The Magic Trap Page 4

  “Yeah,” said her dad absently as his thumb flew over the screen, pushing buttons and looking at the text and images that flashed by. “I couldn’t live without my phone.”

  “That isn’t actually true,” said Jessie. “That’s ­hyperbole. We learned that word during our poetry unit with Mrs. Overton. Hyperbole is an extremely exaggerated statement that isn’t true. So it’s kind of like a lie, except that Mrs. Overton says it doesn’t count as a lie, because it’s a figure of speech. Which doesn’t make sense to me. If it’s not true, then it’s not true. Like what you just said.” Jessie didn’t like exaggeration. She liked facts to be facts.

  “Mmm, yeah,” said her dad, never taking his eyes off the screen. “I get your point . . . but . . . just give me a second, okay? I’ve got to check the feeds.”

  “What are the feeds?” asked Jessie, perking up. This sounded like reporter talk.

  “I’m hooked up to . . . well, they’re like . . . they tell me what’s going on in the world before anyone else knows about it.”

  “What’s going on in the world?” asked Jessie.

  “A lot. Every minute of every day. And I’m responsible for some of it.”

  “I thought you said you were between assignments.”

  “Yeah, well, a reporter is never really between assignments.”

  “But that means you lied—”

  Jessie’s dad held up a hand to silence her as he stared intently at the screen. Then he pushed one last button on his phone, and it made a chirping sound as he slid it into his back pocket. “But nothing’s going on this second. At least nothing much. So what should we do?” He had a big smile on his face.

  “I want to show you my room!” shouted Jessie.

  They went upstairs, and Jessie showed her dad everything. The newest additions to her collection of trolls, all her homework and test papers for the whole school year, the books she currently had checked out from the library, and all the drawings and posters she’d made to decorate her room. Then she showed him all four editions of The 4-O Forum, which was the classroom newspaper that Jessie wrote and edited. He looked at each paper, but he didn’t read any of the articles. So Jessie read the front-page story for each paper out loud to him so he wouldn’t miss any of the good stuff.

  “And I have eighty-one dollars and forty-three cents saved up,” said Jessie proudly, folding up the newspaper. She thought of taking out her lockbox and showing him her savings, just so he would know she was really telling the truth, but then she remembered her rule about never showing her money to anyone.

  “Good for you!” he said. “You’re like your mom, saving money. Not like me!” He leaned back on her bed, casually resting against the headboard. Jessie’s dad liked to lean on things. In fact, when Jessie’s mom first met her dad, he was leaning against a cherry-red sports car. Not that the car was his, but he sure looked good leaning against it, her mom always said, laughing when she told the story.

  “Can you please take your shoes off the bed?” she asked loudly, pointing at her father’s feet, which were on top of her comforter and dangerously close to her stuffed animals.

  Her dad swung his feet so that they hung over the edge of the bed. “Seriously, Jessie. That’s a lot of dough for a nine-year-old.”

  “I’ll be ten in four months.”

  “I know,” said her dad.

  “October eighth,” she said.

  “I know, Jessie.”

  “It’s just that sometimes you don’t remember,” she said.

  “I always remember,” he said. “Sometimes I’m too busy to send something or call. You know, being a war correspondent is really tough, Jess. It’s . . . well, you can’t even imagine the things I see . . .” His voice trailed off, and for a moment he seemed to forget he was in the room with her. “But I always remember your birthday. And no matter where I am, I sing, ‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, dear Jessica Ann Winnie the Pooh Templeton Charlotte and Wilbur Too Treski . . . Happy Birthday to you!’”

  Jessie laughed out loud when he got to the long, cramming-in-all-the-words part of the song. Daddy was the best at making up songs on the spot and telling jokes and being silly. She loved her dad! In fact, now that he was here, she was pretty certain that he was the greatest dad in the whole world.

  Chapter 6

  Rabbit Box

  rabbit box (n) a specially built device that appears to be an ordinary box but actually has secret panels, mirrors, or compartments that can hide a rabbit within

  Hey, Pete. How r u? I’m good. Ive got a faver to ask. Do you have scrap wood? I need to bild a box to make a rabit disapeer. Can I send u a drawng? And then u cut it and mail the peaces to me so I can put it togethr? Thx.

  —Evan

  Hey, Big Man! Good to hear from you. I’ve been wondering how things are with you and your family. All good? Sure I can cut the wood for you, but mailing it is going to be ++$$. Wood is heavy, dude. Do you have any scrap wood in your basement? Can you get someone to cut it for you there? There must be someone there who knows how to operate a saw. It’s not brain surgery! At least not if you’re careful! Ha ha! I saw your grandma yesterday. It’s great to have her back in the North Country for a little bit. Come visit. All of you! I could use your help!

  Stand tall, Big Man—

  Pete

  Evan stared at the screen, wishing he could rewrite Pete’s email. He wanted it to say: Hey, Evan. Why don’t I come down there and build the rabbit box with you? We’ll do it together, just like we fixed your grandmother’s house after the fire.

  Evan looked at the drawings in Professor Hoffmann’s Modern Magic.

  It looked so simple. It was just seven boards, two hinges, and a latch. How hard could that be? Except for the cutting. Pete had taught him how to glue, nail, sand, and paint wood. Working with Pete was like going to carpentry school, but more fun.

  Evan looked at the pictures again, then picked up the book and headed downstairs.

  Jessie and their father were on the porch in the backyard. Even though Memorial Day was just a week away and the weather was as warm as summer, the porch looked the way it did all winter—empty. The chairs and table were still up in the attic, and Mrs. Treski hadn’t bought a single tomato, pepper, or basil plant. Usually by this time of year, the porch was overflowing with potted plants: calla lilies and marigolds, pansies and begonias, narcissuses and Cape roses. Every spring Mrs. Treski planted morning glories that would creep up and over the splintered and broken railing, twining their vines around the cracked wood. “It hides the rotted-out parts!” she would say.

  But this spring had just been too busy. Evan had never seen his mother work so hard. The porch looked as if it was stuck in winter.

  Jessie was walking the perimeter of the porch, tapping each corner of the railing as she passed. Their dad was checking his cell phone, squinting at the colored screen in the bright afternoon light. Evan pushed open the sliding screen door and walked outside.

  “Hey,” said his dad, looking up for an instant. “The house is a dead zone.”

  Jessie laughed and started to repeat the words: “The house is a dead zone. The house is a dead zone.”

  Evan scowled. “Dad, do you know how to make things?” he asked. “With wood?”

  “Wood? Yeah, sure. Well, no, not really. What are you talking about?”

  “The rabbit box!” said Jessie, coming over to stand next to Evan and look at the page in the book he was holding. “For his magic show.” Jessie stopped for a split second; then her face seemed to catch fire. “And I’ve got an idea! We’ll sell tickets! I bet we could make fifty bucks, easy! That’s big money! Enough to open my own bank account!”

  “We’re not selling tickets!” said Evan, suddenly embarrassed to even be talking about the show in front of his dad.

  “Why not?” asked his dad. “Aren’t you good enough?”

  “He’s great!” shouted Jessie. “But he needs a big finishing act. Something kapow. A blo
ckbuster!”

  “Where are you going to do it?” asked their dad. “An auditorium?”

  “No,” mumbled Evan. “I don’t know. The basement, I guess.” When he imagined the show in his head, he was in an auditorium, on a real stage, with hundreds of people watching. But he knew that could never be real.

  “No way,” said their dad, still looking at his cell phone. “Basements are for losers. You need something big. Impressive. You need a stage. Curtains. Lights. The whole thing. You need to look like a professional if you’re going to charge money.”

  “We can build a stage,” said Jessie. “A real stage!”

  “Or maybe—” said their dad.

  “But I’m not a professional,” interrupted Evan.

  “So fake it. That’s what half the people in the world are doing. Act like a pro, people will treat you like a pro; next thing you know—hey, you’re a pro.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back casually against the railing.

  Evan could have predicted what would happen next. Even Jessie shouted, “Dad, stop!” But it was too late. The rotted and splintered wood of the railing groaned and then gave way with a loud crack. Their dad just barely pulled himself upright before a chunk of the railing fell over the edge and onto the lawn, leaving a four-foot-wide gap.

  “Whoa!” shouted Mr. Treski.

  “You broke it!” said Jessie, clearly impressed.

  “Well, better me than some kid, right? This whole porch is an accident waiting to happen. I can’t believe your mother even lets you out here.”

  “It’s not so bad,” said Evan. “At least it wasn’t until you ruined it.” He watched as his dad wiggled the remaining boards of the railing, testing each one as if it were a tooth that needed to be pulled. “Leave it alone!” shouted Evan. “You’re making it worse.”

  “This has to come down. It seriously isn’t safe. And besides”—he swept one arm across his body as if he were introducing someone—“here’s your stage.”

  “What?” asked Evan. Jessie looked puzzled.

  “We’ll take down the railing—which needs to come down anyway. Your mother’s lucky she hasn’t been sued yet. Then we’ll set up chairs on the lawn and rig up a curtain. That should be pretty easy.”

  Suddenly Evan could see it. It would be perfect. A real stage.

  Jessie was jumping up and down, hopping on one foot and then the other. “We’ll do the show on Memorial Day. That’ll give us a week to get ready. And I’ll put out a special edition of The 4-O Forum with a front-page story telling everyone to come. And I’ll make tickets to sell.” She ran to the kitchen door. “We’re going to be rich!” she shouted, then ran inside the house.

  “Man, she sure gets excited,” said Evan’s dad, shaking his head and smiling, as if he and Evan were sharing a private joke.

  “She’s not always like this, you know,” said Evan. But how would their dad know? He hardly ever saw them, and when he did, Jessie was always wound up.

  “So, what do you think?” asked his dad.

  Evan knew what he thought. He thought his mom would not want them taking the railing off the porch. She would not want Jessie getting so excited that she couldn’t stand still. She would not want to come home to find one hundred people in her backyard.

  But a stage. A real stage. And his dad was offering to help build it. They could do it together. Evan could feel his mother’s disapproval, but he couldn’t resist.

  He held out the open page of the book to his father. “Can you build this?” he asked.

  Chapter 7

  Magician’s Assistant

  magician’s assistant (n) the person who helps the magician perform onstage; the assistant is a highly skilled performer who often executes the most difficult maneuvers of an illusion

  Usually Jessie loved school, especially on Mondays. She loved walking into the classroom first thing and finding the morning worksheet of math problems waiting for her on her desk. She loved talking to her teacher, Mrs. Overton, and hearing about what her cat, Langston, had done over the weekend. She loved reading and writing and science and social studies. Most of all, she loved taking quizzes, because she always got one hundred percent, and that was the best you could get. Jessie liked knowing she was the best at some things. It helped even out the other things she wasn’t so good at.

  But today she couldn’t wait for the school day to end.

  The day had gotten off to a bad start. Her father hadn’t gotten up early enough to make breakfast for them. In fact, he hadn’t gotten up at all by the time they headed out the door. It’s not that Jessie needed anyone to make her breakfast. She knew how to pour herself a bowl of cereal. She was allowed to put toast in the toaster. But her dad had bought these special bagels from a deli several towns away, almost in the city, and she had wanted one, cut in half and toasted with cream cheese. But Jessie wasn’t allowed to cut a bagel by herself. Even Evan wasn’t allowed to use the heavy, serrated bread knife. If her mom had been home, she would have had the bagel ready for Jessie by the time she came downstairs dressed and with her hair combed. Then her mom would have helped her with her ponytail. Instead, she’d gone to school with several weird bumps in her hair.

  Jessie also wanted the day to end because she wanted to get home and work on the latest edition of The 4-O Forum. She thought the front-page story about the magic show would drum up business for ticket sales. Plus there was going to be a special section on the weather, including an article on how to prepare for a storm emergency.

  Jessie always included the month’s weather statistics in The 4-O Forum. She loved collecting the data from the school weather station. At the beginning of the year, the fourth-graders used to fight about who got to climb out onto the flat roof of the gym and write down the data from the thermometer, barometer, weathervane, anemometer, and rain gauge that were mounted there. But now that the school year was almost over, she and David Kirkorian were the only two who still vied for the privilege.

  Mrs. Overton had told them that the weather instruments were going to do some very strange things because of the tropical storm forming over the Bahamas and that they should all “keep a weather eye out.” Already the air was hot and sticky, and there was no wind at all. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the atmosphere, and everything was heavy and still.

  Mostly Jessie wanted the day to end because she wanted to ask Evan if he would let her be in the magic show. Yesterday she’d told him that she wanted to be his assistant, and he had said, “We’ll see.” So today she wanted to see.

  “I’m home!” she shouted as she came in through the front door. Nobody answered. Usually her mom was in the kitchen, waiting for her to walk in the door. But of course, her mom wouldn’t be there today. She was in San Francisco and wouldn’t get back until Saturday at noon. Today was only Monday. That meant five more days.

  Jessie checked the kitchen counter for a note. No note. Evan, she knew, was helping his friend Ryan carry home his social studies project: a Lego recreation of an Abenaki village in 1700. It took two ­people to carry the thing or all the wigwams would slide off the edge of the foam core.

  Jessie turned on the kitchen computer, then pulled a black-cherry Jell-O cup out of the refrigerator. She’d had an idea in school that day about how she could convince Evan to let her be his ­magician’s assistant for the show. She sat down at the computer and typed her question into Google: How do I catch a rabbit?

  Jessie didn’t really like animals. She didn’t like the way they smelled, or that they peed and pooped unexpectedly, or the way they would sometimes growl or hiss even if you were trying to be nice. When she saw a dog walking down the street, she crossed to the other side. When she was at the house of someone who had a cat, she kept her arms crossed and her hands tucked under her armpits, safe and out of the way. And horses? Jessie wouldn’t get within twenty feet of a horse. One kick and you’d be in the hospital with a broken cranium.

  But Evan needed a rabbit, and Jessie wanted to be i
n his show. Maybe they could work something out.

  The front door groaned open and Evan walked into the kitchen, slinging his backpack to the floor in the front hallway.

  “Mom says put it away,” said Jessie.

  “Mom’s not here,” growled Evan.

  “Still, you should,” said Jessie. She wouldn’t tattle on Evan; they almost never did that to each other. But Mom had promised to call every afternoon at four o’clock, and it was tempting. Then Jessie had a different idea. “I’ll put it away for you!” she said.

  Evan shrugged as if he didn’t care, but Jessie could tell he was wondering what was up. She dragged his enormous backpack to the mudroom off the garage, where they kept their coats and shoes. They were allowed to dump their backpacks there. When she came back into the kitchen, Evan was heading upstairs with a big bag of Doritos and the whole container of orange juice. When Jessie saw that, she had to bite her tongue to keep from reminding him that they weren’t allowed to eat in their rooms. She followed him silently.

  “So, can I be your magician’s assistant?” she asked when they got to Evan’s room.

  “Mmm. I’ll think about it,” said Evan as he set up the small round folding table he’d brought up from the basement the day before. He was going to use it as his prop table—which is exactly what an assistant would be in charge of.

  “You said that yesterday,” said Jessie.

  “Well, I’m saying it again today.”

  “But why can’t I?”

  “I didn’t say you can’t. I said I’d think about it.”

  “That’s like saying no. That’s what grownups do.” Between Evan and Jessie, there was no worse insult.

  Evan flipped the table upright, then pressed on it once to make sure the legs would hold. He looked right at her. “Here’s the thing, Jess. You gotta be . . . I don’t know . . . smooth to be an assistant. You have to be really quick and perfect and . . . you can’t flub up. The whole show will be ruined if you make even one mistake.”