by Jeff Garvin
“And Spoon Bender is too small for that stage. I was thinking Card to Fruit.”
The trick worked like this: The magician asked a volunteer to pick a card and sign it. Then, using sleight of hand—my favorite brand of magic—he vanished the card. Next, the magician selected a piece of fruit at random from a bowl, cut it open, and voilà: he pulled out the signed card, wet with fresh juice. I loved it because of the reaction it elicited from the audience: eyes widening, jaws dropping. The trick defied logic in the most visceral way, and Dad performed it as well as David Blaine had in his famous Harrison Ford YouTube video.
“Perfect,” Dad said. He fished the necessary item out of his kit and tossed it to me.
As Dad took the stage, I watched from the balcony, just as I had watched him from the wings since I was a little girl. I’d been six when we relocated from Las Vegas to Indiana—and at the time, I thought we’d had to move because Mom died. Years later, I discovered the truth.
Dad had been grinding out a living at a small casino when he was offered the opportunity of a lifetime: a guest spot on Late Night with Craig Rogan. If it went well, he could finally move into a big theater on the Strip and see his name glowing alongside the greats’: Lance Burton, Flynn & Kellar, Daniel Devereaux. He spent a month designing a brand-new illusion—but on the night of the live taping, it went horribly wrong.
My memories of the incident were like fragments of a bad dream. Probably I had manufactured them, cobbled them together from YouTube videos and overheard conversations. But they seemed real to me. Looking down at Dad onstage now, I wondered if he was wearing the same black tie he’d worn that night.
The lights came up, and the wedding guests began to applaud. I remembered the faint smell of burning dust in Craig Rogan’s studio, the heat of the overhead lights. I tried to repel the memories of that night, but they pushed against my mind relentlessly, like a song, until I closed my eyes and let them come.
I’m holding my mother’s hand as the curtain ascends. When the lights come up on my father, standing center stage, she kisses my cheek, lets go of my hand, and crosses to him. As she turns to acknowledge the audience, her smile is luminous in the glare of the lights. She selects a volunteer, who binds Dad’s wrists and ankles—and then a second curtain goes up, revealing an old red Chevy pickup truck and an enormous Plexiglas tank filled with water. My mother helps Dad into the truck, and a winch hauls it toward the rafters.
The hush of the crowd, the gleam of chrome—and the splash as the truck hits the surface and sinks until the water is over his head.
Laughter from below jarred me back into the moment. Dad was finishing his new opening bit: dropping a red toy truck into a half-filled fish tank. The audience responded with a bout of laughter; it had worked.
When our gigs had begun to dry up, we’d had to do something to address Dad’s reputation problem. To point out the elephant in the room right at the top so everyone could move on and enjoy the show. But Dad was proud, and it had taken me a long time to persuade him to try the Toy Truck Drop. When he finally relented, it worked perfectly. Audiences laughed, relieved by his self-deprecating humor. They trusted him again, and he was able to perform with his old vigor and panache. For a year or so, the bookings picked up. But then they began to evaporate again, until we had only one gig on the calendar. This one.
I watched Dad step off the stage and circulate among the attendees, picking cards and finding coins to their delight. Most of the guests were older, probably friends of Princess Becca’s parents. The bride herself sat at a high table next to her pasty, corn-fed husband, smiling for pictures and picking at her salad. Overhead, the clouds threatened to break open, but luckily for her, they hadn’t yet.
I spotted Liam near the stage, holding court with a pair of girls. I recognized the pretty blonde; she’d been one of the baseball groupies at Eastside. She took his arm and started to lead him into the house, but then he glanced up to where I stood on the balcony.
Reflexively, I shrank away from the railing—but I was pretty sure he’d caught me watching him. God, I was embarrassing. What was I doing? Liam had been nice enough to me during Damn Yankees rehearsals, but once the show was over, he’d ignored me completely. Besides, that had been a year ago. It was ancient history now.
Liam and his girls had looked like they were making plans to escape the reception. I envied them; I had never had a group of friends, or any hope of escape. I had precisely one friend, who I knew only by his avatar and his voice.
I pulled out my phone and found the Millers’ Wi-Fi, thinking I should call Ripley as promised—but the network was password protected. So I sent a text instead.
Me: No Wi-Fi. :( Can you text?
I stared at the screen for two solid minutes, but Ripley didn’t reply. I imagined him lying back on his bed, texting with someone else instead, some new IRL bestie at his IRL high school who not only could afford reliable internet but could actually be present in his life. I pictured her as a pretty girl, taller and more elegant than me. His very own Princess Becca. It was a ridiculous thought—Ripley wasn’t like that—but the idea ricocheted around in my head anyway.
Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh . . .
The chorus of “Umbrella” had resumed its loop. For the umpteenth time, I wondered: Why that song in particular? I’d been a toddler when it came out, and as far as I could remember, it didn’t have any special meaning for me. Yet somehow it had burrowed itself into my brain like a Lyme-disease tick.
I was about to head back to the RV when I heard the sliding glass door open behind me. I turned. It was Liam.
He paused in the doorway, one hand in his front pocket, looking like a model from the J.Crew catalog.
“Mind if I join you?”
I pressed my lips together. Was he serious with that pose?
“It’s your house,” I said.
He closed the door behind him and crossed to the railing, leaving a respectful distance between us.
“It’s my father’s house, actually. He reminds me all the time.”
“Probably beats living in an RV, though.” Shut up, Ellie. Shut up.
Liam raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. You kind of live like a rock star.”
“More like a senior citizen.”
He laughed. It was a soft, deep sound, and it caused an unfamiliar warm sensation in my midsection.
“You look different,” he said. “Your hair is longer.”
“Yeah, that happens.”
“Still a smart-ass, though.” He laughed.
The truth was I couldn’t afford to get it cut, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
Liam turned to face me, leaning his elbow against the railing. “It’s good to see you again, Ellie.”
I bristled when he used my name; it was such a bro technique. Use their name, make them feel special.
I turned away. “Your house is huge.”
“Like I said, it’s my father’s. Well, technically, it belongs to his trucking company. It’s a tax thing.” He was quiet for a moment as he looked down at the wedding below. “He still treats her like she’s five years old. Hence the backyard wedding in October.” He gestured at the tents. “For favors, we’re handing out umbrellas.”
Great. Just when I’d almost gotten the song out of my head.
Liam leaned forward, about to say something else. Please, not my name.
He seemed to change his mind before saying, “Could I interest you in some vodka?”
I bit my lip. “Actually, do you have any food?”
Liam offered to take me out back for leftover canapés, but I didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone else from Eastside. So while Dad set up for his finale, I sat on Liam Miller’s front steps in the cool autumn evening, drinking apricot punch spiked with Smirnoff and eating the best goddamned peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d ever tasted.
I hated PB&Js, probably because I’d lived on Wonder Bread and Jif for so long. But the sandwich Liam made me was of an entirely different para
digm. The bread was some kind of artisan multigrain ambrosia. The peanut butter was organic and had to be stirred. He just sat there while I ate, and I started to feel self-conscious. I must have looked like a starving orphan.
“You don’t have to babysit me. Go be with your girlfriend.”
Liam leaned back on the top step. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s the maid of honor’s little sister, and she’s obnoxious.”
“Oh. Okay.” I was an idiot. I stuffed the last bite into my mouth.
Liam tugged at the zipper on his jacket. “Have I done something to piss you off?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just . . . you’ve been kind of cold to me since I answered the door.”
I brushed bread crumbs from my lap. Did he really not know? Or was he just trying to pretend nothing had happened?
Finally, I said, “You basically ignored me at Eastside. Why should I be nice to you?”
His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Once the play was over, you barely said hi to me.”
“I said hi to you in the halls.”
“Once. When you were alone. When you were with your friends, you didn’t even look at me.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. “I don’t remember it like that.”
“I do.” I held his gaze for a few seconds, and then he looked away, frowning as if reliving something unpleasant.
“Wow,” he said. “Okay. Yeah. Maybe I was kind of an ass.”
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Was he being sincere?
I shrugged. “It is what it is. I was a theater nerd, and you were one of those guys on the baseball team.”
“A dumb jock, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.” I didn’t want to argue, but he pressed the point. “I was the dumb jock, and you were the misunderstood girl. Like Laura and the Gentleman Caller.”
Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.
“What?” Liam folded his arms. “Jocks can’t like Tennessee Williams?”
I started to respond, but he cut me off.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s kind of refreshing to be underestimated for a change.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone expects me to be perfect. My parents, my coach.” His eyes drifted toward the woods across the road. “And then when I fuck up, I have to deal with their disappointment. It’s kind of exhausting.”
I gave him a searching look. I didn’t know what I had expected when Liam Miller opened the door, but it wasn’t this.
He blew out a breath. “I’m sorry I was a dick to you in high school.” He clasped his hands together and looked away; his discomfort seemed genuine. I didn’t know how to react.
“Does this usually work?” I asked.
“Does what usually work?”
“Isolate the high school girl. Give her vodka.”
He smiled. “Usually the peanut butter closes the deal. I must be losing my touch.”
He expected me to laugh, but I didn’t.
“I’m not like that,” I said.
He looked right at me. “I know.”
My face suddenly went hot. For a long time, I said nothing; we just looked at each other. The pause stretched until it became an uncomfortable silence. Literal crickets chirped. I felt a strange certainty that he was either going to get up and walk away or else lean in and kiss me. The air between us was delicate. Electric. I wanted more punch. I wanted to leave.
I could only keep his gaze for a few more moments, and then I turned away. “Why did you come find me?”
“You were on my balcony.”
He was right, and I was making a total ass of myself.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “I did come to find you. I just . . . I don’t know. It’s been a long time. I wanted to talk to you.”
I felt that not-unpleasant warmth in my midsection again. “So talk.”
He seemed about to say something, but my ringtone cut him off. I checked my phone: it was the same unfamiliar Las Vegas number. I forgot my embarrassment at once; this could be the gig we needed.
“I have to take this.” I stood, walked up the steps to the Millers’ porch, and accepted the call.
“Hello?” I said, leaning against one of the Victorian columns.
On the other end, a woman’s voice said, “Is this the number for Elias Dante? The Uncanny Dante?”
“Yes, it is. How can I help you?”
“My name is Grace Wu. I’m calling on behalf of F—”
The phone beeped in my ear, cutting off the caller—and then a robot voice informed me I had less than a minute of prepaid time left.
“I lost you for a second,” I said, panic rising in my throat. We needed this gig, whatever it was. “Could you say that again?”
“My name is Grace Wu,” the woman repeated. “I’m calling on behalf of Flynn Bissette.”
The name hit me like a slap. Flynn Bissette? As in Flynn & Kellar, the most successful duo in the history of magic?
“Hello?” the woman said. There was something overenthusiastic, maybe even insincere about her voice.
“Did you say you’re calling on behalf of Flynn Bissette?”
“Yes!”
Irritation tightened my jaw. This was just one more in a long series of prank calls. They got our number off our Facebook page and thought they’d have fun taunting a has-been.
“It’s Grace, right?” I said, unable to keep the contempt out of my voice.
“That’s right. Grace Wu.”
“Okay, Grace. What can I do for literally one of the most famous magicians ever?”
“Grace” was undeterred by my sarcasm. “Mr. Bissette is shooting a live magic special at the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood. He’d like Mr. Dante to—”
“Fuck off.” I was surprised at the rage suddenly heating my face.
“Excuse me?” the woman said.
I was about to launch into a tirade, but the robot voice broke in once more and told me I was out of time.
CHAPTER 3
I POCKETED MY PHONE AND leaned against the column.
“What was that about?” Liam asked.
I looked away. “Can I use your bathroom?”
I sat on the toilet lid, one hand pressed against the wall, the other on my chest. My heart was pounding—which felt wrong, because depression was rolling toward me like a summer storm. Usually, that slowed everything down. But so much had happened in the last five minutes, thoughts were pinging around my skull like ricocheting bullets.
The prank call had been the trigger, but it was more than that. I was out of cell minutes, cut off from Ripley, cut off from clients—I couldn’t even take my fucking US History test. We were almost broke, and we’d just stolen three hundred dollars’ worth of diesel. This was our last gig on the books. We were running out of options.
Applause drifted in through the bathroom window; the show was over. I splashed some water on my face and headed upstairs to pack up. I didn’t see Liam as we were loading the trailer, and I found that I was disappointed. Which was probably stupid: A year ago, he’d fooled me into thinking he liked me. Probably, he’d just done it again.
But as I stepped into the RV, he called my name.
“Ellie!”
I paused in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” Liam said, stopping at the bottom of the retractable steps. “Can I get a do-over?”
I cocked my head. “What are we, in third grade?”
The Millers’ front door opened, and the blonde who had pulled Liam inside earlier came stumbling down the front steps with her tall friend.
“Liiaaamm,” she called.
He ignored her and held my gaze. “I’m heading back to school in a couple days. But I thought, if you’re not busy tomorrow night . . .”
I tried to look casual as I steadied myself against th
e door frame to counteract the dizziness that had suddenly come on. I’d been hit on a thousand times; I’d been asked out on a date precisely never.
“Are you asking me out?”
Cue the impossible dimple. “Yes, Ellie, I’m asking you out.”
He kept saying my name—and I found that I didn’t hate it.
“I don’t really date,” I said. “I’m never around.”
“Are you around tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth.
“Well, why don’t you give me your phone number, and I can call you?”
I searched his face, trying to detect whether he was making fun of me, but my judgment was scrambled. I decided to play it safe.
“Your dad booked us,” I said. “You can get the number from him.”
Liam stood there with a stunned expression on his face—he was used to girls falling all over themselves for his attention. Case in point: the blond girl who was now slinking toward us, whispering and laughing with her friend. She was so pretty—professional tan, salon manicure, and an outfit worth more than my whole closet. How could I compete with that?
The two of them pulled Liam away. As they neared the girl’s car, he looked back over his shoulder and gave me a quizzical look.
I turned and boarded the bus.
As the door closed, Dad looked over at me from the driver’s seat.
“Say nothing,” I warned. “Say absolutely nothing.”
Dad mimed zipping his lips, then started the motor.
We pulled away, and I watched Liam Miller get smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror.
It started raining as soon as we pulled onto the highway, fat, angry drops striking the windshield like suicidal wasps. I imagined Liam rushing around the Millers’ backyard, rescuing centerpieces or carrying that cute blonde over a patch of mud. I closed my eyes and tried to picture anything else. The quickening that had struck me after my encounters with Liam and the prank caller slipped away fast, leaving my nerves raw and buzzing. Sometimes this happened after I performed; I felt as if I were standing at the top of a steep slope, waiting for something to run up from behind and push me over the edge. But tonight, I hadn’t set foot onstage.
We got back to the glorious Cedarwood Mobile Estates just after ten p.m. I was looking forward to connecting to the Wi-Fi, cranking out my history exam, then hooking up the propane for a hot shower—but when Dad got out to enter his code at the entrance gate, something went wrong. I could see him through the rain-streaked driver’s-side window, bent over the security keypad, coat stretched over his head in lieu of an umbrella. Ella. Ella. I moved over to his seat and cracked the window.
