She can do Magic

Someone pls take me back to magic castle

“Excuse me, miss, would you come up here and help me out with this next one?”.

A confident smile reveals itself when I realize he’s speaking to me. My friends laugh behind me, unphased that, once again, I’ve been chosen from the audience by a magician to participate in a magic trick. Me? I feign a look around as if to be sure, but I know it's me he wants. This is quite possibly my fifth time getting called on stage by a magician this year alone. It’s become a bit of a joke at this point. There just must be something about me, I guess.

As casual as I appear outwardly about this whole “magician phenomenon”, inside its a different story completely. My twenty-four year old body is on fire. Nothing can compare to the thrill of being chosen by the Magician. Believe me, I’m sort of an expert at this point.

For a moment, all eyes are on me, the magician’s magic hands beckon me to join him on stage and I eagerly obey. He flips cards around his fingers with a finesse that can only mean he genuinely practices magic tricks alone in his bedroom. Dedication to a craft is so……hot. My heart swells and suddenly I am giddy and gullible - a schoolgirl again. He holds out his deck in front of me. The thick card stock brushing softly against my hand. Breathless, and sticky hot under his gaze, I choose a card, memorize it,  and slide it slowly back into the deck.

With a wink in his eye, he pulls out the wrong card! Has the magic stopped working? OH NO, did my unbelievable beauty and poise distract him so much that he publicly messed up his trick? OH GOD! Hold on, he has something up his little magic sleeve. Or wait…his mouth? My heart races again and he begins to cough. Cough. Cough. Cough. He theatrically pulls my card from deep inside his mouth. Once again, he has got me good. He hands me my card to keep and I am reborn.

At the end of the night, I am still walking on air. My new playing card joins a stack of others on my dresser. I have never been hotter or more powerful.

—------

Summer Fest. A weekend-long affair or literal fair that takes place in my home town’s public park every August. It's the only time Portage, Pennsylvania, is “on the map,” as they say. Nearby town’s teens and old folk flock to indulge in our town’s homemade pierogies, tables fill with crafts that grandmothers make to sell every summer, Gobs, and, if you’re lucky, your very first taste of freedom. THE RUSH! The sunshine! The endless possibilities of a Saturday afternoon surrounded by literally everyone in town!!!!

Within the confines of Chriton McChormic Park, and as long as I check in with Dad every few hours, my sister and I are free. Decked out in tank tops and capri pants, this is my time to shine! Not literally, because my parents didn’t buy the sequin purses that every other girl in my grade is carrying around, but that’s ok. There are more pressing things to want besides a sequin purse! Like what if a boy wins me a stuffed animal? Hell, what if a boy kisses me behind the giant World War Two cannon? Anything is possible at Summer Fest!

My sister and I ease into our day by taking in some shows. What shows, you ask? Oh, just the best local acts around. A plethora of bands, local talent, puppetry, clowns, and more. Even at ten years old, my sister and I know how to appreciate art. Sitting down crisscross apple sauce on the tennis court with other families instead of running off to the part of the woods where all the boys are hanging out has nothing to do with the amount of social anxiety we both have already and everything to do with ART. 

The show begins when an older man hits play on a boombox. The sultry sounds of “She Can Do Magic” by America surround us. It is electric in this tennis court right now. What. Is. This?

The man floats around the stage (tennis court) confidently, quick on his feet, a sparkle in his eyes and MAGIC coming out of his fingertips. He has us captivated. My sister and I are silly putty in his hands. “How did all of those scarves become one scarf?!”  My sister and I lock eyes, telepathically agreeing that our lives just changed forever and that magic is real. The scent of obsession radiates out of our young bodies - or maybe it’s just sweat. The magic man must feel it, our collective awe of him, because he moves closer to us. His fingers flutter around until a single rose is presented out of thin air. I stifle the scream building in my chest.

She Can Do Magic is drowned out by the beat of my own heart. The rose, the rose, the rose! It  is inches from me! My breath catches, my stomach lurches, my inner voice screams, “ME! ME! ME!”  He bends down to hand the rose….

To.

My. 

Sister. 

He. Hands.

The. 

Rose. 

To. My. Sister.

He chose her? Her? REALLY? How could this happen? 

The deep blow of disappointment and jealousy overtakes me. My sister however, is thrilled. Holding her rose high, she is beaming. And why wouldn’t she be? She was chosen! 

It takes everything in me not to cry. 

Never again will I be ignored by a magician. Never. Ever. Again.