by Laura Quimby
The dead were enraptured. They shook their heads in disbelief.
“Do any of you have the guts to try them on? Come on! Anyone want to try on my pretty bracelets? Any ladies? Any gentlemen? You can keep them, if you can get out of them. Take them home as a present.”
The dead laughed at the joke. Jack took his bow and walked off the stage.
“Now that was more like it!” Jabber said, patting him on the back.
Jack kept walking, then turned back to Jabber and said, “They never were going to lynch me, were they? You made that bit up?”
“Yes, I did. And look what it brought out in you. The fighter! Just needed the right incentive.”
“Fear of lynching is a great motivator.”
Jack shook his head and watched the other acts from the side of the stage. He couldn’t be too mad at Jabber—he was just glad to be off. Jabber went next. A Renaissance kid, he could act, sing, play almost any instrument, ride a unicycle, and juggle. He and Violet did a funny skit where Jabber pretended to be a wolf dressed up like Violet’s grandmother, Little Red Riding Hood style. He chased her around the stage, and then she pretended to throw a bucket of water on him. The dead gasped.
“The dead hate water,” T-Ray said while he and Jack watched the act from the wings.
“Why?” Jack asked.
“They just do. I guess even the dead are afraid of something.”
Over and over, Violet pretended to throw the water and the dead gasped and laughed. Finally, she spun around and threw the water out of the bucket onto the audience, and they screamed until they realized it was just glittery confetti and not really water at all. Applause filled the theater.
Next, Violet sang a haunting song while Jabber played the violin. The spotlight glowed on her skin, and her voice rose up like a sad angel’s. Jack was captivated by her sweet, lonely voice, but the dead were restless. They chatted among themselves, not listening to the song.
Boxer went on next. His act was simplicity itself: the Strongest Kid Alive! He broke things, bent things, and tossed them around. The dead ate it up. Boxer lifted a bench, which the dead were sitting on, high above his head. He grunted and strained against the weight of six people. The audience cheered.
“They aren’t that heavy. After they die, they get lighter, like shells,” T-Ray whispered. “But they don’t know that.”
The finale was next. The thrill of the crowd was infectious, and their energy and excitement spread over Jack, rippling through the air like an invisible ocean rising and crashing at his feet. T-Ray ran through the aisles depositing his paper creations, pulling handfuls of them out of a basket and dropping them to the ground. He wove his way in between the dead, dropping in their laps paper butterflies and goats, dragonflies and frogs, bears and hawks.
A clap of thunder erupted from above, and the Amazing Mussini stepped onto the stage. The Amazing Mussini was the only one in the theater not wearing a mask, and the contrast between him and everyone else was striking. He was instantly set apart, so superhuman and alive, as if he wanted the crowd to know immediately that his powers were not a trick.
Exaggerated, bold, and confident, every expression on Mussini’s face played to the crowd. He wiggled his fingers. He raised his arms and flapped them like a bird, to hoots and howls of laughter. Jack couldn’t figure out the game. He danced around the stage like a madman, spinning, leaping, and squawking into the sky like an exotic bird. T-Ray banged on a snare drum, building in intensity. Jack could feel the rhythm of it in his chest. The anticipation in the theater rose to a pinnacle, until suddenly, something stirred, and there was a gasp followed by a small cry.
Jack stared into the crowd, his eyes caught by movement in the audience. The drum sputtered and stopped. The paper creatures stirred up from the floor, but they didn’t float like paper airplanes tossed aimlessly to the ground. They rose up as if by will. They flew, stretching new wings. They crawled to life. Jack gasped. They were real. The butterflies drifted between the audience members. Zinging dragonflies and swooping hawks filled the air with sheer glassine wings and crimson feathers. A tiger lazily ambled down the aisle. A bear cub bounded down off of the stage.
It was truly amazing. Mussini gave the dead the one thing they craved more than anything: He gave life to the lifeless. Gasps were followed by laughter and applause. The dead jumped to their feet and begged for more. They pulled off their masks to get closer to these beautiful creatures, rubbing their cold cheeks against soft warm fur. The stage lights twinkled on the thrumming air as beating hearts sparked to life.
Jack reached out his hand as a butterfly floated by, and the creature landed for a brief second on his outstretched finger. No wonder the dead had hated his act; all he gave them was cold, hard steel. They’d had enough of that. Mussini gave them the best gift of all—a taste of life, a stunning spectacle of wings and fur, of beating hearts.
And like the greatest of showmen, after a few minutes, Mussini took it all away. The animals soon fell to the ground, returning once again to their paper shells. He made the audience want to see the act again to get them coming back, show after show! That was the beauty of the trick and the test of a true showman. Jack jumped to his feet and clapped as loudly as the dead.
Jack couldn’t sleep. The rest of the troupe had gone back to their tents behind the stage, but the thrill of the show coursed through his body like a current of electricity, and he stood at the edge of the stage to relive the moment one more time. The dead were gone. They were probably sound asleep by now, tucked in their beds. As he stared out at the empty rows of seats, Jack wondered if the dead dreamed, and if so, what they dreamed about.
At one of his foster homes, Jack lived next door to a really old guy, and when Jack was bored he used to sneak over and stare at him sitting out on his back porch, watching the plants grow. Sometimes he and the man just sat, watching centipedes walk one tiny leg at a time across the cement patio like small, armored tanks. Bugs had a disgusting allure, especially caterpillars covered in spiky hair—their odd faces looked like masks slipped over their soft bodies.
Sometimes the old man fell asleep, his arms twitching in the chair. When he woke up, he told Jack that he dreamed himself young again, playing the guitar perfectly. His bent fingers and joints, twisted with arthritis, moved smooth and quick when he was asleep. He dreamed of the song spilling out over his fingers, the snap and play of the chords, the music breathing new life into his old body. Maybe that was what the dead dreamed of—hearing the song of their lives one more time, holding the music in their outstretched fingers. Maybe that was why Mussini’s heart was still beating, because the show was his music.
Jack spotted T-Ray wandering through the theater aisles, picking up the paper animals and insects and putting them into a basket. He jumped down off the stage and joined him. Some of the folded paper creatures had gotten torn during the show and needed repair. T-Ray used some clear Scotch tape to mend a wing or a beak. Others were past repair, and T-Ray unfolded them and smoothed out the paper. “I’ll have to make another lion,” T-Ray said. “The big cats don’t last long. I always have to make more of them after two or three shows.”
Curiosity nagged at Jack. He wanted to know how Mussini did it. The animals were so real, but the magical feat was impossible. “How’s the trick work?” Jack asked, but T-Ray just rolled his eyes.
“No way, man. No how.” T-Ray shook his head.
“Come on. I want to be more like Mussini, learn how he does magic,” Jack said.
“What do you take me for, a third grader?”
“You’ve got to know something.” Jack propped his foot up on one of the benches. “I’m just gathering facts—information is power, T-Ray. The more I know about Mussini and how he does his magic, the better prepared I’ll be to help us escape.”
“You want leverage.” T-Ray pushed a handful of paper animals down into the basket. “Can’t you just enjoy the trick? It’s always a disappointment once you find out how the trick is done.
”
“I won’t be disappointed, trust me.”
“I just fold the animals like he taught me,” T-Ray said, resisting the temptation to spill his guts about what he knew about Mussini. He held up one of the paper animals to show Jack. “Look—the hawk, one of my favorites. He could just fly away from here, but not us. We’re here to stay.” T-Ray pulled his jacket up around his neck and shuddered.
“Don’t tell me it’s just folded-up pieces of paper.” Jack held the paper tiger and rubbed his finger along the paper’s edge. He winced and then examined his fresh paper cut as if the big cat had bitten him. “Its teeth sure weren’t made of paper.”
T-Ray sighed. “Mussini’s been really good to me. I don’t want to set off his temper.” He set the basket down and rubbed his arms to ward off the cold.
“Mussini will never know, ‘cause I’ll never tell him.” Jack gave the tiger back. Getting T-Ray to talk was like trying to get a hook out of a fish he had already caught. “Don’t you want to get out of here and see your mom again?”
T-Ray grabbed Jack’s wrist. “Don’t talk about my mom!” Almost immediately the anger left him and he sighed, but he still held Jack’s wrist tight. “Promise if he catches you that you won’t tell him that I told you?”
“I promise. I swear,” Jack pleaded, prying T-Ray’s cold grip from his wrist.
Kicking the basket out of his way, T-Ray collapsed down on a bench. “Mussini keeps all his secrets in his tent. All his tricks are written down in a notebook that he has stashed in a trunk. That’s what Jabber told me, anyway.”
Great. Another trunk. The last trunk he broke into landed him in the forest. Jack could only imagine where he would end up if he went digging in Mussini’s box of tricks.
“Have you ever looked inside the notebook to see how he does it?”
“Are you crazy? Mussini is always around.” T-Ray glanced around the empty theater. “Even when he’s not, he is. Like the Death Wranglers.”
“Come on. You’re not a little curious? You really don’t want to know how he does it? How he brings the creatures to life?” Jack reached down and grabbed a handful of paper animals from the discarded basket and let them tumble from his fingers. “They weren’t just paper animals anymore. They were living, breathing tigers and bears.”
“Well sure, but if I knew, the trick would be ruined then. And I want it to last.”
T-Ray had a point, because once Jack knew how a trick was done, it wasn’t fun anymore. That was the downside of being a magician. The illusion was over. But he couldn’t help it. Jack had to get that book. Not only could he learn the secret of the trick, but also he could see if there was anything in the book to use against Mussini.
“Hey, I bet that book is valuable.” A realization filled him. “Really valuable.”
“It’s priceless. It’s Mussini’s most valuable possession.” Shock washed over T-Ray’s face. “No way! What are you going to do?”
“Nothing right now. I’m just thinking out loud. But if I could get my hands on that book, it might be the leverage we need to get out of here.”
Both T-Ray and Jack jumped as Mussini’s thunderous voice erupted backstage. They rushed across the stage and slipped behind the heavy velvet curtain. Mussini stomped around, waving his arms wildly as he huffed and puffed. Tears streamed down Violet’s face. He grabbed her by the hair. She yelped like a kitten being held up by the scruff. Like most adults Jack had encountered over his life span, Mussini’s actions were purely self-serving. He was nice when nice got him what he wanted, and he was cruel when cruelty got him what he wanted, too. At times, Jack wondered where the butt-kicking patron saint of pushed-around kids was when he needed him, because he sure wasn’t here. Jack clenched his fists. He couldn’t stand watching Mussini yell at Violet.
“Stop it!” Jack blurted out. “Stop it! You’re hurting her.”
Mussini whirled around, tossing Violet to the ground. “Shut your mouth or I’ll sack you.” The huge man snorted and took a step toward Jack, then thought better of it, turned around, and stormed off. Jack and T-Ray rushed over to Violet.
“What’s he talking about?” T-Ray said.
Violet stood up shakily and brushed the tears away from her face.
“Did he hurt you?” Jack said.
“He’s angry at me again, T-Ray.” Her violet-colored eyes glistened with tears.
T-Ray gave Violet a sympathetic look. “Because of the song.”
Jack stared at the two of them, baffled. They obviously knew something he didn’t.
“What was wrong with the song you sang? I thought it was nice—not that I’m an expert or anything.”
“It was too depressing, too dull and boring, according to Mister Amazing,” Violet said, crossing her arms.
“The dead want an upbeat act,” T-Ray whispered to Jack.
“But the act with Jabber was great. Everyone was laughing.” Jack couldn’t figure it out. “One of the best of the night.”
“It’s not enough,” Violet said. “It’s never enough.”
“Maybe we can help you. There has to be something we can do,” Jack said.
“There is something!” The great hulking figure of Mussini pushed through the curtains, making them all jump. T-Ray fell over a trunk and onto the floor.
“What! What do you want me to do?” Violet recoiled from the man, wrapping her arms around herself.
Mussini sneered at violet, as if he took the slight personally. “Get out! That’s what you can do! You’re fired.”
“What?” Violet said, her eyes going wide. Her voice cracked. “But I haven’t got anywhere to go.”
Mussini threw the red cape that violet wore for the wolf act at her. “Go work for someone else.”
“No! She can’t go.” T-Ray scrambled to his feet and held on to violet’s skirt.
“If that’s what you want, then I’ll go.” Violet faced T-Ray. “It’s all right,” she whispered, then turned and ran from the theater.
Everything had happened so fast that at first, Jack just stood there. Most of the time he stayed out of other people’s arguments, but he couldn’t let her go out into the streets all by herself.
Jack darted out of the theater and ran after Violet. She was quick. The streets were dark, lit by faint gas lanterns, giving the whole scene a haunting glow. He followed the shadow of her, the scarlet cape with the hood pulled over her head. He wandered behind her as she ran through the narrow streets, some paved with packed-down earth, and others paved with uneven stone. Violet slowed down. Jack matched her pace, catching his breath. Suddenly, she took off again. She must have seen him. Violet ran like someone was chasing her, but without direction. Jack had been moving through the dark streets of his life like that for a long time. It wasn’t hard for him to keep up with her.
The smell of roasted meat wafted through the air. Jack’s stomach growled, and he was relieved to see Violet duck inside a dingy tavern. Posted in the dirty window was a sign with Help wanted scribbled on it. He was about to walk into the shop when someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him down an alley. His feet were kicked out from under him as a storm of hands grabbed at his clothes and pulled him deeper into the dark crevices of brick, far from the meager streetlamps. He felt like he had been shoved into a meat locker and bounced between cold, hard bodies. The smell of wet earth was thick and cloying. Jack kicked and pulled out of his captors’ hands. When he looked at the group of boys that surrounded him, he was sure of one thing—they were all dead.
A pale, gangly kid pushed his way forward. “Where’ve you been, Skimmer?”
“Skimmer? What’s a skimmer?” Jack asked as he inched his way away from the group.
“Not a what, a who. And he’s you. Why you been hiding?” The kid stuck his blue-tinged face so close that Jack felt a waft of cold air brush against him.
“You got the wrong guy. I’m not Skimmer.” Jack glanced down the alley, looking for an escape route, but the group moved as if anticipating
his need to run.
A kid wearing an old-fashioned newsboy cap hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and came forward. “I don’t think that’s him. He smells funny. Like grass.”
The pale boy snorted and narrowed his eyes. “He sure looks like Skimmer.” He sniffed and rubbed his chin. “Hey, wait a minute,” he said as if slowly realizing the obvious. “You’re not dead!”
Voices erupted among the group. Cold hands reached out and pushed him, closing in on him. Jack’s back rubbed up against a brick wall.
“We should end it for him. Put him out of his misery,” the newsboy said.
“I’m just fine,” Jack said quickly. “I’m not in any misery.”
“You will be. Didn’t anyone tell you? We don’t like your kind.” A kid wearing a baseball jersey swung a well-worn bat near his head.
“Look, you guys got the wrong kid. I’m supposed to meet a friend, so just let me go and I’ll be out of your way.”
“The best way to get rid of your kind is to make you one of us,” the pale boy said.
“Yeah, dead like us. Then you’ll be normal. And not freakish.” The newsboy snapped his suspenders.
Jack stood tall. “The dead liked me fine at the show last night. And Mussini likes me fine. I work for him, so unless you want to take my place, I’ll be going.”
The pale kid rolled up his sleeves, revealing stick-thin arms covered in cuts and scrapes, scars and old wounds. He smiled thinly. “I’m not afraid of Mussini. And Skimmer owes me, so since you’re the best I got, you owe me.”
“Owe you what?” Jack knew from experience his best bet to get out of this alley was to keep the kid talking, because if he was talking, he wasn’t hitting.
“My share of the skim!” He snatched Jack up by the shirt, wide-eyed and manic. His clammy knuckles pressed into his neck. “And I’m getting it from you if I have to break every bone in your warm body.”
“If you tell me what a skim is, maybe I can get it for you.” Jack gritted his teeth as icy fists twisted into his skin.
