Dad scrubbed a finger across his mustache, then let his hands drop into his lap. “I don’t think any of us gets to choose what we are. For better or for worse.” He looked at me. “But if you don’t want to do magic, I won’t force you to.”
I stared out the small window over the booth. The sun was just going down, and the roadhouse’s big neon sign flickered to life, its red and blue piping reflecting off the hoods of the pickup trucks like an electric flag.
Dad got to his feet. “I’ll go explain things to Caroline. Call it off. Don’t worry, we’ll find another—”
“No,” I said. “No. I’ll do it.”
As soon as the words were out, I’d known I was going to say them all along. I was already headed for a crash—there was no preventing it now—and that stage was calling to me. I wanted to do it. I needed to feel alive.
He turned to me, his eyes cautious but sparkling. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful, Ellie.”
“But this . . .” I licked my lips, already feeling my heart rate start to climb in anticipation of the performance. And of the descent that would follow. The rest of the sentence came out almost a whisper. “This is the last time, okay?”
His smile dimmed slightly, but he nodded. “Deal.”
The disappointment on his face pushed the cold blade in deeper, but I ignored the pain and stood.
“We’d better get to work.”
The windows darkened, and the lights in the parking lot flickered on. Dad and I spent the hour after dusk reworking the set list, adding more close-up bits to leverage my talents.
When it came to performing, my gift was legerdemain. Sleight of hand. Anyone could be the girl in the box, but when you could vanish an object right in front of someone’s eyes? That was real magic. Dad was good with coins and cards, too—but I was better. It’s what made me a good thief when I had to be.
As I practiced, visualizing the audience’s reactions, I felt my heart rate climb even further. My vision grew sharp around the edges. Dad was right. Performing did light me up, just a little too brightly. I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths. The higher I got during the performance, the farther I had to fall.
With an hour left till curtain, I retreated into my room to get ready. I closed the cracked accordion partition, sat down on my bed, and faced the small mirror Dad had mounted on the opposite wall.
The thing I hated most about my appearance was my nose. It was long and masculine and belonged on the face of a French waiter. Apart from that, I resembled old photos of my mother: high cheekbones, mahogany eyes, almost-black hair. Suddenly, I couldn’t stand to see her face in my mirror. I opened the cheap plastic toolbox I used for a makeup kit and went to work, eyebrows first, then eyes, then lips. I brushed my hair out long, smoothed it out with baby oil, and let it hang free, a dark brown curtain.
I took a last look in the mirror, and then it was showtime.
CHAPTER 9
I COULD HEAR THE AUDIENCE laughing from where I lay folded inside the trunk. Dad had finished his opening bit, dropping the toy truck into the fish tank. And by the sounds the audience was making, it had worked; they were on his side now.
The lights came up, their red glare shining through the seams in the trunk. My pulse accelerated. Sparks seemed to pop inside the darkness of the box. My mind’s eye pulled back like a camera, and I visualized the show as if watching it from high above the stage.
Music blares through the speakers—Ella Fitzgerald’s “That Old Black Magic.” Dad moves downstage and snatches a playing card out of thin air, then another. He squares up the pair, then fans them out, revealing a dozen. The audience applauds. With the strike of a match he sets the fanned-out cards ablaze, then smashes his hands together. When he separates them again, he’s suddenly holding an oversized deck—custom Rider Backs twelve inches high. The applause swells, then fades, and his patter begins.
Dad’s stage baritone rumbled through the subwoofer, and I felt its vibration against my rib cage. It brought me back to myself.
Dad selected a volunteer, and the audience laughed as a pair of what sounded like work boots tromped up the stairs