felt love and confidence—but that way was blocked. I returned his smile anyway and hoped he was too excited to notice the cracks.
“Now,” Dad said, rubbing his hand together. “Have you practiced getting tied? You’ve really got to tense up to create that gap, or—”
“Dad. I’m freaked out enough as it is. Please don’t coach me right now.”
He opened his mouth to do just that, then shut it and nodded. “Of course. You don’t need it; you’ll be amazing.”
He contained himself for about ninety seconds before launching into a tirade of advice.
I smiled and let him.
Anything can trigger a cycle: a close call on the highway, a text from the wrong person, the adrenaline rush of a performance. There’s no logic to it; good news can prompt a downswing, and stress is just as likely to set off a hypomanic episode. Sometimes the effects are fatal; someone jumps out of a window, thinking they can fly. Other times they’re spectacular, like a standing ovation.
Sometimes the timing is catastrophic. And sometimes it’s perfect.
I sat down and faced the mirror. The sequins of my green bodysuit sparkled, reminding me of Tinker Bell in flight, but from the neck up, I looked like hell. I plucked a brush from my toolbox and started applying concealer to the matched set of purple luggage under my eyes. An image popped into my mind of actual snakeskin suitcases clinging to my lower lids. A goofy smile played across my face, and I let out a giggle. By the time I was putting final touches on my eyebrows, the giggles had escalated. I tilted my head back and blinked rapidly, trying to prevent my mascara from running; I hadn’t been able to afford the waterproof kind for months. Then I remembered that an hour from now I would be literally submerged in water, rendering all this careful preening totally worthless. This struck me as hilarious, and I began to cackle outright.
In two minutes, the curtain was going up on the show of my life, and I was ascending rapidly into full-blown hypomania.
I paced the dressing room, taking deep breaths; if I didn’t get a grip, I would be out of control by the time I hit the stage. But if I could keep the energy bottled up, I could use it in my performance. Eventually, I was able to bring the laughter back down to a giggle.
I had some time to kill—I was performing in the second-to-last slot—so I turned on the TV in the corner of my dressing room and hopped up on the makeup counter to watch. On-screen, a housewife in a pastel cardigan frolicked in a field of dandelions while a soothing voice detailed the horrific side effects of whatever medication was being advertised. The image faded to black, and the next shot looked down from high above a packed auditorium.
“Live from the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood, California—it’s Flynn & Kellar’s Live Magic Retrospective!” The audience applauded, and the announcer started naming off acts, some of them old burnouts like my dad, others more contemporary. “Featuring performances by . . . Chris Gongora! Cynthia Sixx! Dane Madigan!” The crowd applauded for each name. “Tommy Takai! And introducing Elias Dante Jr.!”
At the sound of my name, a flight of butterflies did a collective somersault in my stomach. I remembered that night in Mishawaka, lying inside the trunk, listening to Dad’s footsteps on the plywood stage. The sound of the latch popping. The smell of spilled whiskey and cheap cigarettes. The bright lights blinding me as the lid swung open. The cheers of fifty drunken Hoosiers as I rose up with my arms raised in a V.
The dressing room around me seemed to brighten and resolve, as if my vision had been buffering but was finally going high-def.
Tommy Takai opened the show, producing no fewer than fifty doves as the William Tell overture pounded through the TV speakers. The audience seemed unimpressed, but I loved it—the guy was flawless. Next, Cynthia Sixx trotted out her old 1980s pyro schtick. I knew she had been a trailblazer for women in magic, but her act looked like something from a Def Leppard video, and I could barely stand to watch. Dane Madigan, on the other hand, was hilarious and brilliant—and when he pulled his volunteer’s iPhone out of a glass bowl of lime Jell-O, I laughed out loud. It was the best take on Card to Fruit I’d ever seen.
I couldn’t watch Chris Gongora. I’d seen him once,