This Might Hurt(20)

Show after show, I kept working at the basics. I was impatient to move on to more difficult executions but had vowed not to do so until I perfected the routine I’d already put together. I’d worked that rope until my palms bled. Blisters bloomed on the fingers that wielded my wand. Most nights I hardly remembered my head hitting the pillow when I got into bed. I didn’t concern myself with boyfriends or best friends. I was singular in focus, and my hard work was paying dividends. Onstage I was growing more confident. This was the best crowd response I’d ever had.

I was about to transition to my favorite part of the show when a low “boo” rumbled at the back of the theater. My stomach turned. I squinted. A few spectators peered around, trying to find the source of the noise. The four faces I’d been searching for slowly came into view in the back row. They’d been hiding low in their seats the entire time, waiting for an opportune moment. Normally they sat in front. My heart sank.

Not tonight. Not while Sir is here.

Perhaps he wouldn’t hear them. He was slightly deaf in his left ear.

I returned the microphone to its stand and held up a pair of complicated-looking handcuffs, the same pair Sir had bought me the day after the incident with Mother’s platter. “For my next trick, I’ll need an assistant. Any volunteers?”

Hands shot up in the crowd.

“Why don’t you make yourself disappear?” one of the four called. I knew it was Alan, my old swim classmate, by his nasal voice.

I wiped my forehead and scanned the crowd. Behind my parents was a family with two boys. The older one was spellbound, had honey eyes and a crooked nose. He looked like the type to sit at home reading books about Houdini, memorizing every performance, every clue, like I had. Like I still did. I called him up while wondering whether crowds had booed Houdini in his early days. The books never said.

Houdini’s first taste of success came from handcuff escapes. In one of his earliest acts, he boasted he could break free from any handcuffs the audience or local police supplied. He made good on his word. From there he transitioned to jail getaways, then leaping off bridges, then locking himself in boxes underwater. At fifteen, I had no idea how I would even buy the provisions necessary to attempt his later feats. How would I get inside a jail? Did one need permission to jump off a bridge? These tasks were impossibly gargantuan to someone who had never traveled more than two hours from her hometown. A lack of other options forced me to take my performances one step at a time. As a child I’d taught myself card tricks, like Houdini had. If simple handcuff escapes accelerated Houdini’s career, then I would master them too.

The spellbound boy joined me onstage. “What’s your name?”

“Gabriel.”

I thought of the magician who had chosen me all those years ago. “Did your family drive far to be here, Gabriel?”

He stared at his mom, fear plain on his face. She nodded encouragingly. He opened his mouth. “W- . . . w-we’re from Aldsville.”

Aldsville was a couple of towns over. I winked at Gabriel’s parents. Gabriel’s little brother was on the literal edge of his seat, eyes shining. “Thank you for coming to see me today.” I turned back to Gabriel. “How would you like to be my assistant for this next trick?”

He nodded eagerly, alarm subsiding.

I held my handcuffs in the air. I’d been practicing with this pair for almost five years, knew every scratch and dent in the metal. Escape had become second nature.

I handed Gabriel the handcuffs. He locked them around my wrists, then showed the audience the key so they could see it was he, not I, who held it. The drama club students had been quiet while Gabriel introduced himself and assisted me but were jeering loudly enough now that even my father would hear them.

“Let’s see you conjure some friends,” Alan said.

Sir’s lips tightened, but his eyes remained on the stage. The rest of the crowd stole continual glances over their shoulders. Some of them chuckled uncertainly, hoping this was part of my act. Some grimaced at my classmates. One woman shushed them. Most of the audience was confused, their attention split between my performance and the teenagers in the back row, who were whispering and poking one another when they weren’t mocking me. My face burned.

Onstage Gabriel watched me, the only person in the auditorium paying no mind to the bullies. The handcuffs rattled, drawing attention to my shaking hands. I fumbled as I worked the lock. The audience stared. Surely they could tell I was struggling, that I wasn’t faking it for dramatic effect. Mistakes were not part of my act.

Over the past month, I had attempted every solution I could think of to stop the drama club students. First, I appealed to them privately. Then I demanded mid-act that they cut it out, my voice booming over the microphone. Next I involved a teacher, who stood guard for a couple of performances but was spread too thin to come to every show. Without fail, my peers kept heckling me. They weren’t concerned about detention. Ms. Kravitz usually fought their battles anyway. Finally I had settled on ignoring them. This made the catcalling stop the quickest, although nothing about these thrice-weekly humiliations was fast.

“No one likes you,” Alan said.

I blundered my way through the handcuff trick, unable to escape. Normally this took me half the time it had already taken. The crowd’s eyes crawled over my body. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Sweat spread like a mustache across my upper lip. My breathing was too loud, throat parched. Could the rest of them hear my telltale heart?