, the only reason I bring up my job at all is because every book on magic performance instructs you to make your material personal. Comedians use the same trick. And since nothing is more personal to me than my current purgatory, into the patter it went.
“Well then.” Kacie turns to the camera. “Sounds like a demonstration is in order.”
“Definitely,” I say, and hoping nobody notices the tremor in my hands, I casually roll up my sleeves—a move every magician worth her salt does before performing to rule out suspicion of the go-to “something up your sleeve” explanation.
Swallowing to moisten my dry throat, I say to Kacie, “Two days ago, you and I spoke on the phone, and I asked you to think of a playing card. Did you choose one?”
I hold my breath, my heart thrashing in my chest. What she says next will determine how amazing my first trick will seem to millions of people.
“Certainly,” she replies. “I have a card in mind.”
I exhale in relief, most of my nervousness melting away. She didn’t accidentally rat me out—which means I messed with her memory as intended. What I actually told her on the phone was, “Think of a card in the deck that represents you, or one that feels personal to you.”
There’s a world of difference between “think of a random card” and “think of a card that represents you.” One is a free choice; another is a directed choice.
From my experience, most women will think of the Queen of Hearts when confronted with my carefully worded instruction. This psychological ploy works doubly well for extroverts like Kacie, especially ones who use as much red lipstick as she does.
“It’s very important that the viewers understand that you had an absolutely free choice,” I tell her. I really enjoy saying that line, given how evilly false it is. “Please also confirm to everyone that I offered you a chance to change your mind if you so desired.”
The second part is true. I did tell her she could change the card, but I said it offhandedly, as an afterthought, not giving her a chance to really think it through. It was a risk, of course, but people almost never change their minds after they have a card picked, especially if they are stuck on the idea that the original card “represents them.”
“That’s exactly what she said.” Kacie is on the verge of clapping her carefully manicured hands together in excitement. It’s amazing how magic can turn this polished woman into a little girl again.
Deciding that fortune favors the bold, I say, “This is your last chance to change your mind. If you want, you can do so now.”
Kacie shakes her head, clearly in a rush to know what happens next.
Great.
She’s sticking with her choice.
“For the first time, please name your card out loud.” I make a sweeping, go-ahead gesture with my right hand and prepare to not look disappointed if I have to resort to plan B.
“The Queen of Hearts,” Kacie announces triumphantly.
I swallow a grin. Showing my excitement might hint at my method, just as revealing disappointment would.
Slowly, I turn my outstretched arm toward Kacie. “Remember, you could’ve changed your mind at any time.”
She gasps, her spidery eyelashes fluttering in rapid blinks.
“Is that real?” Her voice is full of awe. She obviously forgot the selection process and believes she genuinely had free choice of any card.
“I got this a few months ago,” I say, keeping my arm steady to make sure it remains within everyone’s sight.
Someone in the audience whispers one of my favorite phrases: “There’s no way.”
The camera zooms in on my forearm.
The big screen behind us shows my pale skin and the intricate tattoo adorning it.
The Queen of Hearts.
“Would you like to touch it?” I slide all the way to the edge of the couch and thrust the tattoo at Kacie. “Make sure it’s not just drawn on there.”
Kacie’s cool fingers massage the tattoo, and she slowly shakes her head, whispering in amazement under her breath.
I now allow myself a huge grin. Every time an effect succeeds like this and I see the awe on people’s faces, I get a huge rush.
This is why I’m pursuing this career of honest deception despite my fear of public speaking.
Risking a glance at the crowd, I notice that they’re even more impressed than Kacie—as they should be. As far as they know, I told Kacie to “think of any card.”
“And of course, this is the only tattoo I have on my body.” I turn my ink-free left arm toward the camera and lift my hair up to display the back of my neck. I debate showing my tramp-stamp-free lower back, but since that requires getting up on still-unsteady legs, I decide not to risk it and quip, “At least the only tattoo in a place
I could show on national television.”
The joke bursts the pent-up tension from the revelation, and everyone laughs.
I beam at them.
I’ll remember this moment forever.
The act has gone perfectly.
Of course, there’s a slight problem. The people who have seen me perform at the restaurant—like Darian—might catch on to the fact that I always reveal the Queen of Hearts.
I meet his inscrutable green gaze in the VIP section of the first row and wink. Is he any closer to figuring out the method behind the effect, having seen it twice?
Hopefully, he thinks I’m a careful manipulator who can make people think anything I desire—which I guess isn’t that far from the truth. The question that should be eating at Darian now is: “What if Kacie didn’t name the Queen of Hearts?”
The answer to that question is very simple: I’d go to plan B. I have a deck of cards in my right pocket—something I never leave home without. If Kacie named the wrong card, I’d try not to look disappointed and would use my already-extended right hand to retrieve the deck from my pocket. I’d ask Kacie to name a number between one and fifty-two, and I’d count to that number from the top of the deck to “magically” reveal her card—an effect that feels like a prediction, and for other magicians might seem like a bigger miracle than the tattoo version. No one—besides Darian—would be the wiser.
Enthusiastic clapping brings my attention back to the audience.
“Thank you.” I bow slightly, ignoring the sweat trickling down my spine. “That was just a small appetizer before the main event.”
Kacie, the crowd, and even Darian (who knows the method of what’s about to come) are hanging on to my every word. Maybe it’s presumptuous, but I can picture the people at home scooting closer to their TV screens.
After all, they just saw me predict, via a tattoo no less, a free thought that occurred in a human mind, yet I call it an appetizer.
My pulse is still too fast, and I become aware of an odd sensation—like I’m filling up with warm energy. Is this the Valium kicking in? I hope it’s not the cocktail mixing with the medicine.
Pushing the worry aside, I focus on my performance.
“A few weeks ago,” I say evenly, “I mailed an important letter to Kacie.” I actually mailed it to her assistant, but she doesn’t correct me, so I proceed. “Kacie, do you have that letter now?”
Kacie triumphantly picks up a large sealed envelope.
“This envelope was at the studio at all times, was it not?” I ask and lock eyes with Darian.
A horrific idea just popped into my head.
What if he doesn’t want me to deny being a psychic so he can play the cursed video and make me look like a fraud?
Debunking a fake psychic might make for good TV.
Shoving that awful thought away, I refocus on Kacie as she says, “Yes, and it’s sealed. There’s no sneaky business here.”
I could kiss her. Now I don’t have to emphasize how untampered the envelope was and how impossible it was for me to access.
“Great. Thank you,” I say. “Now, before we get to the envelope, can you please put up the front page of The New York Times on that big screen behind me?”
The familiar page appears on the screen, with the biggest story of the day prominently featured. The headline reads: MAJOR EARTHQUAKE HITS MEXICO; DOZENS KILLED. Under the article is an image of a tall building lying on its side, with people digging in the rubble.
This is my moment, but I can’t help a huge pang of guilt. What I’m about to do is going to seem that much more dramatic because of this terrible tragedy. Of course, I had no control over today’s headlines, and this sort of outcome is always a risk with this illusion. One mentalist accidentally predicted Elvis’s death like this, and to this day, he’s stalked by conspiracy theorists.
Swallowing the guilt, I say in my most authoritative tone, “Kacie, please open the envelope and show everyone what’s inside.”
“I’m not sure I want to open this,” Kacie whispers, but her fingers are already ripping at the paper in front of her.
She reaches into the envelope gingerly, as though it has anthrax inside. Pulling out the big sheet of paper, she looks at it, and blood leaves her cheeks.
I want to kiss her yet again. Her reaction is fueling the audience’s anticipation.
Finally, the entertainer inside Kacie takes over, and she turns the paper toward the camera with a flourish.
On the paper, there’s a hand-drawn recreation of the newspaper still on the screen behind us. In the neatest script I could manage, I wrote MAJOR EARTHQUAKE HITS MEXICO; DOZENS KILLED. Using my shoddy artistic abilities, I also drew a big building on its side and a couple of matchstick people next to some splotches of ink that represent the rubble.
One of the studio’s graphics people puts my prediction letter side by side with The New York Times, and the visual is very powerful.
I prepared a spiel about the difficulty of predicting earthquakes, but I don’t go into it. There’s no need. The audience is in the rare state of silent shock, and I don’t want to ruin it with words. This is the coolest reaction a magician can hope for—frightened awe.
Alternatively, the audience might be sucking in a breath to start booing me off the stage.
Darian breaks the spell by beginning a slow clap, like in a teen movie.
The roar of the applause that follows is the best thing I’ve ever heard. I jackknife to my feet and take a bow.
“Bravo,” Kacie says, her voice still uneven. Into the camera, she says, “We have to take a quick commercial break and will be back in a moment.”
The commercial music turns on, and I’m glad. If I freak out now, at least it won’t be broadcast live.
The audience slows their clapping, and I notice a few people in the crowd who didn’t react at all. One is a sickly looking older gentleman in the third row, and the rest are pale men in aviator sunglasses and black suits who remind me of security guards. They’re all the way at the back of the studio.
I look at Darian. He’s stopped clapping and is staring at the unhealthy-looking senior citizen. Something about the man must upset him because Darian’s face darkens. Bringing his finger to his ear, he mouths something, and one of the men in black repeats the gesture.
Is he talking to the studio security, and if so, why?
Concealing my puzzlement, I glance at Kacie. She’s fanning herself with the envelope, clearly still recovering from my prediction.
I remain on my feet, waiting for the applause to cease. As honored as I am by the ovation, I hope it ends soon because my knees feel weak, and the odd, warm-energy sensation is back, but much stronger this time. It’s like I’m being flooded with it, and my pulse accelerates further, my breathing quickening uncontrollably.
What’s happening?
Is this the panic attack I’ve been trying to stave off?
My nails dig into my palms. If I didn’t keep them so short for dealing with cards, I’d be bleeding.
Another tsunami of oddly pleasant energy rushes into my body, making my extremities tingle.
My toes curl inside my high heels. Did I just orgasm in front of a hundred people?
The pleasure lasts only a moment, and as intensity builds, the sensation morphs into pain.
The bright studio lights turn into suns, and my vision blurs. I squeeze my eyes shut, my muscles locking up as I begin to shake uncontrollably.
Am I having a seizure? A stroke?
The intensity of the experience is now beyond pain. I’m going into shock, like the day I got my tongue pierced, only infinitely worse. It’s as though my whole body has turned into a nerve ending that someone zapped with a billion volts of electricity.
If I weren’t feeling the ground under my feet, I’d be convinced I’m levitating, with lightning striking me, Highlander style.
I bear the sensation for only a few short moments before something short-circuits in my brain and I collapse, my
consciousness winking out.
Chapter Three
I’m on the couch, my awareness diamond sharp.
The commercial tune is still on, so I must not have been out for long.
The sickly older man in the audience leaps to his feet, causing everyone to stare at him and his gray skin.
“Stop him!” Darian screams, and a pale man in black starts running toward the stage.
The sickly man is painful to look at as he moves. He must have brain damage or a muscle disease because his limbs are uncoordinated as he wields them in jerky trajectories. Yet despite the apparent motor difficulties, the guy has enough energy to propel himself forward.
People shriek as he jumps onto the shoulders of the audience members in the second row.
Then his nondescript black shoes land on two women in the first row.
They scream, but the old man just uses his perches to leap onto the stage.
I’m too stupefied to move.
The black-clad security guy is moving like an Olympic sprinter, but he’s too far back and the crowd is in his way.
This would be a great time to run away screaming, but I’m still too petrified to move a muscle.
“Sir,” Kacie yells, her voice panicked. “You can’t be up here!”
The guy’s rheumy eyes glance at Kacie, but he must not find her worth his time because his gaze zeroes in on my neck.
The man in black and some of his colleagues are almost here, but it’s clear they won’t intercept the gray-skinned weirdo before he reaches me. I have no idea what he wants, but I don’t like the blank expression on his sickly face. He might be on something like meth.
One of the camera guys on stage leaps into the sicko’s path. “Sir! Excuse me, sir—stop. You can’t be here.”
The gray-skinned man flings the camera guy aside with shocking strength. I catch a glimpse of him rolling on the stage, and I go into a pure fight-or-flight response, tunnel vision and all.
I only have moments to decide what to do.
As a relatively small person, I ideally need a weapon for the fight option.
