The Magic Misfits

by Neil Patrick Harris

  As Carter approached, he nervously slicked his blond mop of hair to the side, pinched his pale cheeks, and opened his blue eyes wide. The couple seemed happy to stop for him. First, Carter presented a deck of cards and asked the woman to choose one and keep it hidden between her two hands, making sure not to show him.

  “Now, hold on to it tight,” he said, “while I guess which card you picked.… Is it the queen of diamonds?”

  “It is! It is!” the woman gasped. But when she opened her hands to look, she yelped, “The card is gone!”

  “Is it?” Carter asked, holding it up in his own hand.

  “How did you do that?” the man asked.

  “With magic, of course,” Carter said, though the words were just words. Carter didn’t believe in real magic, but he knew a thing or two about making people pay attention to one thing while he distracted them from something else. Growing bolder, he added, “Now, would you mind giving me back the card you’ve taken, sir?”

  “I didn’t take a card,” the man said.

  “Then what is that in your pocket?”

  The man reached into his breast pocket, and sure enough, the king of diamonds was inside.

  The couple laughed. With a flick of his wrist, Carter produced a bouquet of colorful paper flowers. He presented it to the woman, then took a bow, just like Uncle Sly had taught him. The couple clapped and clapped and clapped.

  The lady kissed Carter on his cheek. The man gave him a nickel. Carter’s proud uncle shook both their hands before hustling Carter away.

  Carter beamed like the sun. He had brought joy to the young couple. In earning their smiles, he recalled his own two parents and their laughter. He didn’t care that there was no party. It was still a very good birthday.…

  At least until later, when Carter realized his uncle had stolen the man’s wristwatch and the woman’s wedding ring. Uncle Sly had used him. Carter knew too many stories in which villains stole from innocent people. These stories always made him feel as if someone had stolen his parents from him.

  What was left of that earlier, good feeling squeezed out of him like a balloon with a leak in it.

  Uncle Sly was not an ideal guardian by any stretch of the imagination. Quite the opposite. You already know that he was a thief, but you should also understand that he was a con artist—someone who cheats others by getting them to believe something that isn’t true.

  Carter’s uncle enjoyed “short cons.” This means he didn’t go in for long-term scams that took days or weeks to pull off. He did it as quickly as possible, robbing money or valuables off people in the blink of an eye. By the time they realized they’d been robbed, Uncle Sly was gone.

  This was the reason why Carter never had a home. He’d never had friends or his own bedroom. He’d never gone to school or had a place that made him feel safe. He and his uncle slept in shelters on good days and in dark alleys on bad ones, constantly moving from town to town to town. After all, when you’re in the habit of making other people’s things vanish, it’s best that you know how to vanish too.

  Sometimes Uncle Sly even disappeared for days at a time, leaving Carter behind. Carter wouldn’t know where his uncle had gone, if he was hurt or in trouble, or if he’d ever see him again. Yet Uncle Sly would always come back without a word of explanation. Carter knew better than to ask where he’d been, especially with the cruel and angry glint in Uncle Sly’s eye, along with the scrapes and bruises that told their own story.

  Left alone, Carter would practice his tricks, or find the closest library. He loved to lose himself in books about ideas like hope and strength and wonder, but also about things like train engineers, gymnastics, and pie recipes. Over time, he became good at fending for himself. He also became an expert cartwheeler and dreamer of sugary treats.

  As the years went by, Carter’s patience began to wear down. His uncle was a crook—Carter knew that. Yet he kept hoping that Sly would suddenly pick a town, get a job, and settle down. Perhaps it was a slim hope, maybe even an impossible hope, but hope was one of the few things Carter had in his possession. At least until a particularly brisk spring night…

  “See that man over there?” Uncle Sly whispered to Carter. “I want you to go over and nick his watch.” The word nick, while usually a man’s name, can also mean steal.

  “How many times have I told you?” Carter said. “I don’t steal.” He’d come up with this rule years ago when he’d figured out what his uncle really did. He promised himself that he’d never be like his uncle. No matter what. It had been Carter’s code ever since.

  “You little—” Uncle Sly growled as he grabbed Carter roughly by his shirt. A cop appeared, walking down the street, twirling his baton. Uncle Sly put on a bright smile and hugged Carter close, like a valued son. “—ball of sunshine! Oh, good evening, Officer.”

  The officer nodded and kept walking.

  When the cop was out of sight, Uncle Sly took Carter by the collar and snarled, “Fine. Then keep a lookout while I work.”

  Carter’s uncle’s idea of work wasn’t typical. He didn’t invent the Hula-hoop or operate heavy machinery. He didn’t grow rhubarb on a farm or train zoo snakes to not bite children. Uncle Sly’s idea of work was a con artist’s version of work: stealing from others.

  Carter’s fingers rubbed over the rectangular shape in the side of his leather satchel. All that he owned fit into this bag. It contained a deck of playing cards, three cups, three coins (one of which had a deep scratch down its face), some marbles, an extra pair of socks, a rope, his newsboy cap, and a small wooden box with the initials LWL on it. The box appeared to be sealed shut with no way to open it, but Carter didn’t care. It was the only thing he had left of his parents.

  “I’d rather just go back to the halfway home,” Carter whispered to Uncle Sly. “My stomach doesn’t feel good.”

  “It’s called a halfway house,” Uncle Sly snapped. “I won’t have you acting all sentimental-like. That kind of thinking can be dangerous for folks like us. Now, pull up your britches and get ready to help me out, would ya?”

  Carter swallowed a groan as Uncle Sly searched the street for a victim. Minutes later, the cop reappeared, strolling slowly, looking inside shopwindows. Carter whistled, a signal telling his uncle to stop whatever criminal act he was doing. As the officer moved around the corner, Carter looked left and right for any others on patrol. When the coast was clear, he gave Uncle Sly a nod.

  Uncle Sly ducked into the mouth of an alleyway and spoke to strangers who were passing by. “Hey, check this out—see how easy it is to win? Step right up, I have an easy enough game for you. Double your money in a single minute. It’s as easy as one-two-three!” The strangers must have liked hearing the word easy so many times, because they stopped at Uncle Sly’s folding table.

  Carter preferred Uncle Sly while he worked. When his uncle ran a racket—not a racket for playing tennis, mind you, but another way of saying tricking someone—he shone as brightly as a million-watt lightbulb. He became funny and charming and quick as electricity. His smile made old women blush, angry men applaud, and crabby babies ready to hand over all their lollipops.

  When Carter’s uncle wasn’t working, his eyes went cold and dark. Being around him then was like walking around in a pitch-black room full of hard edges. Take a wrong step and you would stub your toe so badly it’d make you cry. Carter tiptoed a lot.

  “Step right up, ladies and gents,” Uncle Sly called from the alley. “I’ve got a game that’ll knock your socks off!”

  “If he doesn’t steal your socks first,” Carter grumbled to himself. As his uncle worked, the sun began to set and an unexpected chill crept over Carter. Though it was almost summer and the trees in a nearby park displayed green and glorious foliage, clouds blocked the sun, and Carter shivered. He would have pulled a scarf or a jacket out of his bag, but sadly, he didn’t own either.

  Since he had to keep watch anyway, Carter studied his uncle’s hand movements. Uncle Sly had fast hands (though C
arter knew his own were faster), and his preferred method of conning people out of their money was something called the shell game.

  It involved three nutshells turned upside down on a table. Uncle Sly would place a dried pea on the table before hiding it under one of the shells. Then he’d ask the game contestants to watch as he moved the shells about. When Uncle Sly stopped, the player guessed which shell held the pea.

  “That looks easy,” said another passerby. “I’ll give it a go.”

  “Most excellent, sir.” Uncle Sly placed the pea on the table, covered it with a shell, then placed the other two shells on either side. “Place your bet first. That’s right, set your dollar on the table. Now, keep your eyes on the shell with the pea.” He moved the shells around the table, mixing them up. The passerby’s eyes were locked on the shell he thought had the pea.

  “Okay, pick a shell, good sir,” Uncle Sly said to the passerby.

  “It’s this one,” he said. “I know it is. I didn’t take my eyes off it.”

  “Interesting choice.” Uncle Sly smiled. He held his breath before the reveal.

  Carter shook his head. The players were never right—not unless Uncle Sly wanted them to be. This was because he had the pea stashed behind the crook of his fingers. It was all sleight of hand—a magician skill that means using your hands quickly to move objects without anyone noticing. Carter knew sleight of hand to be a very useful skill for any magician. Most magicians would use it to pull a coin from an ear or plant a card in someone’s pocket—all to earn smiles. But his uncle didn’t use it to make people happy—he and other crooks would use sleight of hand to take things from them without their knowledge.

  As Uncle Sly pulled back the shell, there was no pea. “I’m sorry, sir. You lost. Would you like to try again?”

  “I never took my eyes off the shell,” the passerby growled.

  “I’m sorry, but it seems you did,” Uncle Sly said, flashing a smile at the man. But the charm wasn’t working.

  Maybe it was that this man reminded Carter of his father or maybe it was simply that he had finally seen his uncle dupe a victim one too many times, but Carter knew he’d be no better than Uncle Sly if he stood by and watched it happen again.

  So Carter came out from behind the corner where he’d been hiding. His uncle’s eyes grew wide as Carter strolled up to the table. “It’s a neat trick, isn’t it?” he asked the passerby.

  “What are you doing, boy?” Uncle Sly snarled, his jaw tightening, a vein popping out of his forehead.

  “Helping,” Carter whispered. Uncle Sly blinked as if his anger had made him go momentarily deaf.

  The passerby grabbed the other two shells and flipped them over. There was no pea. “You no-good, dirty cheat!” he shouted.

  Uncle Sly grabbed his money and the shells and dodged the man’s swinging fists. Then Uncle Sly turned and ran up the alley as fast as he could. Carter took off down the street in the opposite direction, his satchel bouncing against his side.

  Behind them, the man shouted, “Police! That man’s a thief! Someone get him!”

  This wasn’t the first time Carter had to outrun the law. But it was the part he hated most. He hadn’t done anything wrong—at least not to the passerby—yet if he were caught, he would still be guilty by association. So he ran.

  One day soon, he thought, I’m going to stop running. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. I’m going to stop running, settle down, and live somewhere safe.

  If he weren’t so out of breath, Carter could have laughed. No matter what he hoped, as long as he was with Uncle Sly, he’d never have what he wanted most in the world: a home.

  Carter walked the long way back to the halfway house where he and his uncle were staying. Looking over his shoulder, he passed through alleys, took weird turns, then backtracked, retracing his steps to see if the cops had followed. He felt nervous to face his uncle again.

  A harsh wind whooshed through his clothes and brushed at the satchel hanging from his shoulder. He found Uncle Sly sitting on the steps. When Uncle Sly noticed Carter approaching, he stood up and puffed out his chest like an angry ape. Carter flinched, expecting the worst. But to his surprise, his uncle said nothing, staring at him silently instead. This was scarier to Carter than whenever his uncle screamed at him—it was so unexpected. Uncle Sly turned away, letting the door almost slam in Carter’s face. Carter followed, closed the door gently, and took off his shoes. His uncle left a trail of muddy footprints in the hallway. Carter cleaned them up.

  “Cold night, isn’t it?” asked Ms. Zalewski in her thick Polish accent. The always-smiling old woman volunteered in the kitchen, feeding those that came through the shelter. She wore a dirty blue apron and a small, sparkly diamond on a chain around her neck.

  “You look hungry. Would you like me to make you dinner?” she asked.

  “No, I’m good,” Carter said. He wasn’t hungry, even though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “Rubbish,” she said. “A growing boy must always eat. Come, sit down. I’ll make you a grilled cheese and radish sandwich.”

  “Grilled cheese and radish sounds perfect,” Carter admitted.

  You see, Ms. Zalewski made a mean grilled cheese and radish. Mean is usually bad, but in this circumstance, it means extremely delicious. Carter sat at the table in Ms. Zalewski’s quiet kitchen, enjoying the warmest, meltiest, crunchiest, and meanest sandwich he’d ever tasted. The woman’s outrageous stories and her smile often warmed Carter with laughter, even after a horrible day out “working” with his uncle.

  It was rare that anyone ever greeted Carter with such kindness, and he’d grown fond of her. She made him wonder about his grandparents and what a life with them might have been like.

  “Would you like some prune juice, dearie? I mix it with this delicious orange powder when my pipes are clogged.”

  “I think my pipes are good.” Carter giggled. Uncle Sly would never have talked with him about his pipes, and if he had, he’d never have tolerated Carter giggling about them.

  Carter cleared Ms. Zalewski’s table and washed the dishes as she told him a tale about her childhood in Poland and Russia and then coming to America by boat. “The boat was filled with good people, and crooks too. This diamond I wear belonged to my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her. When I came over, I hid it in a matryoshka doll. You know, the Russian ones with a doll within a doll within a doll. This tiny diamond is all I have left to remind me of home.”

  “I used to have a home,” Carter whispered.

  “What’s that, dearie?”

  Carter shook his head and said nothing. He liked when Ms. Zalewski spoke of home. He didn’t care if Uncle Sly thought he was being sentimental. Carter often wondered what having a real home again might feel like. Certainly it would it be better than a new bed in a new town every other week.

  Uncle Sly stormed into the kitchen. He sat down and put on his famous fake smile for Ms. Zalewski. “Can I have some warm soup and a cup of coffee, sweetheart?”

  “Of course, dear,” Ms. Zalewski said, disappearing down into the cellar. “Let me go get some more coffee beans.”

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Uncle Sly leaned in to Carter and whispered, “Today was a mess, so I need you to step up. You’re gonna swipe the old broad’s diamond.”

  “I don’t steal,” Carter said. “And she’s not an old broad. She’s our friend. She’s been feeding us all week.”

  “We don’t have friends,” his uncle spat. “Haven’t I taught you anything?!”

  “Nothing good,” Carter whispered.

  “What was that?” Uncle Sly growled. He grabbed Carter’s arm, his nails digging in. But he quickly let go as Ms. Zalewski returned with a tin can. “Aww, thanks, sweetheart,” he said to her. “You’re the absolute tops.”

  Uncle Sly put on quite a show for people when he wanted something. His earnest-looking smiles and overstuffed compliments fooled most people. Carter could see through it.
Unfortunately, Ms. Zalewski ate it up, grinning as she brewed Sly’s coffee.

  It made Carter ill to think how easily his uncle tricked people. Like magic, smiles can warm a person’s heart—but they can also be used to hide something dark and frightening.

  Later that night, squeaking door hinges startled Carter out of sleep, and he woke on the cold wooden floor of their single room. Though it was still dark, he watched his uncle plop down beside him, admiring a small, sparkly diamond at the end of a thin chain necklace. Carter recognized it immediately. It belonged to Ms. Zalewski.

  Carter felt sick. A rage in his stomach grew until he could no longer contain it. Before he could stop himself, he was shouting, “Why did you take that? It’s one thing to trick people in shell games, but it’s another to steal something so important from someone who is nice to us. Ms. Zalewski doesn’t deserve this. She’s a good person. You don’t care about anyone but yourself!”

  Uncle Sly slipped the necklace into his pocket before flashing across the room and shoving Carter into the wall. “I raised you, took care of you, taught you everything I know, and this is how you repay me?” his uncle seethed through sour breath. “If you think you can do better on your own, go ahead. You think you’re such a good person now—just wait until your belly rumbles and you’re so hungry you can’t see. You’ll be stealing more than necklaces in no time.”

  “No, I won’t,” Carter shouted back. He pushed his uncle away, grabbed his satchel, and ran out of the room. He was halfway down the stairs before he opened his hand to see Ms. Zalewski’s diamond necklace. He had lifted it from his uncle’s pocket, the way his uncle had lifted it from Ms. Zalewski’s neck.

  Uncle Sly wasn’t the only one who was good at sleight of hand.

  When Carter ran into the kitchen, he found Ms. Zalewski awake and frantic. “Oh, Carter!” she said. “I think I lost my family diamond. It must have happened before I went to bed. Could you help me look?”