“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?
Finally I got the damned handcuffs off. I gave them to Gabriel, who had grown less impressed as the minutes ticked by. I asked him to hold up the cuffs for the audience to see, then told him to verify there were no trick springs or secret unlocking mechanisms. While he did, I rubbed my raw wrists. I’d broken skin on the left one. Blood trickled from the cut （？2）。 This whole miserable performance deserved a big fat minus ten. I glanced at Sir. He’d slumped lower in his seat, as if he didn’t want anyone to know we were related.
I gestured to Gabriel and spoke into the microphone. “How about a round of applause for my assistant?”
The crowd clapped, more weakly this time. By now those who were confused earlier had realized the booing was not part of the act or some masochistic teenage impulse they didn’t understand. I patted Gabriel’s shoulder, and he beamed at me before scuttling offstage. When he returned to his seat, his younger brother shook him by the arm, thrilled. They would relive this show over and over in the weeks to come.
“That’s all from me tonight.” I swiped blood off my wrist. “I perform here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and I add new tricks to my act every few weeks, so please come see me again. Thank you.”
I bowed deeply at center stage, letting every ounce of blood rush to my head so I’d have an excuse for my red face. My guests clapped politely, then quickly fled the auditorium, like failure might be contagious.
I snuck a peek at the back row. Empty. They always left before the final round of applause, letting me hear a few claps that weren’t overpowered by taunts. They parceled out enough hope to keep me coming back to the stage a few days later. I shifted my gaze to the front row. Mother’s eyebrows furrowed. Sir was hard-faced. The curtains closed. I trembled, squeezed my eyes shut.
It will never hurt worse than it does right now.
Sir used to tell us that all the time whenever we stubbed our toes or bit our lips. Fresh pain was the worst pain; it would only get better with every passing second. We’d repeat abbreviated versions of the refrain in our heads, never hurt worse, never hurt worse, waiting for the pain to subside. He was right. It always went away.
I squared my shoulders, walked offstage and into the auditorium. The rest of the theater had emptied, but my parents remained in their seats. “Thanks for coming,” I managed.
Mother patted my shoulder once, as if she was afraid of being too comforting. “You were wonderful. God must have been guiding your hand.”
Sir gave her a quizzical look and stabbed a thumb at the stage. “Don’t blame what happened up there on a bogeyman.” He turned to me. “That how these shows usually go?”
I was too exhausted to play dumb. “You mean the booing? Those were some kids from the drama club. They’re mad because everyone came to my show instead of their opening night. They want me to stop doing my act, but I won’t, so they keep heckling me.”