Mom threw us a part every July, midway between us. It wasn't his and it wasn't mine. July was ours to celebrate. There was the year we had an under-the-sea theme, with oceanic party favors to match. Another year we reused the ocean decoration for the pirate adventure birthday. The old wooden swing set was still in the backyard, so we used that for our fearsome ship, wasps and all. While the grown-up ate cake, us kids swung as high as we could and leaped off. It didn't have anything to do with cannonballs.
Another year I was enamored with Harry Houdini and the concept of performing magic. My brother got involved in card tricks, which -- silly me -- I thought wasn't real magic.
We pleaded for "real" magic equipment from our parents, mostly Mom because she was there. She saw how we lingered over the magic station at that year's PTA book fair. Sooner than we thought possible, we owned our very own, growing magic sets.
I wanted to know how every trick was done. I read every included manual, guidebook, and tip booklet detailing the theories, steps, and materials for every trick. I considered myself something of an expert. What I forgot to take into consideration was the steps between the steps, the unwritten words spoken to the audience as critical segues from part to part.
My brother fiddled around with both stacked decks and unmagical decks in his room. Silently, I laughed at him; what was so great about cards? Anyone could pull a card. I was trying to make objects appear and disappear altogether.
Our magical explorations had an influence over our household. We didn't have money for a performer at our one party of the year, but we already had the materials for our very own magic show. And we were going to be the stars.
I was excited that I would get the chance to show off my prodigious magical talents in front of my close family and neighbors. This was only the beginning of many more shows, I thought. I would thrill this audience, get magic gigs at other people's parties, earn money, eat cake, and buy lots of stuffed animals. Soon I would become rich and famous and when reporters and Oprah asked me how a girl could rise so high in a male-dominated field, I would say that I was inspired by the story of Harry Houdini, the greatest escape artist to ever live. I had read so many biographies about his life.
July started. Our father swept out the patio and began moving the uncomfortable white benches and tables. Mom planned things and cleaned the house as if we were setting up for a book fair. My brother showed me the few things he could do with the cards in his hands. Most of them were jokes, not tricks - throwing a deck into the air and yelling "52 Pickup!" seemed to be his favorite.
For the party I laid out my darkest, blackest clothes and a cape repurposed from Halloween. I wanted to look the part, even if…
Well, I hadn't actually performed the tricks in front of a living audience. My stuffed animals were well-acquainted with the motions involved with the boxes, rings, and other magical objects. The "patter" was missing, though, because I did not have to speak to them to have them understand. My stuffed animals could read my thoughts and I could read theirs. I took one of my little friends, a horse I named Rebecca, and dressed her in a magician costume, too.
The hours dragged on until the show, I dismissed myself from the picnic tables early in order to set up my plastic crate with the towel thrown over it. My brother did the same a little later. We made our preparations under the swing set and sat behind our stations until the kids started filtering from the tables.
I swallowed some of my saliva and welcomed them in the most theatrical manner I could handle. I introduced my assistant, Rebecca, and made her bow to the audience. Then I pulled out my first trick. My dragon egg prop floated without a hitch. No one seemed to notice what I did, anyway.
Next, my brother pulled out his cards and made someone choose something. I was paying more attention to my next trick than anything else. They seemed to like it.
We traded off like that for a while. I looked at Rebecca for encouragement between turns. She seemed to nod, to say I could do it.
I arrived at the trick with the magic coloring book. I will only disclose that the book is supposed to change colors sometimes. I started a bit of patter and started the trick, but I just knew what I was doing was wrong when the faces of my audience lit with the interest kids have when you tell them too much. They like being tricked, but they don't like to know how they're being tricked. This was one of the latter situations.
I tried undoing my error, but unfortunately I could not make it disappear. Not only did I not know how to backpedal, I did not yet have the tact to redirect my audience's attention. I tried to swallow, but everything inside me was tied up. Even Rebecca stared at me with her black, shiny eyes.
The magic show unraveled from there. I failed to project the cool, mysterious demeanor I was sure I was meant to possess, and ended up revealing some of the secrets it had taken me months to learn. I was failing magicians everywhere.
My brother got some laughs with his jokes. His time seemed to fly by as he enjoyed himself, while I struggled with saving whatever was left of my dignity.
The show ended, finally. My brother and I went in front of our crates and took a final bow in costume, and with that my career in magic was at an end.
After that we tried to keep our curious audience away from our crates until everyone was called away for white sheet cake.
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