to leave my people alone. Dougie?”
The stage manager hurried down the aisle and handed out forms and pens to Higgins, Dad, and me. When we’d signed them and passed them back, Devereaux gestured to Rico.
Rico stood up and gestured for Higgins to follow. To my surprise, he led him backstage.
Devereaux took a seat next to Dad in the sixth row and motioned for me to join them. He looked over at me, smiled.
“This’ll be fun.”
The trick worked like this: I didn’t know. What I had seen Devereaux do tonight defied every method I could think of. And even though Higgins was strapped or hooked or clipped into whatever it was, I don’t think he knew, either. What I did know was that I was sitting between the Uncanny Dante and Daniel Motherfucking Devereaux when Jif Higgins rose ten feet into the air, squealing like a twelve-year-old at a Shawn Mendes concert. As the sweeping orchestral soundtrack blared through the speakers, Higgins soared around the stage like an awkward neophyte superhero, cackling and whooping with unironic glee.
Devereaux watched him, his eyes shining with boyish delight. He caught me staring, but I couldn’t look away.
He leaned toward me and said, “That bottle production was elegant. You ought to be performing.”
I could still feel my pulse pounding in my neck. I shook my head. And then I said something—I don’t know why I said it—something I’d only admitted to three people in the world.
I looked at Daniel Devereaux and said, “I can’t handle the pressure. I’m bipolar.”
Devereaux cocked his head, then reached out his hand. Confused, I shook it, and he said, “Welcome to the club.”
I felt my mouth drop open. “The club? You mean . . .”
“I prefer to say I have bipolar. It’s a diagnosis. Not an identity.”
I couldn’t seem to close my mouth.
“Don’t let it stop you,” he said. Then he sat back and watched Higgins fly.
“DID YOU SEE THAT?” Higgins said, literally jumping up and down. “I was fucking FLYING!”
The four of us—Higgins, Dad, Rico, and I—were standing in the parking lot behind the warehouse.
“Dude,” Rico said to Higgins, “will you please shut up?” He looked at Dad. “Please shut him up.”
“Yes, of course,” Dad said. “Ellie, we’ll meet you at the truck.” Dad took Higgins by the elbow, who let himself be led away, still flapping his hands like a spastic bat.
When they had rounded the corner, Rico turned to glare at me. “You could have gotten me fired.”
“I know,” I said.
“I might still get fired.”
“You think he’s that pissed?”
Rico let out an exasperated breath. “The truth is, he’s been trying to get Higgins off his back for years. This might have done it.”
“You don’t think Higgins will talk?”
Rico laughed. “Daniel may seem like a pussycat, but his lawyers are brutal.” His smile faded. “Your close-up has gotten really good. Forget assistant stuff—you should be onstage.”
Inside, I was beaming, but I shook my head. “I’m not cut out for it.”
He shrugged. “Well, I think you’re crazy.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Rico gave me a quizzical smile. “In any case, I think you persuaded Higgins. What’s next?”
“We go to LA,” I said. “It’s up to Dad now.”
Before the words were even out of my mouth, I felt myself slowing down, as if someone had shot me with a tranquilizer dart. The high of performing was draining away, and the weight of what we had to do next settled on me like that lead X-ray vest. I could no longer feel my pulse throbbing in my throat. My nerves had ceased to buzz. The world began to dim as if I were seeing it through a tinted window.
No, no, no. It was happening too fast. I needed another day. I needed another week.
Rico glanced over his shoulder. “I’d better get back in there.”
“Yeah.”
“Take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will,” I said.
But I wasn’t sure I could.
By the time I got to the truck, Rodney was behind the wheel. I climbed in next to Dad.
“Change of plans?” Rodney said.
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice once again reverting to that flat, robotic tone. “Can you drop us off on Fremont? We’re staying at the Uptowner.”
“The hell you are,” Higgins said.
I raised my eyebrows.
“I have like nine bedrooms.”
Higgins rode shotgun, gushing the whole way about how amazing Devereaux was, and how he had been flying, really flying. I stared out the window, turning away from the lights of Vegas and the false hope they transmitted. Now that the grift was over, I felt empty. Numb. I knew we’d